Like Love Faded In The Wind

After that day, he got a vasectomy.

But a vasectomy isn't sterilization. It's not a guarantee. Just like promises—always shifting, never fixed.

Looking back, I got pregnant six years ago. His child with Zia was also six now. The timing was a little too perfect.

Come to think of it, after Zia gave birth, he even asked me to take care of her.

I stared blankly at Zeke. Even in his forties, with only a few faint lines at the corners of his eyes, he was still as handsome as he'd been twenty years ago.

But he was no longer the guy whose world had once revolved around me.

"You say you can't bear for a child to grow up without a father," I said. "Then are you really okay with me living without a husband? You're all I have."

He shut his eyes, as if wrestling with something deep inside.

"All these years, I respected your wishes. I didn't force you to have children. Can't you try to understand me too? We can bring Zia and Dylan here. We could live together."

"I haven't fallen that far!" My voice cracked as I cut him off.

"If you bring them here, what does that make me? One of your women waiting for your love? A nanny to look after your other family? You think this is some kind of gift? Making me watch my husband share a bed with another woman? How can you be so cruel?"

I collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

He reached for me, but Dylan tugged at the corner of his shirt.

Neither Dylan nor Zia said a word. But it didn't matter. They'd already won.

Zeke left with them, leaving behind just one sentence, "Think it over."

On the 53rd night of sleeping alone, I tore off the page from the calendar I'd been using to count the days.

I called a friend from law school.

"Can you help me draft a divorce agreement? This time, it's for real."

Zeke disappeared for a month. I knew where he was.

Most of his social media and payment apps were tied to my phone number.

The OB-GYN sent me appointment reminders for several days in a row.

He was probably with Zia now.

Truthfully, I didn't need all these clues. I had Zia's Instagram.

But after discovering their affair, I rarely had the courage to open her messages or click into her feed.

Back then, Zia used to send me videos of Dylan.

[Carrie, Dylan's gotten taller.]

[Dylan can recognize people now. Next time I'll bring him to see you.]

[Carrie, my project's been keeping me busy. Can you pick Dylan up for me?]

During her three years of grad school, I got along well with her. I thought it was just the kind of ordinary friendship that forms between teacher and student. I always replied patiently.

Now, those memories felt like barbs under the skin, slicing apart the naïve version of myself from back then.

Then a message came in from her: [Carrie, Zeke is with me. Don't worry.]

I tapped into her feed. She'd just posted a video a few minutes ago.

There were already two comments.

One from Zeke: [I'll pick you up after your prenatal yoga.]

And one from his mother: [Take more photos of my sweet grandson. I love watching them.]

Because I hadn't had children, and because I eloped with Zeke back then, his mother and I had barely spoken for years. It wasn't until the New Year two years ago that we finally got each other's number.

But now, scrolling through Zia's posts, I saw comment after comment, stretching back six years.

They'd been openly interacting all this time.

So I was the only one left in the dark, wasn't I?

Numb, I left the house, thinking I'd buy groceries, cook a little something to distract myself.

But then I ran into his mother—with Dylan in tow.

"What would you like to eat, sweetheart?" she asked him gently. "Grandma will make it for you tonight."