Chapter 4
The first thing Andrew did was pour me warm water and put the pills in my palm.
Actually, I hadn't forgotten about my medicine.
But at this point, those pills didn't help me anymore.
I'd thought about skipping them, just this once.
But the worry in Andrew's eyes made me swallow them all.
He grabbed a tissue and dabbed the water from the corner of my mouth, then sat down beside me.
"Soph, what did you need to talk about?"
Even though I'd pulled him away from Emma in the middle of the night, he didn't seem annoyed.
He was always like this. Sometimes I wished I could hate him, but I just couldn't.
I turned away, eyes burning with unshed tears.
This time, I was really leaving.
I took a deep breath and finally looked at Andrew, who was already reaching out to wipe my tears.
"I want a divorce," I said.
His hand froze, his voice trembling.
"Soph, this isn't funny. I can't handle it."
I didn't look away from his pained eyes.
I spoke softly. "I want to leave. I just want to find somewhere quiet and beautiful—mountains, rivers—and rest. Heal."
"I can go with you," Andrew said.
I shook my head. "No. I can't. It still bothers me."
For once, Andrew looked lost. "What does?"
"Emma Sinclair. She bothers me.
"The fact that you cheated while we were married bothers me. That you got her pregnant three years ago bothers me. And it really bothers me that my own husband only comes home after spending the night in another woman's bed."
Andrew's face went pale.
He seemed to finally realize how he'd been treating me lately—how much his neglect had hurt me.
He gripped my hand desperately.
"I'm sorry for not thinking about your feelings. I promise I won't spend the night out again.
"And I'll talk to Emma, making sure she doesn't bother you anymore."
I stood up, leaving him alone on the couch.
"Let's finalize the divorce tomorrow. My flight's in the afternoon. I don't have time to waste."
When Andrew walked out of the courthouse, his eyes were still red.
This morning, I'd basically forced him to come get it done.
At the very last moment, he finally gave in.
I had my luggage with me—I was heading straight to the airport.
Right before I got into the car, Andrew pressed a bank card into my hand.
"I opened this account in your name years ago. The PIN is the day we met."
He paused for a second.
Back when he still loved me, he'd secretly set this up for me.
Now that his feelings had faded, he was just handing it over.
Pretty ironic.
We'd overcome all the obstacles our different backgrounds threw at us, but we couldn't weather fate's little tricks in everyday life.
I pocketed the card, gave him a casual wave, and got in the car without looking back. Not a hint of regret.
Honestly, I was grateful to him.
At least during those three years when I was sick, Andrew kept me going.
He was my rock.
He never left my side during the hardest days.
When I got to the airport, my phone buzzed with a long voice message.
It was from Andrew.
He reminded me to take my meds on time, not to stay up late, and not to overthink everything. If anyone gave me trouble, I should tell him.
I didn't listen to the rest.
I cut off the string of 60-second messages he kept sending—over a dozen of them.
I replied: [Andrew, I'm leaving. I hope you'll be happy.]
On his end, the typing indicator kept appearing and disappearing.
Finally, he replied: [Sophia, take care of yourself. You'll find happiness too.]
Not anymore.
Andrew, happiness just wasn't meant for me.