That name meant nothing to me—
so foreign it might as well have belonged to another language.
“So, how is he now? The child—feeling any better?”
My voice was calm, even tinged with what could almost be mistaken for concern.
“Why didn’t you stay longer? Taking care of a sick kid alone must be hard.”
He froze mid-movement, then looked up, irritation flickering in his eyes.
“Are you mocking me again?”
He rubbed his temples, sighing, exhaustion and a hint of innocence threading through his tone.
“I didn’t sleep all night, Mabel. I was just taking care of the kid, nothing else.”
“Then you should rest,” I said evenly, reaching for my bag. “I need to get to work.”
“Mabel.”
He stopped me at the door.
I turned back. “What is it?”
“Let’s make up for our anniversary another day, okay?”
His voice was careful—almost pleading.
I smiled, a light, hollow curve of the lips. “That’s not necessary. I’m not angry.”
He froze for a beat, then stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.
It was so light, it felt like a polite formality.
“There’s a company retreat this weekend,” he murmured near my ear.
“Come with me. Everyone’s been wanting to meet you.”
I didn’t answer right away.
From the day I married him, I knew I was an outsider.
He had roots here—family, connections, a circle.
I was just the doctor from another city who stayed behind after graduation.
His colleagues smiled at me politely, but I could feel the distance.
They’d come to me for prescriptions and check-ups,
but never once for friendship.
And John—
He had never introduced me, not once, as his wife.
“I might have to work overtime next week,” I said quietly.
He clenched his jaw, the effort of restraint visible in the muscle by his temple.
“Suit yourself.”
I didn’t go.
But that weekend, my work phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
When I finally looked, I realized someone had added me to their group chat for the retreat.
Photos flooded in—
sunlight, lawn picnics, bonfires, champagne, laughter.
One image after another, bright and careless.
And there, in the middle of it all—
John, holding Pearl as they walked across the grass.
Her arms around his neck, her cheek resting against his chest,
a smile blooming like spring.
All she had to do was lift her chin, and she could kiss his jaw.
The comments beneath were a chorus of praise:
“Perfect match!”
“Such chemistry!”
“They should make it official already!”
Each word felt like a needle, sharp and deliberate.
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
After a few seconds, I finally typed two words:
Perfect couple.
And added a clapping emoji.
I watched the message send successfully,
then quietly pressed Leave Group Chat.
The screen went black again.
The office lights cast a pale glow across my hands.
I lowered my head and continued writing patient notes—
line after line, calm and precise.
By the time I put my pen down, the sky outside was completely dark.
Only then did I notice my phone—
the screen filled with missed calls.
John.
Dozens of them.
And beneath them, his messages on WhatsApp—
one after another, flooding in.
I didn’t open a single one.
I just sat there, watching those notifications blink,
like signals from a stranger still pretending to play the role of husband.
