Never Seen After the Divorce

I stared at the sent email—the one confessing my pregnancy to the Swiss institute. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. I placed my hand on my stomach almost unconsciously, as if to reassure us both.

The director replied within hours:

"Congratulations on this new chapter! We've prepared family housing just steps from the lab, and Dr. Laurent's wife, our chief obstetrician, has personally reserved all your prenatal appointments. Most importantly—we're dispatching a team member to escort you from the airport door to your new home. No luggage handling, no queues, no stress whatsoever!"

I stared at the screen. No hesitation. No judgment. Just support. Something tightened in my chest—maybe the first real hope I'd felt since seeing those two pink lines.

"Thank you," I typed back, "for valuing me beyond my current circumstances."

On the day of my departure, I stood nervously at the arrivals gate, scanning the crowd for my institute contact. A voice called out - "Sophia?"

I turned to see a lanky man with gentle eyes pushing through the crowd. Eric, according to his badge, greeted me with a warmth that immediately put me at ease. He took my single suitcase carefully, as if handling rare artifacts. "Priority boarding is ready," he smiled. "The director insisted on VIP treatment for our star researcher."

As Eric maneuvered toward me, his shoulder briefly blocked my view of a commotion near the VIP lounge—where James stood with Vicky clinging to his arm, their backs turned as they greeted a group of Middle Eastern businessmen.

At that precise moment, James stiffened.

"Did someone just call Sophia?"

Vicky's crystalline laugh bounced off. "Don't be ridiculous, James. Sophia is probably buried in lab right now." Vicky said as she pulled James toward a champagne reception.

We disappeared into the shuffling queue before his gaze could sweep our direction.

As we walked toward the gate, Eric animatedly described the lab's new two-photon microscope. "Dr. Laurent had it installed specifically for your protein research," he said, eyes bright with the kind of academic passion I'd nearly forgotten existed.

He adjusted his grip on my suitcase. "Oh, and the team unanimously voted to adopt your preferred schedule—no morning meetings before nine, and absolutely no evening work."

I pressed a hand to my sternum. These people, who'd never met me, had tried hard to anticipate my needs better than James ever had in four years of marriage.

At security, Eric handed me a stack of postcards—the Alps glittering under cheap gloss. "For writing home," he said with an encouraging nod.

The trash bin swallowed them whole.

Eric blinked. "No one to write to?"

I glanced back at the terminal windows, where the city skyline stood sharp against the dawn. Somewhere out there, James was probably reviewing Vicky's latest ultrasound photos over breakfast, her diamond-crusted hand resting on his arm.

"Not anymore," I said, turning toward the gate.

The plane rumbled to life beneath us. Eric prattled about Zurich's farmer's markets—"The peaches in August! You'll think you've tasted sunlight!"—while I pressed a hand to the window.

Goodbye to photos where only one of us smiled.

Goodbye to the mansion that never felt like home.

Goodbye, James.