Then, yesterday, Mark texted:
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to pick up the rest of my stuff.”
No apology. No acknowledgment. He assumed he’d walk in and see the same shattered woman he left behind.
This morning, when he entered the apartment, he stopped short. His eyes widened, his posture stiffened. I stood there calmly in a fitted black dress—not to impress him, but as proof of my commitment to myself.
Still, his real shock came when he noticed the red note on the dining table. The color drained from his face as he read it.
He held the paper delicately, as though it might scorch his skin. His gaze lifted slowly to mine. “You’re… filing for divorce?”
“Yes,” I said evenly. “It’s already in motion.”
He blinked, stunned. “But—why? I mean, isn’t this a bit extreme?”
I nearly laughed. Extreme was abandoning your wife over her body. Extreme was humiliating her while sneaking around with someone else. Extreme was assuming she’d stay frozen in pain while you moved on.
Instead, I simply said, “Finish reading.”
Below the filing notice were the words:
“All assets remain solely mine. They were earned by me. My attorney will handle the details.”
His jaw tightened. “Emily… the house? The savings?”
“All mine,” I replied. “You’ve always known that.”
He had relied on my income for years, always promising he’d do better someday. The bills, the mortgage, the responsibilities—I carried them all. Now reality had finally arrived.
“So this is it?” he snapped. “You’re really done?”
“Yes,” I said. “You left. I just closed the door.”
He stared at me like I was a stranger—and maybe I was. The woman who once flinched at his words no longer existed.
Then he stepped closer. “Emily… Claire and I aren’t doing well. And you—you look incredible.”
There it was.
The real reason for his sudden softness.
“My looks aren’t the point,” I said calmly. “You didn’t lose me because I gained weight. You lost me because you lost respect for me.”
He had no response.
