Married for Six Years, He Gave Everything to His Ex

Every holiday, it was always just me, showing up at the Garnett household with a smile, while my so-called siblings mocked me as if I were some discarded wife they pitied too much to kick out entirely.

Unloved. Unwanted. Unnecessary.

The memory stung. My eyes burned as I blinked hard, forcing back the tears that wanted to come. Instead, I hunched over my phone and kept typing the divorce agreement.

Sometimes, you only get clarity after crashing headfirst into a wall. That's when you realize that maybe your skull isn't as tough as you thought. Life doesn't just hand out second chances; it waits until you're bleeding and bruised to show you it was never worth it.

I hit send, firing the agreement off to Wesley's email.

Then, with a breath I didn't even realize I was holding, I dialed the person who never judged me.

My best friend, Nikki Doyle.

...

At the café, Nikki looked at me with that no-nonsense stare she always reserved for moments when I was about to make a final decision.

"You've really decided?" she asked, voice low. "Eighteen years, Jean. Are you sure you can let Wesley go?"

She was justified in questioning me. After all, she had been there from the start—our classmate, our third wheel, and the one who witnessed my private, heartbreak-filled love story firsthand.

I was the fool who followed him around like a lovesick puppy. I watched him fall for Shanice as if it were fate. I saw her leave him. I watched him spiral, drinking, losing himself, and even flirting with death during his darkest days.

And through all of that, it was always me. I was the one who held him together. Who whispered I'd never leave. Who promised I'd always be there.

Then Nikki said it, the thing I already knew.

"Shanice is back. Wesley went to pick her up from the airport."

The air around me turned cold.

Shanice.

That name alone was enough to set something off in me. Nikki knew exactly what it meant.

She wasn't a bullet to the heart. She was something slower, like poison. The kind that didn't kill you right away and just hollowed you out, piece by piece.

Even after six years of marriage, Wesley never truly let her go.

I knew because I'd seen it with my own eyes.

His private folder on his phone? Over a thousand pictures of her. I mistakenly found it a stupid lapse of judgment out of curiosity.

Truly, his reaction had been nuclear.

"Jean, have you no manners? Who told you that you could go through my personal things?"

After that, he ignored me for an entire week.

Wesley refused the meals I cooked and refused to wear the clothes I washed. At night, he took a quilt into the guest room.

And in the end, it was me who gave in.

I went to him, apologized, and admitted I was wrong, saying I'd never snoop again. Only then did he forgive me, though reluctantly.

Nikki's brows drew together, concern written all over her face.

"Jean, a divorce isn't some impulsive thing. This isn't just between you and him. Both families are involved in their businesses. Your father," she spoke quietly, as if the walls could hear.

"Don't stir things up if you're just gonna turn around and backtrack. Don't give Wesley another reason to hate you."

I gave her a bitter smile. One that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"I've eaten at the Petersons' table for twelve years and helped them rise from flashy money to actual power. I built the connections. Smoothed the social circles. That debt? It's paid."

...

Just then, thunder cracked outside.

The café door swung open, and two figures rushed in, laughing and dripping wet as they shook off the rain. The man hovered protectively over the woman, brushing water from her shoulders. She was dressed in white, light and breezy, like she didn't have a care in the world.

And then her eyes locked onto mine.

Time stalled.

Shanice didn't miss a beat. She straightened her dress, flagged down a waiter, and ordered a glass of wine as if she owned the room. Then she walked right up to me.

"Jean," she said, all smiles and smooth charm, lifting her glass. "Long time no see."

She took a sip slowly and then downed the rest in one gulp. That same glossy smile stayed on her face.

"Thank you for taking care of Wesley these past six years," Shanice added casually. "Oh, that fool! I heard that after I left, he fell apart and got depressed. He even tried to kill himself."

Then, she laughed lightly. "Such a silly man."

Rage boiled up inside me. 'She had the nerve to thank me? For taking care of my own husband?'

"Shanice," I said, my voice like ice, "caring for my husband is my duty. You're overthinking it."

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"Six years apart, and look at you. Finally grew a backbone, huh?" Her tone stayed light, but the bite underneath was unmistakable. "Don't tell me you actually believe you're Wesley's wife? You were just filling in while I was overseas. I didn't mind. Better you than some stray off the street."

She tilted her head, pretending to be sweet. But her voice stayed sharp.

"Oh, and about that divorce you mentioned? Go for it. But just so we're clear—I can't stand mistresses who throw themselves at someone else's man. Once that paperwork's signed, stay away from Wesley. Just because you've shared a bed a few times doesn't give you the right to hang around. I, Shanice, don't tolerate even a grain of sand in my eye."

The slap echoed through the café like a gunshot.

And I didn't regret it for a second.