Saying My Final Farewell to Him

Lyra shoved the wedding ring that had fallen between the car seats at me, her face twisted with annoyance. "Finley, can you stop being so careless? If you can't even take care of a ring, how are you supposed to take care of our future child?"

The metal glinted dully in her hand as I looked at it—a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. I felt a flicker of surprise, but I kept my expression neutral.

"That's not mine," I said, my voice steady. I lifted my left hand, showing her my own wedding ring snugly on my finger.

I looked at the ring in her hand—it was a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. Calmly, I replied, "That's not mine."

As I spoke, I raised my hand and showed her the wedding ring on my own finger.

For a split second, confusion clouded her eyes. Then, her face morphed into a forced smile as she shoved the ring hastily into her pocket. "Oh, right. A few days ago, I gave someone a ride. Must have slipped out of his pocket," she muttered, her words rushed. "I'll return it to him later."

I watched her, an indifferent mask in place as I noticed the way her hands trembled slightly. She'd always been a poor liar. And yet, there she was, stumbling through an excuse, oblivious to the fact that I knew the truth.

That ring was Jonah's. Our rings had been custom-made, a rare design that wasn't available off the shelf. To think, she had gone as far as replicating my wedding ring for him, as if he could wear it like a twisted mark of loyalty.

I said nothing, picking up my suitcase and moving toward the building. Lyra scrambled after me, her heels clicking on the pavement, her irritation palpable as she reached for my bag again. "Let me carry it for you."

I checked my watch, glancing at the time. "It's already the afternoon; I have time. Let's go to the hospital," I replied, my voice distant. If I was going to cancel, it was best to do it in person.

Lyra's face twisted into a sneer. "Our IVF appointment isn't for another three days and you're eager already? Fine," she huffed. "Let's just get it over with. I have other things to do."

The drive was silent, her grip tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white as she sped through the streets, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her annoyance was practically radiating off her, thickening the air inside the car.

As we walked into the IVF clinic, she took one look at the line and groaned. "Finley, can you try a little harder this time?" she hissed, her tone as sharp as the cold, antiseptic smell of the clinic.

I barely flinched, but the jab hit deeper than I cared to admit. For years, we'd been here, in one clinic after another, hoping for something that seemed to slip through our fingers every time. Her tone made it sound as though the failure was mine, as though the endless cycles were solely on me. She stood with her arms crossed, tapping her fingers impatiently, her face painted with impatience rather than empathy.

"After all these rounds of IVF, maybe the problem isn't me," she continued, voice low, so only I could hear. "The doctor says you need to relax, you know? Your constant sulking isn't helping either of us." Her expression was firm, almost smug, as if she were passing down an indisputable truth.

My gaze lingered on her, taking in the hard line of her jaw, the eyes that seemed to hold nothing but accusation. Lyra had always struggled with polycystic ovarian syndrome. For eight years, I'd tried, pushing myself through rounds of tests, endless injections, cycles of hope and disappointment. In the beginning, I had believed it would all be worth it—each sacrifice, each exhausting attempt to start a family. But now, with the gap between us widening, I felt the last thread of resolve slipping.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, her phone rang. She barely glanced at me before answering, her expression softening instantly.

"Lyra," a smooth, familiar voice floated from the speaker, warm and teasing. "I bought too much cake again and I can't finish it all. Any chance my little princess could come over to help me out?"

A small, secretive smile spread across her lips as she glanced at me, her eyes momentarily cold, before she turned away, as though the sight of me was suddenly unpleasant. She hung up, turning back with a hard, dismissive expression.

"I have something urgent. Let's reschedule this," she said coolly, already fishing out her car keys as if the conversation was over.

She didn't even look at me as she spoke, her tone implying it was a decision made without needing my input. The lack of any hesitation, any courtesy—it was as though she had forgotten I existed the moment Jonah's voice had called her back.

I felt a flash of anger. "Lyra, it'll only take ten minutes. Just get it done and you can leave."

Her face twisted with irritation as she stepped back, crossing her arms. "This was for three days from now. You insisted on coming early," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I don't have time to indulge you!"

With that, she spun on her heel and left. I watched as she vanished through the clinic doors, never looking back.

A bitter laugh escaped me. Canceling the IVF appointment? Fine. I could do that on my own.

I approached the reception desk, feeling oddly calm. "Please cancel the IVF appointment scheduled for three days from now," I told the staff, my voice even. "And withdraw my file."

The nurse's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Are you certain, sir? If we remove your file, all your previous IVF cycles and records will be terminated."

I nodded, feeling an odd lightness in my chest. "Yes. I'm sure."

After I left the clinic, I remembered I'd also reserved a maternity center for Lyra. That needed canceling, too.

Once everything was taken care of, I stepped out into the early evening. The wind felt sharp and cleansing as I walked through the streets. I wandered off until I found a small hot pot restaurant. The warm, savory aroma of broth and spices drifted into the street, inviting in a way that felt almost comforting.