My Husband Gave My Lunch to His Assistant, So I Left Him

1: 1

Because my husband had a bad stomach, for seven years I never once missed making him a homemade lunch with my own hands.

That day I came in the rain to bring it, and as always he only sent his assistant down to take it.

The rain outside came down harder and harder. I stood there a while. He didn't come down with an umbrella, and he didn't message to ask how I'd get home.

I waited out the rain in the convenience store by the entrance, bored, scrolling a video feed, and happened to land on a local influencer.

On the screen, a girl was pouting sweetly at a beautiful, generous lunch box in front of her.

“My future mother-in-law's love is a little too salty today, what do I do?”

Looking at those familiar dishes, that familiar lunch box, even the mouthwash I'd thoughtfully tucked inside, something in my chest went tight.

The next second a message popped up. It was my husband.

“Too salty today. Use less salt next time.”

I looked out at the pouring rain, and for some reason my eyes went wet too.

In my heart I answered quietly:

“It's fine. There won't be a next time.”

The words in that message box made my heart shudder.

I scrolled back through the sparse chat history with Richard Mason.

“Don't bring mango today, I'm allergic to mango.”

“The shrimp was good today. Make another portion tomorrow.”

“Make sweet and sour ribs tomorrow.”

“The food was cold today. Bring it faster next time.”

....

Every message was short and cold, as if he were giving orders to a housekeeper.

I wiped the corner of my eye and gave a bitter little laugh.

Laughing at my own foolishness. There had been signs all along, and I'd forced myself to believe otherwise, refusing to doubt, refusing to suspect.

Richard was never allergic to mango before. When did he suddenly become allergic?

Richard never liked sweet and sour food. When did he suddenly start ordering sweet and sour ribs?

Every last thing was telling me the same truth.

All those times I'd racked my brain learning new dishes for him, all those times I'd run through pouring rain just to get his food to him on time.

All of it had really been for someone else.

I couldn't stop myself from scrolling through the girl's account, and it turned out the account went back four years.

In the first video from four years ago, the girl was still a fresh college student.

That day she casually tossed a gift box into the trash, with the caption:

“Do rich guys really chase girls in such a corny way these days? I'm not that kind of gold digger.“

From the first video to the ninety-ninth, the gift boxes the girl received grew more and more expensive, some even reaching seven figures.

Her clothes grew more and more refined too, and the smile on her face grew more and more confident.

Within a mere half year she'd become a director, drawing a wave of envy in the comments.

I had no heart left to scroll the rest. My heart had frozen into frost.

I lifted my stiff hand and called Richard.

It took a long time for him to pick up, and his tone was full of impatience.

“Didn't I say not to call me after work hours?”

I opened my mouth, my throat aching and dry.

“Richard, the rain's too heavy out here. Can you come take me home?”

I asked it nervously, holding on to one last shred of hope.

But before Richard could answer, a girl's coy voice suddenly rang out on the other end:

“Aww, come here, babe. Baby ate too much and my tummy hurts.”

My heart shuddered, and the other end had already gone to a busy signal.

The last little candle flame in my heart went out.

I sat there dazed for a while, then started to laugh, until even the passersby looked at me like I was crazy.

A moment later, my phone buzzed again.

It was a twenty-dollar transfer from Richard.

“Cab fare.“