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I thought we were fine. Not perfect—what marriage is after twelve years?—but good. Comfortable. He brought me coffee in the mornings, we split the grocery list, and every Sunday, we watched old movies in our pajamas.
When he left for a three-day business trip, he packed light, kissed my forehead, and said, “Don’t forget to water the ficus. I’ll call you tonight.” I smiled. I watered the damn ficus.
He never called. That wasn’t like him, but I told myself he was just busy. Meetings, time zones—it happens. I ignored the nagging pit in my stomach.
On the second evening, I heard a knock. It was a courier holding a manila envelope and a polite smile. I signed, thanked him, and retreated to the kitchen. I opened it with one hand while stirring soup with the other.
Inside were divorce papers. No note. No warning. Just pages and pages of legal jargon and a sterile line stating ‘irreconcilable differences.’ My knees gave out. I slid to the floor with the wooden spoon still in my hand.
I called his number. Straight to voicemail. I tried again, and again. Nothing. I texted, “Is this some kind of mistake?” The message was marked read, but no reply ever came.
Our shared bank account was emptied by morning.
It’s been three days. I haven’t eaten. Boxes of his things are gone—he must’ve taken them during business trips, piece by piece. I found a key under the rug, not the spare to our house, but to a storage unit. I haven’t been yet.
I don’t know what I’ll find when I go. Or if I want to.
But I have to know who my husband really was. Because this… this stranger I thought I knew? He wrote the end to our story without letting me read the final chapter.
