Chapter 2
Ethan froze. He looked genuinely startled, caught off guard by my words.
After all, in his eyes, I had always been compliant and understanding, a wife who never made waves.
He was still holding the mug, his knuckles white. "Olivia, please don't be angry. I was in surgery all last night. I'm exhausted." A layer of impatience was already seeping into his voice.
I opened my mouth, ready to confront him, to tell him I had seen the video of them in each other's arms.
But tears welled up, choking back the words.
Ethan sighed with resignation and pulled me into his arms. He gently patted my back, the steady thud of his heart a familiar sound beneath my ear.
This was his standard method for calming me down. It had always worked before.
But today, the gesture felt hollow. A fresh wave of grief and anger surged inside me, refusing to be calmed.
"It's alright, Olivia," Ethan murmured. "I'll take you to that movie you've been wanting to see tomorrow. How does that sound?"
In silence, I drained the mug of now-cold ginger tea in one long, bitter swallow.
The flavor unfolded a memory I wished I'd never seen. It was the recipe from Claire's video.
In that video, Ethan was moving around her kitchen, his sleeves rolled up.
Claire was perched on a counter nearby, gazing sweetly at the camera. "Day one of his return," she announced. "He came over and made me his signature ginger tea, the one he created for me years ago."
The irony was bitter. I had believed he learned to make this tea just for me, to ease my terrible cramps.
Now I saw it for what it was: a ritual from their past, a comfort that had never been mine.
*****
The next morning, I woke to an empty apartment. Ethan was already gone.
In the living room, I found a bowl of oatmeal still warm on the dining table.
Beside it sat a bouquet of red roses and a handwritten note.
The note read: [Olivia, I left you some oatmeal. I'll take you to the movies tonight after work.]
I looked at the roses. Then, with cold finality, I picked them up, along with the note, and dropped everything into the trash.
Ending an eight-year relationship was never going to be easy. But what if the love I had cherished, the foundation of those years, had been entirely one-sided?
*****
Last night, restless and unable to sleep, I got up for a glass of water.
As I reached for a glass, my elbow bumped a cabinet door, and a small, unlabeled videotape fell onto the counter.
It contained only two recordings.
The first recording showed an eighteen-year-old Ethan.
He looked young, holding a photo of the two of them, his voice brimming with the conviction of youth.
"I, Ethan Rivers, swear I will marry Claire Summers before I turn twenty-eight," he declared. "I'm going to make her the happiest woman in the world!"
The second recording was from the day before our wedding.
He was in his groom's suit, but his face was etched with pure dejection.
"I'm getting married tomorrow, Claire. To someone else." His voice was a ragged whisper. "I'm so sorry. I'll love you forever."
Five years lay between those two recordings. Everything had shifted, except for Ethan's love for Claire and the old watch he still wore.
As the screen faded to static, I sat in the dark. A sob tore from my throat, then another, and another.
Eight years of love were shattered in that instant.
*****
The story of how Ethan and I met was something I'd once thought was fateful.
I was twenty-three then. And I had a car accident while working a part-time job.
Ethan happened to be my attending physician. I'd assumed that once my treatment was over, our paths would diverge, as expected between a doctor and a patient.
But to my surprise, Ethan began pursuing me with an intensity that swept me off my feet. Flattered and hopeful, I believed my chance at a great love had finally arrived.
I overlooked the hesitation in his voice during our vows, and the shadow of loss in his eyes on what should have been our happiest day.
I had just been a placeholder until Claire returned.
I sat on the cold floor, rewinding and watching those two recordings until the images were burned into my mind.
A physical pain seized my chest, like a giant hand clenching my heart, twisting it.
*****
I stared at the discarded roses and note in the trash can, feeling the finality of it all. I picked up my phone and dialed Sophie.
"Sophie," I rasped, my voice raw, "I need you to draft divorce papers."
There was a prolonged silence, followed by a heavy, relieved sigh.
"Olivia, finally." Sophie's voice was a mix of concern and overwhelming relief. "I've been so worried about you, unable to even think straight about how to talk to you about this."
I clenched my free hand, my nails biting into my palm, unaware of the tremor in my voice.
"What is it?" I asked, a new dread coiling in my stomach. "What did you find?"
"Olivia, if you need me, I can come over right now," Sophie said gently.
And then, my phone buzzed with an incoming message. A photo preview appeared on the screen.
One glance at that tiny, devastating image shattered my composure.
It was a photo of Ethan. He was holding Claire's arm, his body angled protectively toward her as they walked down a hospital corridor leading to the maternity unit.
Even through the grainy quality, the unconcealed joy on Ethan's face was clear.
A sharp, visceral pain lanced through me. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, as the world dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.