Sorry, I’m Done. You Broke Me.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror and spoke softly, almost like he was afraid to say the wrong thing. “But Madam said that Miss Lucille was frightened today. She told me to take her home first.”

“You’re the Preston family’s driver. Since when do you care about outsiders? Huh!”

Outsider.

My hands gripped the strap of my bag so tight my knuckles turned white. That was what I was now. Just an outsider.

I didn’t want to make things harder for the driver, so I told him to just let me out.

He hesitated for only a second then pulled to the side. The cold air slapped me when I stepped onto the pavement. A second later, the taillights disappeared into the night.

I walked slowly down the road, my scarf pulled tight around me. I’d had some wine at the banquet, and my mind drifted where it shouldn’t. I remembered Mrs. Preston’s last birthday, how everyone had teased us about what I’d look like in a wedding dress, what kind of baby Wilmer and I would have. I’d been so happy that day, I drank too much and ended up doubled over with stomach pains.

It was storming that night, no taxis, the driver was off duty, and Wilmer wasn’t allowed to use the family car. He didn’t care. He carried me on his back through the icy streets all the way to the hospital. He wouldn’t even let me cry.

Now, a year later, the same Wilmer could leave me standing on the roadside for Madonna.

My nose stung. I pulled my scarf tighter and kept walking. By the time I reached my apartment, my body was stiff from the cold.

I was just about to unlock the door when a hand suddenly covered my eyes from behind. “Guess who?”

My heart leapt, but I forced myself not to scream. I pried his hand off calmly, my face blank.

It was Wilmer.

He frowned when he saw I wasn’t going to play along. Slowly, he lowered his hand, almost awkward, and pulled a small box from his pocket. “My mom said you left something behind,” he said, turning it over in his hand. “She made me bring it. What is it?”

He flipped the box in his fingers, curiosity all over his face, and I saw he was about to open it.

My breath caught. That box… it was the token of trust my mother had exchanged with the Prestons before she died.

I lunged forward and snatched it from his hands.

His frown deepened. “Lucille, are you hiding something from me?”

The sharp corners of the box dug into my palm as I clutched it. Wilmer and I once promised never to keep secrets from each other. Until Madonna. She came, and suddenly he lied. And then he lied again.

I held the box tighter, the ache spreading from my hand into my chest. I looked up at him. “It’s not a secret. But there’s no reason for me to tell you.”

We weren’t anything anymore.

I turned away, reaching for my door, wanting this night to end.

But he was faster. Wilmer grabbed my bag, yanked it open, and pulled the box out again. “Is this necessary?” His tone was mocking now. “What is this, huh? Some gift from a man outside? Is that why you don’t want me to see it?”

Something in me snapped. I didn’t even think. I reached up on my toes, desperate, trying to grab it back before he could open it.

Wilmer liked it when I did this, I could tell. It reminded him of the way he used to tease me back then, when we weren’t fighting all the time. I would throw myself into his arms, laugh, and beg for whatever he had taken from me. He used to love that.

This time, he caught my hand and steadied me so I wouldn’t fall. But when I looked up, his eyes caught mine, and I knew mine were red. His smile froze.

“You cried just because I wanted to see it?” he asked quietly.

I pressed my lips together. I only wanted him to look and give it back. That was all. Before I could even explain, his phone started ringing.

It rang once, then stopped. Rang again, then stopped. Again and again, like it wouldn’t let him breathe. I glanced down and saw the name flashing across the screen. Madonna.

Wilmer shifted, growing restless. The more it rang, the more anxious he looked. Finally, he turned to leave. Without thinking, I reached for the corner of his jacket, holding on as if for once I could keep him here. His body stilled, and for a second he looked surprised.

Then the phone rang again, and he sighed.

“Madonna keeps calling. I don’t know what’s wrong, maybe something happened. She’s all alone, I should go—”

“Give me back my things and leave,” I cut in.

His face darkened, and I saw the words he wanted to say die in his throat. The phone wouldn’t stop, and finally he shoved the box into my hands. Roughly. Carelessly. The lid popped open, and a yellowed piece of paper slipped out, floating to the floor.

He glanced at it, then walked out without another word.

I bent down, picked it up, and saw what it was. Our marriage certificate that needed his signature. I tore it into pieces before I could think twice. The scraps fell into the trash can, along with whatever was left of us.