After My Fiancé Kissed His Mistress, I Left Him

On the day we were supposed to get our marriage license, my boyfriend's childhood friend insisted on coming along. She said she wanted to be there for our happy moment. But as we waited in line, she suddenly fainted. Right there, my boyfriend intertwined his fingers with hers, giving her CPR. When the ambulance arrived, without a second glance at me, he accompanied her on the way to the hospital.

That evening, she posted on Instagram, "Only Joel truly cares for me, always putting me first," along with a selfie of them cheek-to-cheek. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Professor Washington: "Professor Washington, is the plan to study abroad still an option?"

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A cold wind swept through, and I shivered involuntarily, staring at the marriage certificate in my hand. This was the fifth time Joel Porter had failed to show at the marriage registry. Each time, his excuses sounded plausible. But this time, I finally felt completely let down. I quietly returned the certificate to my bag.

When I got home, my phone started buzzing with messages from Joel. But I couldn't bring myself to respond. Every message revolved around Johanna.

"Johanna isn't feeling well. She's craving the stew you make. Start cooking now, and I'll pick it up later."

"Johanna's staying overnight at the hospital. She's not great with germs. Head to the department store and buy her some clothes—no budget brands, she's not like you, who wears anything."

"Oh, and go by to pick up her laundry. You're used to this kind of stuff, so handling a couple more items won't matter."

"Johanna's scared of the dark. I'm worried about her being alone at the hospital, so I'll be staying there tonight."

A wave of discomfort washed over me as I read through the messages. After a brief glance, I powered off my phone. Just like Joel said, he spent the entire night with Johanna. It wasn't until the next day that he came home, a grocery bag in one hand and a phone in the other, smiling as he walked into the kitchen, unaware of me lying on the sofa.

In five years of dating, he'd never once made a meal for me. Was he really going to cook today? He washed the vegetables while chatting away with Johanna on speakerphone. Sitting in the living room, I heard every word. Johanna's sugary voice came through from the other end.

"Joel, you aren't mad at me, are you? It's all my fault for being unwell, messing things up for you and Aylin."

"And you kissed me in front of everyone. Aylin must hate me now."

"If you two break up because of me, it'll be on me."

Her fake sobs followed. Joel, hearing her supposed distress, quickly comforted her.

"Johanna, don't blame yourself. You fainted unexpectedly; it wasn't your fault."

When he mentioned me, his tone took on a condescending edge.

"What right does Aylin have to be angry? She should be thankful for the chance to marry me. We've been together for five years, and she's nearing 30. Who else would want her?"

"Relax, she loves me to bits. I'd tell her to jump, and she'd ask how high. Don't blame yourself, or I'll be upset."

As I listened, I clenched my fists. I had been with him since I was 21, and now I was 26. Five prime years, all spent on Joel. Friends who started relationships after me were married with kids, and I've lost track of the weddings I've attended. They often teased me, asking when Joel would marry me. Each time, I could only laugh it off.

I had asked Joel when he’d marry me, only to be told over and over to wait. This year, he finally said he'd choose a day for our license. But ultimately, it turned out to be empty words.

Joel Porter, if you never intended to marry me, why did you bother getting involved with me in the first place?