I raise a brow at him, saying nothing, aware he’s only saying this to pull my attention away from what’s coming.
“Pity,” he goes on, that teasing glint back in his eyes. “A guy from a startup in New Jersey told me about someone in Houston who got served with divorce papers inside a jack-in-the-box. The moment he opened the lid, it played the same phrase over and over.”
I almost choke on my water, forcing myself to swallow before a small laugh escapes. “I’ve never heard anything crazier,” I say. “Do you remember what it said?”
Mark smirks. “‘You cheat, you lose.’” He grins, clearly picturing it. “It’s a shame no one recorded it. I would’ve paid good money to see that reaction.”
I smile back, but my mind drifts to the wife. To the pain she must have felt when her world came crashing down. Maybe she’s out there waking up every morning, trying to remember how to breathe. If what happened to her was anything like what Colin did to me. If their marriage carried the same years, the same dreams, the same unbreakable trust… then I know exactly what kind of wound she’s living with.
I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone.
“You should go, Mark,” I say, my voice already tired. “Once Colin’s served, he’s going to come here. And I don’t want anyone else in the house. It’s not going to be an easy conversation.”
He hesitates, worry crossing his face. “Maybe he won’t come.”
“Oh, he will,” I say, certain. “I may not recognize the man he’s become, but some things don’t change. Until today, he’s probably been convincing himself it’s only a matter of time before I ask him to come home so we can ‘fix things.’”
“And have you thought about that?” he asks. “About asking him to come back?”
“Every damn day.”
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t miss him. When I don’t lie alone in a bed thatfeels completely foreign, fighting the urge to walk back into what used to be our room. Our nest.
But being inside those four walls is its own kind of torture, surrounded by the ghosts of every moment we made love. The rhythm of our breaths. The soft sounds. The whispers that once brimmed with promise, with passion, with desire. With love.
Every silly little conversation. All those times we’d just lie there, breathing in sync, bodies tangled like we were one heartbeat instead of two.
Last night, after speaking with my lawyer to make sure everything was set for today, I went into our bedroom for the first time since I moved into one of the guest rooms.
His scent was still there. Barely there, just enough to hurt. I went to his side of the closet, took one of his shirts, and pressed it to my face.
Then I sat on the floor and cried, for what felt like hours, until my body couldn’t hold the grief anymore. Grief, longing, rage, heartbreak. They all blurred into the same ache. And when there was nothing left in me to give, I forced myself to stand, wipe my face, and go downstairs to start dinner before Ethan came back with Alicia from ballet.
Mark insisted on staying close. Said he’d wait in his car down the street, just in case.
But I convinced him to meet the kids outside the school and take them somewhere, anywhere, for a while.
I can’t let them walk into this. I don’t want them to see what’s left of us.
So I sit on the couch, waiting, trying not to drown in the memories or in the hollow ache that has carved a permanent place inside my chest.
A little over an hour after Mark leaves, I hear loud, insistent pounding at the door. “Ceci! Ceci! Open the door!”
I take a deep breath and push myself to my feet. By the time I reach the door, I’ve already lost count of how many times he’s pounded his hand against the wood, how many times he’s shouted my name. The fact that he hasn’t even thought to use the doorbell, or cared that the whole neighborhood can probably hear him, tells me this is going to be even harder than I imagined.
As soon as I open the door, he freezes. Relief, frustration, and anguish ripple across his face. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, watching me, as if waiting for me to tell him it’s all just a bad dream, a cruel joke gone too far.
“You’d better come in,” I manage to say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
Colin walks past me quickly, his movements tense. I close the door behind him and follow him into the living room, where he stops in the middle of the rug, clutching a brown envelope. The divorce petition.
“How... how could you do this?” His voice cracks at the end of every word.
“I didn'tdoanything, Colin,” I say slowly. “What you're holding in your hands is the consequence of your choices.”
He throws the envelope onto the couch. A few papers slip out, spilling over the cushions.
“You had me served at work—without even talking to me, without giving me a chance to try!”
