"Enough already. I've unfrozen your card. Now get back to wedding planning and stop with this nonsense."
Just hours ago, this card could have saved my mother's life. But now, like the eight years I'd spent with him, it was worthless. I opened my mouth to respond, but his phone rang.
Chloe's sugary voice came through loud and clear through the speaker, "Mark, that lotus leaf chicken soup you made was delicious! Will you come over and make it again?"
He glanced at me, then took his phone out to the balcony. His voice softened, a tenderness I'd never heard before. I could make out, "Okay, baby… sure, sweetie," and other unfamiliar words came over one after another.
He returned only long enough to remind me to clean the house and press his suit for tomorrow. Then, he left.
In eight years, he'd stepped into the kitchen just once, only to shatter all the dishes and nearly start a fire. That disaster meant I cooked every meal for eight years. Only now did I find out through another woman that he could actually cook—and even well—just not for me.