My Marriage Ended, But My Happiness Began

I accidentally fell down the stairs, and my husband was out to bring a cake to the woman he first loved before me. She was craving for one made by him, and just like that, he drove over 300 miles, crossing state lines.

Later, she posted a picture of it on Instagram—a fancy Black Forest cake, with my husband's hand visible at the edge of the photo. I read the caption.

Anya Winters: [Thanks for making the trip just for me. Made me feel like we're always close to each other, even though we're miles apart.]

I let out a bitter laugh and rested my hand on my still-flat belly. This pregnancy had to end, so I booked an appointment. Besides, there was no point in keeping my marriage alive.

——

"Mrs. Donovan, you took a bad fall, but the baby's fine. Are you sure you want to go through with the procedure?" the doctor asked.

I nodded, too drained to explain.

Even with the anesthesia, I could still feel it—every bit of life slowly slipping away, leaving a hollow ache. But all I could think about was how the father of this child drove for hours just to deliver a cake to Anya while I was lying in the hospital after my accident, sending him message after message, calling endlessly, and getting not a single word in return.

When I finally managed to get Cedric on the phone, I was desperate, hoping for any bit of comforting words. But I was met by his sharp voice.

"What now? Can't you see I'm busy? Do you think I have time to deal with you all day? I'm driving—stop calling me!"

He hung up before I could even tell him our baby might not make it.

Hours later, I saw Anya's post. It was all sweet, practically flaunting my husband's efforts. The caption and the photo felt like a punch to the gut.

My marriage was really done. So will my abortion. I scheduled it, prepared to let go of the child I had wanted so much but couldn't bring into a loveless family.

Cedric didn't come home until the next night, with his first love by his side, looking stunning as always.

He casually handed me a strawberry cake, saying, "Anya brought you a dessert. Why don't you try it?"

I glanced at the cake—it looked cheap, the strawberries bruised and sad-looking. Without a second thought, I threw it in the trash.

"Astrid! What's your problem? That was a gift from Anya! How can you be so rude?" he snapped.

"It's okay, Cedric," Anya chimed in, linking her arm with his. "Maybe she just doesn't like strawberry." Her tone was sweet, but the look she gave me wasn't.

I stared at them, feeling empty inside. I met my husband's eyes, and I said, "Cedric, I'm allergic to strawberries."

The anger on his face faded, replaced by a flash of realization. As guilt must have crept inside him, he looked away.

"Astrid…" he started, but he didn't seem to know how to apologize.

"It's my fault," Anya jumped in, her eyes filling with tears. "Astrid, I just wanted to bring you something nice. Please don't blame Cedric."

"No, Anya, don't cry. This isn't your fault," Cedric quickly said, reaching to wipe Anya's tears away.

I'd had enough of the damn act.

Turning away, I headed to my room, saying, "It's late. I'm going to bed. You two can see yourselves out."

From behind the closed door, I could still hear my husband comforting that woman in a gentle voice before they left.

I glanced at our wedding photo on the wall, and just like that, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.