Let's Divorce, My Husband

For twenty years, I’d been the invisible wife, the forgotten mother. So when I saw a beautiful cake sitting on the kitchen table this morning—on my 45th birthday—my heart fluttered. Maybe they finally remembered.

I reached for the knife, hands trembling, and sliced into it slowly, ready to taste with the fork halfway to my mouth when a sharp voice of my husband cut through the moment.

“What the hell are you doing, Trina?” Jackson snapped, storming in.

I froze. He marched toward me and ripped the plate from my hands like I’d committed a crime. “Why are you eating that?”

I blinked. “I—I thought it was for me.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “That’s for Donna. Today is her birthday. Don’t you know how to ask before assuming? That’s her favorite—limited edition from downtown.”

I stood there stunned, the knife still in my hand. “It’s… also my birthday,” I whispered.

For years, I used to love that my best friend Donna and I shared the same birthday. We’d celebrate together, laughing over shared candles and memories. But now, I hated it. Because everyone remembered Donna. Everyone celebrated her. Even my own family. And no one remembered me.

Jackson scoffed. “So what do you want me to do? You don’t even deserve a celebration for your birthday.”

His words hit harder than they should’ve. I swallowed the ache, then remembered his promise from years ago. Maybe, this time he could give it to me—it’s much more important than a cake.

“But then, I’m 45 now. And, maybe,” I looked at him. “Maybe you could finally fulfill your promise. From when we got married. The trip to Finland… to see the aurora borealis.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. “A trip to Finland? And where are you going to get the money for that? Can you even handle the cold with how sick you always are?”

I clenched my fists. I had been sick—recurring migraines, fatigue, stomach issues. All stress-related, the doctors said. The stress of managing a household that didn’t seem to need me anymore.

“I’ve been sick because I’m always running after everyone in this house,” I said quietly. “And no one ever helps.”

He crossed his arms. “So now you’re blaming me? For what, your weak body? You chose this life, Trina. You could’ve done something better—like Donna. She’s out there traveling the world, living her best life, while you’re stuck here.”

“But you promised,” I tried again, my voice cracking.

“I don’t care what I promised! That was too long ago! You should forget about it,” he snapped. “And can you shut up already?”

He looked down at the cake, then at me like I was a roach that crawled out of the drain.

“You ate the first slice? Then go replace it.” He grabbed the rest of the cake and shoved it at me. It hit my chest and crumbled down my blouse and onto the floor.

“Don’t even come home unless you find the same cake,” he said, before storming out of the house.

I stood there, cake frosting sticking to my clothes, the air heavy and silent.

A moment later, the sound of small feet pattering broke the silence. Zane, my five-year-old grandson, was running wild across the living room again. I watched in slow motion as he knocked over a glass of water and sent it spilling all over the floor.

“Zane! I said stop! Why are you always ruining things?” My voice cracked like a whip.

He froze and burst into tears.

Seconds later, Tania, my daughter, stormed in. “What the hell is going on?!”

“He wet the floor! Again! I told him to stop—” I said, pointing at the mess.

“So what?” she snapped. “He’s just a kid. You clean it. Don’t shout at my son like that.”

“I’m tired, Tania,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I clean this house every day. I’m not a maid. I’m your mother.”

Tania scoffed. “Yeah, and you’re also jobless and staying at home rent-free. So maybe you should be the maid. Better you than hiring one.”

Zane clung to her leg, still crying, then looked at me with wide, angry eyes. “You’re ugly! And you’re weak! I hate you! You’re not like Aunt Donna! I want Aunt Donna! You monster!”

My chest tightened. Even my own grandson wants Donna. Why am I even here?

Tania smirked. “See? Even my son hates you. Maybe you should try being more like Aunt Donna.”

She scooped up Zane and walked off, leaving me standing there in the mess of cake, tears, and water.

That night, I sat on the edge of the bed, the ache in my bones deeper than anything a doctor could diagnose. My hands were cracked from scrubbing, my back sore from carrying a family that had stopped seeing me years ago.

They didn’t remember my birthday. They didn’t care about my dreams. They only noticed me when I failed to serve.

I was invisible.

And I’d had enough.

I picked up my phone, scrolled through the contacts, and dialed the travel agency number I bookmarked all those years ago.

A woman’s voice answered cheerfully. “Good evening! How can I help you?”

I inhaled slowly, my voice steady and sure for the first time in years.

“I’d like to book a travel package to Finland,” I said. “For one.”