I Left My Husband When He Hated Me Most

The news of my death spread quickly through our alumni circles and social feeds.

My old college professor, Mr. Carson, sent Dan a message. He said he had found a box of my things while cleaning out his office, including a few notebooks, a pen, some photographs, and other little trinkets.

He asked Dan if he wanted to come collect them as a keepsake.

Dan stared at his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. He did not reply for a long time.

I hovered beside him. I was certain he would refuse.

In his eyes, I had not even deserved to have my ashes intact. What value could a box of old junk possibly hold?

However, to my surprise, after a moment of silence, he finally typed out a reply.

[Okay.]

On the weekend, he drove back to the university we had once attended together.

The campus was exactly as I remembered it. From the flagstone path beneath the sycamore trees to the students rushing up the library steps, everything seemed suspended in time.

Dan walked toward the administration building. His face was expressionless.

Yet his steps were slower than usual. His gaze drifted across the familiar scenery, as if searching for something.

When Mr. Carson saw him, he sighed and handed over a small cardboard box.

“These were Emma Dancy’s things. She always treasured them.”

Dan said nothing. He simply looked down and sifted through the contents.

There were a few notebooks. His initials were penned on the inside covers in my careful handwriting. There were some photographs. There was an assortment of little odds and ends.

“You know, Emma had a crush on you all the way back in college. For years, actually. When I heard you two had married, I was happy for her. I thought she’d finally gotten her wish. What a cruel twist of fate.”

Hearing that, Dan tightened his fingers subtly and crumpled the corner of one photograph.

An emotion flashed in his eyes. It was as if he had been stung by something.

However, in the end, he only offered a cold, noncommittal hum. He picked up the box, turned, and walked away.

I thought he would leave the campus right away, but he did not.

He walked to the lake, the very spot where I had gathered all my courage to confess my feelings to him.

That night, I stammered my way through it. When he remained silent for what felt like an eternity, I was sure I had ruined everything.

Then he suddenly chuckled.

“Why are you so bad at this? If you like me, just say it.”

He stood by the water, staring at the still surface, seeming lost in thought.

We used to walk hand in hand around the track, lap after lap.

He would always hold my hand. His smile was bright and unguarded.

Was he really happy back then?

Had it all been an act from the very beginning?

I lowered my head and drifted along beside his shadow. I watched as his steps slowed and eventually carried him into the cafeteria we used to frequent.

He ordered the burger he used to love. After only a couple of bites, he stopped.

He bent his head. His hands were trembling around the burger.

He was working hard to swallow as if there were a lump in his throat.

As I drifted to the seat across from him, I smiled bitterly to myself.

“What is it? Are you thinking of Evelyn? Do you wish she were the one sitting here instead?”

His tears fell then, sudden and fast. A choked sob escaped, one he could not quite stifle.

Then he suddenly stood up. He grabbed the box and hurried out.

His pace quickened, almost breaking into a jog by the time he reached his car.

After slamming the door shut, he took a sharp breath and buried his face in the steering wheel. His shoulders were trembling slightly.

I was stunned.

Was he crying? Was he crying for me?

However, in the next instant, I let out a wry smile.

How could he be crying for me?

He hated me so much that he could not even bear to keep my ashes. Why would he grieve over memories of me?

He must have been overwhelmed by the place and by the memories of moments he had shared with Evelyn.

After all, I was never the one he loved.