Ten years of marriage. Ninety-nine affairs.
I never divorced him, because before the wedding he'd bought 100 urns.
“You've always loved your rituals. If I'm ever unfaithful after we're married, you put the proof inside an urn.”
“Once all hundred are used up, our marriage is officially dead, and I leave with nothing.”
“This is my promise to grow old with you. I'm betting not a single one will ever be opened.”
He seemed to forget about them after that.
I never reminded him.
I just slipped the private investigator's photos into an urn when he and that famous livestreamer were strolling through lavender fields in Provence.
Tucked the ticket stubs into another when he followed a principal ballerina on her world tour.
Until the day of our tenth anniversary, when he broke his promise to come to my prenatal appointment.
He ran off to celebrate the birthday of April Cooley, the student he'd been sponsoring.
“Lottie, you've always been independent—you'll be fine at the checkup on your own. But April's different. I can't let her spend her birthday alone.”
My fingers tightened around the phone until the knuckles went white.
“There's only one urn left.”
“Don't be morbid,” he said, irritation bleeding through. “It's April's birthday. Why would you bring up urns?”
I didn't argue. I hung up.
He didn't want the chance I was giving him.
Then he could leave the marriage with nothing.
……
I canceled the prenatal appointment. Got an abortion instead.
When it was over, I went home alone.
Numb, I opened the hundredth urn.
A quiet “click.”
Two documents slid out.
A signed divorce agreement.
And a notarized forfeiture agreement, in Winston Farley's name, leaving him with nothing.
Beneath them lay a handwritten note, the penmanship young and reckless.
【Lottie, you've suffered enough. Walk forward. Don't look back.】
Winston at twenty—still aching for me across the years he couldn't see.
Winston at thirty had given that tenderness to someone else a long time ago.
I placed the post-procedure report inside, expressionless.
Closed the lid.
And sealed ten years of marriage along with it.
My phone lit up. A photo from him.
Fireworks blazing across the night sky, their light falling soft on April Cooley's profile.
“You love fireworks, don't you? Make a wish.”
I said nothing. I looked around the room.
The decorations I'd put up early for our tenth anniversary.
Photos covering every wall, from school uniforms to wedding portraits.
Balloons heaped on the floor, string lights wound through every corner.
Only the petals had wilted. The frosting had melted.
And outside the window, the fireworks he'd lit up half the city with were blooming for someone else.
I replied with four words：【Come home soon.】
The simplest wish. He never answered.
Silence was his answer.
I sat there until dawn. Then he came home.
Gift boxes followed, filling half the living room.
A rare pink diamond won at Sotheby's. A nineteenth-century oil painting I'd once lingered in front of. A custom Swiss watch……
“Anniversary gifts. Do you like them?”
He knew how much rituals mattered to me, and still chose to make up for it after the fact.
He always did this.
Buried the conflict under gifts, casually, as if my pain wasn't worth mentioning.
I pushed the divorce agreement across the table.
“Sign it.”
He paused for a beat, then amusement surfaced in his eyes.
“Well, aren't you obedient. You already know I'm marrying April?”
My fingertips trembled, hard.
He didn't seem to notice. He took the papers and signed without hesitation.
“She's young. I'm her whole world. She's been begging me to marry her, and I don't want to let her down.”
“You've been very good about this. Name your reward—want me to find you a postpartum center so you can rest up and take care of the baby?”
