Chapter 3
Standing at the end of the hallway outside Room 302 on the third floor of Westbridge School of Humanities, I watched her through the glass panel of the back door.
She was sitting in the third row by the window, entirely focused on taking notes.
Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, and her varsity jacket hung casually over the back of her chair. She radiated youth, looking so vibrant and completely untainted.
She looked exactly like I did at twenty-two.
At that exact moment, everything clicked into place.
Michael never truly loved a specific person. He was in love with a specific phase of life.
Now that I was older and worn out, he simply went out and found a brand-new version of me.
I could not find any evidence that he did not love me, nor could I prove that he did not love her.
How could a man simultaneously love two women with such blinding authenticity?
To me, that kind of authenticity was the ultimate insult.
I refused to accept a discounted version of love, and I absolutely refused to share my husband with another woman.
As I turned on my heel and walked away, my phone buzzed.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
[I know you were here. Michael stopped loving you a long time ago. Can you please step aside and let us be happy together?]
I stood under the shade of an oak tree near the campus entrance, staring at the screen for a very long time.
Michael stopped loving me.
Ironically, yesterday, he held me by the waist, whispering how much he missed me.
Was he actually out of love, or did he possess so much of it that even a tiny fraction felt like the entire world to whoever received it?
In fact, I had zero interest in figuring it out anymore.
I typed out a single word in response: [Okay.]
*****
Once I got back to the house, I hired a cleaning crew to pack up every single thing that belonged to me, including my clothes, my vanity, and the handful of books on the shelf.
Seven years of my life fit perfectly into a few cardboard boxes. It was far less than I anticipated.
My footprint in this house had always been remarkably shallow.
The housekeeper glanced at me several times, looking like she wanted to say something, but she ultimately kept quiet.
At exactly two in the afternoon, my phone pinged. An encrypted text informed me that the car was ready.
I pulled the divorce papers from the printer. I had drafted the three-page document two days ago. The terms were crystal clear.
Michael could keep the house, the cars, and the savings accounts.
I did not want a single cent. Every dollar was tainted with his counterfeit affection, and I felt utterly disgusted at the mere thought of touching any of it.
I walked into the bathroom and fished my wedding band out of the trash can.
I wiped the metal clean and placed it directly on the entryway console table, using it as a paperweight for the divorce agreement.
I lingered by the front door for a moment, taking one final look at the house I had called home for the past seven years.
The throw blanket he used while watching the football game last night was still draped over the couch. A framed photo of us sat on the coffee table, capturing his warm and radiant smile.
I used to view these details as undeniable proof of our happiness. Now, it was painfully clear that I was starring in a one-woman show, completely lost in my own delusion.
I used to love Michael so deeply that I could make him the only certainty for the rest of my life. Yet, he crushed that certainty with his bare hands, completely oblivious to the wreckage he caused.
What cut the deepest was not the betrayal itself, but that he was entirely oblivious to his own treachery.
I pulled the door open and walked out.
A sleek black SUV with heavily tinted windows was idling by the curb.
A young man in a crisp suit stood by the passenger door and gave me a polite nod. "Ms. Summers, please get in."
In my mind, I said goodbye to Michael three times.
I reached out to grab the car door handle.
A familiar voice called out from behind me. "Honey."
I froze.
"Where are you going?" Michael asked.