Summer in a Glass Jar

For six years, I watched Ronald transform from a struggling technician into the owner of his own translation firm.

I believed we were partners in every sense—through hardship and success alike.

That was, until I saw his assistant, Christina, appear on his social media feed.

There she was, in my pajamas, lying in my bed. The caption read: *Mr. Ronald’s bed is so comfy, I never want to leave.*

Ronald had liked it. He’d even commented: *Then don’t.*

Calmly, I typed a reply below: *Comfortable, is it?*

A minute later, my phone rang. It was Ronald—not calling to explain, but to accuse, his voice sharp with fury right from the start.

“Betty, did you have to make a scene?”

…

His tone was cold, impatient.

“A scene?” My knuckles whitened around the phone, but my voice stayed eerily steady. “Ronald, you take your assistant back to your hometown, let her wear my pajamas, and post a picture of herself in my bed for everyone to see. Tell me—who’s making the scene here?”

Silence hung between us before his anger flared again. “Christina had a big family event. I came to show support. What’s wrong with colleagues helping each other? You’re the one with the dirty mind! She bought those pajamas herself. Don’t you dare accuse her.”

I almost laughed out loud.

Those custom-made silk pajamas were mine—bought last month in Europe, with my initials, “SY,” embroidered on the collar.

She bought them herself? On her salary?

“Ronald,” I said, my voice level, without a tremor, “we’ve been married six years. I know you as well as I know myself. You can stop pretending now. The cooling-off period is over. Remember to pick up the divorce papers.”

I hung up before he could reply.

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my pale, numb face.

I’d filed for divorce a month ago.

Back then, it was just the tension slowly building between him and Christina.

The office whispers had started: Christina was the real Mrs. Ronald, while I—the legal wife—felt like an outsider.

Ronald called me paranoid. Unreasonable. He said I lacked the grace a boss’s wife should have.

I grew tired. I stopped arguing.

Then he didn’t come home for a whole week.

Now I knew. That week, he was probably with her.

And I had been the fool, still waiting for him to calm down and explain.