It was past midnight, and my wife was late coming home from work again.
She saw me sitting alone in the living room and handed me her phone without being asked.
"Go ahead. Check it."
"The passcode is your birthday."
Then she walked straight to the bathroom to shower.
I stared at the phone on the table and let out a bitter half-smile.
What was the point of checking? Even if I went through it a hundred times, it wouldn't matter.
She'd already wiped it clean.
A little while later, Ida Matthews came out of the shower and wrapped her arms around me tightly.
"See? Nothing there. I told you—you can trust me."
I lifted my head and caught sight of the thin scratch marks along the back of her neck.
My lips curled into something cold and mocking.
I didn't lose my temper.
I just pushed her away, calmly.
"Let's get a divorce, Ida."
I was done living like this.
——
The air went still for a few seconds.
Then came the sharp crack of something breaking.
Ida had knocked the vase off the side table.
That vase was the first thing we'd ever bought together—picked out at IKEA during our first year of marriage.
It had followed us from a cozy one-bedroom apartment to a spacious condo, and finally to this sprawling mansion. We used to call it our good-luck charm, a witness to every stumble and triumph along the way.
Now it lay shattered across the floor.
Just like our seven-year marriage. Beyond repair. No going back.
I pulled my gaze from the wreckage and looked at Ida again.
"I've already had a lawyer draft the divorce papers. Make sure you sign—"
She cut me off before I could finish.
"My hand is bleeding, Roland. The vase cut me."
I froze, then glanced down.
Sure enough, a shard had sliced her palm open. Bright red blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
"Roland, help me with this." Her voice came out raw and hoarse.
She rarely showed vulnerability around me.
But I knew this game. It was her go-to move whenever she wanted to smooth things over. If I took the bait—rushed to get the first-aid kit, bandaged her up—then we'd be "fine again," just like that.
Not this time.
I looked away and kept my voice flat.
"It's just a small cut. Put some ointment on it."
I paused, then circled back to where we'd started.
"After you take care of that, sign the papers."
The light drained from Ida's eyes.
"Roland Harding, I'm hurt, and you're still doing this? How long are you going to keep this up?!"
Her tone was pure bewilderment.
In her mind, the affair wasn't even that serious.
After all, once I'd broken down—screaming, crying, falling apart—she'd started deleting the messages on a regular schedule. She'd even changed all her passwords to my birthday.
So she genuinely couldn't understand why I was still "throwing a tantrum."
I ran my thumb absently over the rough, faded scar on my hand and said nothing.
That was when her phone rang.
The same ringtone. The familiar one that had been going off in the middle of the night for almost a year now.
Ida had told me once it was the company's emergency line. I hadn't questioned it.
Not until her birthday. I'd been at the grocery store picking out the salmon she loved, debating whether to make her pan-seared filet or a lemon-butter bake, when I looked up and saw her across the aisle—wrapped in another man's arms, the two of them browsing snacks together like any other couple.
That was the moment it finally hit me.
Ida had been cheating on me for God knows how long.
And the man was someone she'd mentioned once in passing—her childhood sweetheart, Humphrey Sawyer.
Maybe because the confrontation and confession were already behind us, Ida didn't bother making excuses this time.
She answered the call right in front of me.
"I'm on my way. Wait for me."
