2
702words
We were happy once.
She’d bring home my favorite Buffalo wings, we’d eat till our lips burned. For my birthday, she surprised me with that watch I’d always wanted.
I remember, right before she left last time, she was torn up about leaving ten-month-old Max. She held my hand, voice soft, "Brian, just this last time, I promise. I love you. After this, it's just you and Max. Nowhere else."
So, I let myself believe it. I truly thought this assignment would be her last.
But when she returned, she was a stranger. She could go a whole day without speaking a word, showing no interest in our home or our lives.
Sharing a bed felt like sleeping on opposite sides of a canyon.
The house was thick with awkward tension.
I tried to reach out, but Emma pulled away, made excuses, until finally, she looked at me with this cold, unfamiliar scorn: "I never realized you were so… needy before."
Now, I finally understood the real problem.
That boy. I knew him.
During that year she was "away,"
I actually saw her. I’d taken a project in New Orleans for extra cash, spotted her at the flower market.
A young man was sitting close beside her. He had a confident, easy grace about him, not boyish but assured. He handed her a freshly washed peach, his voice warm and intimate. “Here, try this.”
My heart twisted. I almost called out, but her work was secret… we weren't supposed to interact. I forced myself to turn away, eyes stinging.
We didn't speak for almost a year.
The thorn in my side didn't fade, it festered.
I stood frozen in the rain now, watching them. Finally, the young man noticed me. He pulled away from Emma, straightening up, a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks—not of childish shame, but of composed acknowledgement.
A rare flash of panic crossed Emma’ face. She shoved him behind her, then schooled her expression. "Brian, he's innocent. Don't take it out on him. I'll explain everything later…"
"Don't bother." My voice was ice. I stared at the woman I'd loved so deeply. "I told you to take Max to his class. Where were you?"
"I got an urgent work call. I couldn't get away." Emma's explanation was flat. "I saw him get on the bus. Two blocks from the stop to the studio. He's three. He knew the way."
A pain so sharp it doubled me over hit my chest. Tears mixed with the rain streaming down my face.
Three years old. She let a three-year-old ride a bus alone for over half an hour, then walk nearly a mile? She knew better than anyone how dangerous the world was, yet she neglected her own child like that?
"And your 'work' was kissing this man?!" My voice cracked, sharp as I pointed at the kid cowering behind her.
He stood there, much as I remembered him—youthful, but with a self-possessed calm. The kind of man who seems effortlessly appealing.
He flinched at my fury. Emma reflexively hugged him tighter, murmured "It's okay" to him first, then turned to me, her voice tight with irritation.
"Brian, stop intimidate him! You know my work is complicated… you used to understand…"
"Shut up!" I roared, a feral sound.
If I hadn't been holding my son's ashes, I would have lunged at her.
The man—no, the stranger—jumped at my shout.. Emma clutched him tighter, her face etched with concern for him – a stark contrast to the disgust she aimed at me.
A chill deeper than the rain seeped into my bones. My voice was raw. "Emma, so this is what you meant by 'last time.' Fine. Let's get a divorce."
Her last time loving me.
Because she loved someone else now!
I turned and walked away without looking back.
Two hours later, Emma came home.
Seeing half the apartment packed into boxes, her frown deepened.
"I'm exhausted. Could you stop acting like a child throwing a tantrum?"
"You think this is a tantrum?" I was bone-weary, too drained to even fight properly. I just stared at her coldly.
