I Asked for Divorce After My Husband Raised a Fish

I had always gotten along well with the shop owner, Mrs. Jenkins. She’d told me more than once that if I ever wanted to come back, the job would be waiting.

I hadn’t even reached the counter when the sound of familiar voices drifted toward me. A few of my old coworkers were huddled together, talking in low tones. Their voices weren’t loud, but just enough for the words to slip through the air and find me.

“Have you heard? Angela’s insisting on divorcing her husband!”

The words hit me like a dropped plate shattering on tile. My hand, halfway to fastening on my name tag, froze. The sound of it felt like every head in the room had turned my way, though I knew they hadn’t.

“What? But her husband treats her so well,” one of them whispered back. “During her confinement, he came here every single day to buy baby supplies himself. He even remembered the exact diaper sizes. And now that the child just turned one, she’s asking for a divorce?”

They rattled off the details I knew all too well—little gestures lined up like medals on display, and I felt more exposed than I had any right to.

“I heard it’s because she can’t get over the fact that her husband once cared for that childhood sweetheart who passed away,” another added knowingly. “But look at him, he handed her his salary card, even raised the fish she likes, and I think it was flown in from overseas too. Isn’t that enough? She just doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

Those last words pricked at me as if they were a judgment I couldn’t argue with.

Lucky...

The word sat strangely on my tongue, like a label someone else had taped to my chest.

The moment I pushed open the door, their chatter cut off abruptly.

Several pairs of eyes turned toward me at once, sharp as needles, pricking against my skin.

A faint awkwardness crossed their faces, and the shop owner hurried out to smooth things over.

“Angela, you’re here?" Mrs. Jenkins' voice was hoarse, cautious as she approached. Come in, come in. We just happen to be short-staffed today.”

I let them perform their little charade of surprise. It was easier that way. I smiled at the owner, pulled my uniform over my head, and kept my breath steady while the room rearranged itself around me.

I had just changed into my uniform when I saw Jonathan at the entrance, holding Ethan in his arms.

Dark shadows ringed his eyes, proof of sleepless nights.

Ethan was wrapped snugly in his embrace, with his round eyes staring straight at me.

He looked exhausted in a way that made my chest ache. He stood there like he’d been waiting for me to decide something that would either save or break us.

“Angela.” His voice was hoarse, tentative, as he walked carefully toward me. “Come home with me, please? Ethan cried for you last night. He’s never spent a night without you.”

Hearing my name come out of his mouth like that touched a part of me I thought I’d protected. It briefly tugged at the part of me that remembers promises, lullabies, and the steady, boring comfort of shared mornings.

The clerks instantly perked up, their gazes darting between us, whispers bubbling to the surface again.

I could feel the shop leaning in like an audience waiting for the next scene. It made me want to be anything but the woman they were ready to pick apart.

“See? Didn’t I say her husband treats her well? Look how humble he is in front of her," my coworker murmured again.

I heard their commentary, the chorus of good intentions turning into a sermon I preferred not to attend.

The other one agreed. “Honestly, Angela really makes trouble for nothing. She has such a good life, yet she insists on a divorce. And the child is still so young.”

Still, I did not look at Jonathan.

Instead, I lowered my head and began arranging tins of formula on the shelf.

“I made myself clear yesterday, Jonathan," I replied. "Sign the divorce papers first, then we’ll talk.”

I said it the way you'd hand someone a train ticket—practical, not dramatic. The papers were a closed door I was offering him to walk through or slam.

His shoulders stiffened. He hugged Ethan tighter, then pulled a velvet box from his bag.

Opening it, a delicate glimmer of light spilled out.

He was trying to buy a smile the same way people buy roses—carefully, sincerely, and a bit silly. For a moment, I almost felt manipulated into feeling something I had already decided I couldn't feel.

“Angela, look. This is for you.”

I already knew what he hoped would work. It was written all over his jaw.

Inside was a silver necklace, the pendant a tiny fish-shaped locket.

“You once said you liked handmade silver jewelry. I asked an old craftsman to make this—it took him half a month. I even had Ethan’s name engraved on it. Try it on?”

A handcrafted apology. The artisans he found for me felt like apologies dressed up in pretty things.

Gasps of admiration rose around us.

They breathed for him, as if my acceptance would validate their belief in his efforts.

“Oh my gosh, that’s from Tiffany’s custom line, isn’t it? I heard you have to wait months for a piece like that.”

“Angela, your husband is so thoughtful. A man like this is rare to find. If you ask me, stop making trouble and go home to live well with him.”

I could hear myself being judged like a piece of furniture someone else felt entitled to. It made me laugh inwardly, a small private laugh, as if to say, I know what I am doing.

I glanced briefly at the necklace, then pushed the box back toward him.

My voice was steady as I said, “No need. I don’t like wearing jewelry.”

His hand froze in midair. Color drained from his face, and the light in his eyes faded slowly, like a broken lamp flickering out.

The gesture felt theatrical to me, but the hurt in his face was real. I did not want to hurt him more than I already had.

Sensing the tension, Ethan suddenly let out a wail in his arms, tiny fists clutching tightly at his father’s collar.

His cry tore through the smallness of the shop and made everyone breathe a little faster.

“What’s wrong with you, Angela?” one colleague blurted out. “Your husband’s done all this for you, and you still act so cold? Can’t you hear your child crying? Do you even care as a mother?”

All the old expectations—the checklist of motherhood, gratefulness, duty—flooded over me like a tide.

“Exactly. What man doesn’t make mistakes? And that childhood sweetheart of his is dead, anyway. He’s already humbled himself so much. You should know when enough is enough.”

The chorus pressed around me with the same familiar pressure I felt at family dinners, where loving someone the wrong way made you the enemy.

Jonathan quickly raised a hand to stop them. “It’s not her fault. It’s me. I haven’t done well enough.”

He took the blame as if it might hold together the pieces that were beginning to fall apart. It was a fragile thing to witness.

Then he turned to me, his voice hoarse and pleading. “Angela, if you don’t like the necklace, I’ll buy you something else. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just don’t divorce me. Please. Ethan can’t live without his mother, and I can’t live without you.”

He sounded like a man bargaining with the last of his dignity. For a moment, the old tenderness flickered, and I wondered if any of it had once been enough.