When we first got together, he had eagerly added me to his high school group and introduced me to all his old classmates.
I never spoke in the chat, so he probably forgot I was even part of it.
Messages poured in: in—congratulations, blessings, cheerful words.
Each one was stung like a knife.
[Paula Keith]: "Thank you, everyone! My phone’s about to die because there’s a power outage at home. Don’t forget to come on the 8th!"
[Ian Shaw]: “Are you okay, Paula? Wait, I’ll come over to help you.”
My chest tightened, pain spreading with every beat of my heart.
My child was gone, but my husband was miles away, busy tending to another woman.
What a cruel irony.
Tears slipped down my face as I unlocked my phone. Without hesitation, I tapped on Ian’s avatar in Instagram and sent a message: “When you return, we’re getting a divorce.”
For a long time, there was no reply.
Of course. He was likely on his way to Paula’s place, just as he had once hurried to find me.
An hour later, his avatar finally lit up.
“?”
“Do you still think you’re some untouchable princess? Always threatening to break up, huh?”
“And have you even looked at yourself? Eight months pregnant—who would want you if you left me?”