A House for Him, a Divorce for Us

In the third year of our marriage, my wife’s ex-boyfriend of eight years suddenly posted a picture on social media showing off a multi-million-dollar wedding house. His caption read:

“Wow, got myself a huge villa, I’m the master of charming women!”

I stared in shock at the picture, which showed my wife swiping her card at a sales office, and left a single comment: "?"

A second later, my wife called to scold me.

“I was just fulfilling a promise I made to him back when we were dating, buying him a house. Why are you getting mad at him?”

“What? Are you really going to be so vicious as to force me to break my word?”

That evening, her ex showed off another lavish post, this time flaunting a renovation bill worth hundreds of thousands. I knew it was a gift from my wife to please him.

But by then, I no longer cared.

When my wife, Lily Devon, got home, I was taking Paroxetine, medication for depression.

Ever since John Clapton reappeared, this suffocating marriage had pushed me from a healthy state into moderate depression.

Lily came over, grabbed my pills, and threw them in the trash. "Why do you start taking your meds the second I come home? Stop acting pitiful around me, will you?" she said, tossing a bouquet in front of me. "This is from John."

"I asked him what it'd take for him to forgive you, and he was kind enough to say you just need to apologize, and he'll let it go."

I looked at the half-wilted flowers on the table. When I smelled them closely, I could sense the foul odor of rotting stems. Three days ago, John had posted this bouquet, captioning it with, [Ah, flowers and a beautiful woman, what a happy afternoon.]

The painful memories came rushing back. I picked up a fruit knife to peel an apple, trying to distract myself.

"I don't want anything from him. It's dirty."

Lily frowned and said, annoyed, "Why are you acting so high and mighty? He gave you a gift, and you can't even apologize to him? Will it kill you?"

I did not move.

"Don't be so ungrateful. You were the one in the wrong first, and John has been generous enough to make peace!" she said, kicking the dining table in frustration.

Her kick was so strong that it knocked the table over, and I fell to the ground with it.

Unfortunately, the fruit knife went right into my palm. Blood gushed out, quickly staining my white t-shirt as I trembled with pain.

Lily panicked. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

I did not resist and followed her to the basement. Once inside the car, I noticed the front passenger seat had been changed.

This was a brand-new, customized black leather seat with a biker style. Originally, Lily's car interior had been all pink. Clearly, someone had made this change not too long ago.

"You know I dated him for eight years, right? Back then, I promised him that I'd fulfill any requests he made, even now." Lily glanced at me warningly. "He wanted a new seat, it's not a big deal. What's the matter? Are you going to throw a fit over something so small again?"

I just leaned back, fastened my seatbelt, and said, "No, this seat is pretty cool."

Lily seemed a bit surprised. "You don't want me to replace it?"

I pressed my lips together. In the past, whenever John deliberately left traces of himself in Lily's life, I would throw his things out.

At this point? I did not care about anything anymore.

"Just get to the hospital. My hand hurts," I said casually.

20 minutes later, as we neared the hospital, Lily's phone rang.

"What is it?" she asked.

From the other end, John's voice came, intentionally soft and pleading, "The villa feels so empty. Living alone just seems to lack something. I can't sleep. It's unbearable."

"Wait for me," said Lily, her brows furrowed with worry. "Watch some TV, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Lily stepped hard on the gas, and three minutes later, she abruptly hit the brakes at the hospital entrance.

I was curled up in the seat, suddenly overwhelmed with physical symptoms, shortness of breath, sweating, trembling hands, dizzy, and nauseousness.

"Lily," I called out to her. "I don't feel well. Help me inside, I can't walk."

Lily turned to me, clearly impatient. "Are you faking your illness again? Of all times to be in pain, it's now, right when John calls? What is he, a knife that's cutting you down?"

She yanked open the passenger door, dragged me out of the car, and drove away without a second glance.

I crouched on the ground, my body shaking uncontrollably, paralyzed by the physical symptoms. The rain poured down, soaking me and the wound in my palm within seconds. I curled up in pain, lips turning white, watching cars rush by.

Thankfully, a kind stranger noticed something was wrong and came to help, saving me from further danger.

Half an hour later, when I finally calmed down, I received shocking news.

"Mr. Thompson, you have a malignant stomach tumor. We recommend immediate surgery."

"When is the earliest I can have the operation?"

"Tomorrow."

After getting my wound bandaged, I went home to change into dry clothes. Lily arrived just as I lay down on the bed. She glared at me and kicked the chair next to the bed.

"Didn't I tell you to iron my dress as soon as you got home? What's the problem now? Just because I didn't hold your hand at the hospital, you're making a scene?

"Why are you so annoying? Can't you act your age for once?"