After Losing My Child, I No Longer Love

Every time Jake screwed up, he would buy me a designer bag. Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton—you name it, I had it. It became a cycle: he’d make a mistake, I’d get angry, and the next day, a luxury bag would show up at our doorstep, wrapped in the most pristine packaging. And like clockwork, I’d forgive him.

Until one day, I didn’t.

On the evening of the Mid-Autumn Festival, while the world was celebrating with family, I stumbled upon a social media post that made my heart stop. It wasn’t a dramatic breakup or a tell-all story—no, it was a simple update from Jake's secretary, Angela.

“Mid-Autumn reunion night, feeling right at home with you ~” she captioned a photo, taken in an opulent rooftop restaurant. The city skyline twinkled in the background, but that wasn’t what caught my attention.

The man in the picture had his arm draped around her. His muscular chest was partially exposed, a deep red mark trailing down his neck, a mark I knew too well. His face wasn’t entirely visible, but I didn’t need to see it all. I knew that chest. I knew that mark. I knew that man. It was Jake.

Her comment sent a chill down my spine. “Mr. CEO's muscles are so hard, I just had to take a bite.”

I sat there, staring at the photo for what felt like an eternity. I glanced at my phone, seeing the message Jake had sent me just ten minutes earlier: “Working late tonight, don’t wait up.” Working late? Sure.

With a calmness I didn’t know I had, I added my own comment to the post: "Actually, his skills aren’t bad."

The chaos erupted immediately. Angela called me within minutes, her voice trembling, “Lauren, please, it’s not what it looks like! I just copied a caption I found online. Nothing’s happening!”

Before I could respond, Jake’s voice cut through the line. “Lauren, are you seriously causing a scene over a dinner with coworkers? What do you think people are going to say when they see your comment? You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Then, in the same breath, he turned back to Angela, his tone soothing, “Don’t worry about it, Angie. Lauren’s just overreacting—she’s watched one too many soap operas.”

He hung up without waiting for my response.

The next morning, another designer bag arrived at our door. A green one this time.

“Green is the color of forgiveness,” Jake said, a smirk on his face. “Forgive me, babe. I had to say what I did last night to save face.” He didn’t even bother to hide the fact that the apology was for show.

I looked at my closet, filled with rows of expensive handbags, each one a reminder of a time I forgave him. Ninety-nine bags. Ninety-nine chances.

But this time, it wasn’t about the bag. It was about the fact that I’d let him off the hook too many times. And now, I was done.

When Jake came home that evening, I wasn’t the woman who avoided conflict to keep the peace. I wasn’t the woman who put his needs above mine anymore. I was the woman feasting on an extra spicy version of hotpot—something Jake couldn’t stand. He was allergic to spicy food, and for the last seven years, I hadn’t touched anything with a hint of chili. Tonight, that rule was over.

He walked into the living room and spotted the steaming pot on the table. His eyes narrowed as he strode over, grabbed the pot, and dumped its contents into the toilet without hesitation.

“I’m allergic to chili, Lauren,” he said, as if I’d forgotten. “You know that.”

He placed another beautifully wrapped package in front of me. “Angela picked this out for you as an apology. You could be a little more understanding, you know. She’s young, and you’re the CEO’s wife. Can’t you be a bit more generous?”

I sat there, unmoved, staring at him. He nudged me, his irritation growing. “Didn’t you hear me? What’s wrong with you? When did you become so petty?”

Tears stung my eyes, but I held them back. I stood up, my voice surprisingly steady, “I’m going to take a shower.”

I walked away, my heart pounding, and took the longest shower of my life, hoping he’d be gone when I got out.

But when I emerged, Jake was still there. He sat on the sofa, the gift still on the table, looking more composed than before.

“Lauren, I was wrong,” he said softly. “Come on, open the gift. We picked it out for you together.”

He unwrapped the box and froze. It was another green bag.

He chuckled awkwardly, trying to brush it off. “Green, right? Forgiveness and all that... I guess it’s a theme now.”

I barely acknowledged the bag. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in the gift—I was ready to tell him I wanted a divorce. But before I could speak, his phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID and immediately answered, his voice turning tender. “What’s wrong?”

It was Angela. I could hear her crying on the other end. “Jake, my stomach hurts so much. I can’t find a cab to the hospital.”

Jake’s face shifted from guilt to panic. Without even looking at me, he grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door. “Take the bag, Lauren. Angela would feel horrible if you didn’t.”

And then he was gone, the sound of his car engine roaring to life as he raced to her side.

I stood there, staring at the empty doorway, a strange sense of relief washing over me. Ninety-nine bags, ninety-nine apologies—and now, this would be the last one.