The Wife He Forgot to Love

After that, Elijah dragged Amy along to do all the things young couples love. When they passed a milk tea shop, he eagerly asked what flavor she wanted, his attention fixed entirely on her.

They sat on a roadside bench, sharing a single cup—one sip for him, one for her—giggling like teenagers drunk on first love.

I trailed behind, hands weighed down by shopping bags they'd casually shoved at me. Nothing more than an on-call nanny. Invisible. Burdened.

Watching their intimacy, listening to their laughter drift on the wind, something shifted. The grievance and anger that had plagued me for days simply... evaporated. In their place, cold clarity settled over my heart.

Haven't I always been this way?

From the day I committed myself to Elijah Henson, I had walked in his shadow. For fifty years, I had been his servant.

When he was a student, I managed his food, his clothes, his comfort. When he started working, I handled everything at home so he wouldn't be distracted. When he grew old, I waited on him hand and foot.

But now? I was done.

Seventy years old. One foot in the grave. I might not wake up tomorrow morning—so why was I wasting my final days on them?

I looked down at the bags cutting into my fingers. His clothes. Her snacks. Rage surged through me, and I swung my arm and hurled everything onto the pavement.

Crash.

Clothes, drinks, and snacks scattered across the ground.

The noise shattered their romantic bubble. They turned in unison, staring at me.

Elijah's brow furrowed. "What are you going crazy about now? Stop embarrassing yourself in public."

His tone shifted from annoyance to condescension. "Amy is kind-hearted. She told me she's willing to let you come back with us. She even advised me not to divorce you—just to make sure you have a roof over your head."

He gestured at the mess. "Pick that up and follow us. If you make us miss our flight, you'll pay for it."

I let out a dry, bitter laugh.

"Elijah Henson, listen closely. Who the hell wants to go back with you?"

I stepped over the scattered groceries. "And who needs your charity?"

"I'll save you the trouble—we're getting a divorce. From today on, whether you live or die, whatever happens with your little affair, has nothing to do with me."

My voice stayed steady. Fifty years of silence fueled every word. "I supported you through school. Walked with you through poverty. Held up our home for decades. I didn't do all that so you could bring another woman to pity me in my old age. I won't chase you for what you owe me. But the days I have left? I'm living them for myself."

I didn't wait for his response. Didn't look back. I turned and walked away, leaving the baggage—literal and emotional—on the sidewalk.