Love Meets the Line

After five years of marriage, my wife’s childhood friend posted a photo of a property deed in his social media circle with the caption, [Thank you, Miss CEO, for transferring the house to me.]

I was stunned when I saw the address on the deed—it was my home. Confused, I left a comment. [?]

Almost immediately, my wife, Alice, called and scolded me.

"He’s a single dad, so pitiful! I only transferred the house to his name to make it easier for his daughter to attend school. It doesn’t affect us living there. How can you be so heartless and lack even a shred of compassion?"

In the background, I could hear her childhood friend complaining bitterly.

Half an hour later, he posted on social media again and tagged me.

This time, he showed off a $150,000 sports car with the caption, [Paid in full! As the saying goes, where a woman spends her money is where her heart lies.]

I knew it was my wife who bought him the car to make up for upsetting him.

But this time, I’ve made up my mind—I’m filing for divorce.

When Alice Scott came back, I stared at the birthday cake and swallowed a Sunitinib pill.

The pill, a necessary evil since the surgery to remove the cancer from my stomach, had become part of my routine.

It was my birthday, and I had bought the cake in advance, waiting for Alice to return home. I wanted to tell her that I had surgery while she was away on her business trip.

However, as the clock ticked to seven, with no call or text from Alice, the festive spirit had long evaporated.

It was not until I left a snarky comment on Yoel Harris's boastful post about his new property that my phone finally buzzed. Alice's voice crackled through, not with concern or birthday wishes, but a torrent of accusations.

I tried to interject, to tell her about the surgery, but the line went dead, and with it, my last bit of composure. The wound on my abdomen, barely healed, throbbed with fresh pain.

When Alice finally noticed the medicine and the cake, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Is it your birthday?"

I tucked the pill bottle away and tossed the cake into the trash."No, it's for a friend," I lied, my voice steady.

She seemed relieved. "Your birthday's on the twenty-eighth, and it's only the 8th today."

Five years of marriage, and she never once got the date right. Even so, she remembered Yoel's with crystal clarity.

She sat beside me and handed me a small toy car, with a grease stain on it.

"It's from Yoel," she said. "He was really thrown off by your sarcastic remarks today. Now it's your turn to apologize."

The toy car had a logo on it.

It was probably a promotional item from a car purchase, and there was even a visible oil stain on it.

"I don't want it," I said emotionlessly.

She did not understand, her frown deepening. "Why must you act so high and mighty? He's trying to be nice. Just say you're sorry."

When I would not listen, Alice tried to pull me up to call Yoel.

She yanked me up so forcefully that my injured right leg hit the icy, glass coffee table.

The injury had happened a week ago when Alice accidentally spilled scalding soup on me as she walked through the kitchen, replying to Yoel's message without looking where she was going.

The scalding liquid burned through my skin, leaving a layer of damage on my right foot.

Alice's eyes widened in alarm when she noticed my right foot was bleeding again. "Let's get you to the hospital," she said.

I simply nodded. "Sure."

The moment we settled into the car, Yoel's voice, syrupy sweet like a spoiled pup, filled the space from the Bluetooth speaker.

"Welcome back, Miss CEO. Time to rake in the cash for me to splash."

Alice's face twitched ever so slightly.

"That was Yoel's purchase. He left it in my car by mistake. I meant to toss it."

"It's fine," I replied, my tone flat.

Quietness reclaimed the car.

Alice shot me a puzzled look. "You're not upset?"

I just tightened my lips. There was a time when Yoel mattered to me.

However, then, if I could not care less about Alice, why would I give a second thought to her eager-to-please sidekick?

"Drive on, it's getting late."

We were a mere U-turn and a straight shot from the hospital when Alice's phone chirped, her smile audible in her voice as she picked up.

It was Yoel on the line, whining for a joyride in her shiny new car.

"Yoel's got a little crisis. I'll drop you here, okay? The hospital's just across the street, barely fifty meters away."

Alice was too eager to reunite with Yoel to even consider a detour.

I fixed her with an icy glare. "I can't walk."

Her face instantly turned to stone. "Come on, man up. You're not helpless, just hurt!"

She flung open the door and practically threw me out, instructing me to call her once I had redressed the wound.

Her car peeled off, flinging muck that drenched my injured foot.

As the sky wept a misty rain, I stood there, a drenched and pathetic figure.

The 50 meters might as well have been a marathon. A few steps in, and I was drenched in cold sweat from the pain.

The rain lashed at my freshly stitched belly wound, sending waves of agony through me. My legs buckled, and I crumpled onto the crosswalk.

Cars whizzed by dangerously close, and if not for the hospital security guard's timely intervention, I might have ended up in another roadside tragedy.

I finally made it back from the hospital and lay down when Alice burst through the door, her face a thundercloud of fury.

"Didn't I tell you to call me after you got your meds? I was out there waiting for an hour, and your phone was off the whole time!"

I could only gaze at her, speechless.