Losing Her was the Only Way to Find Me Again

It was the day we were celebrating my son turning one month old when I saw it.

A photo of him, my wife, and her first love—the three of them, smiling, like some happy family.

Edmund Kingsley posted it on Facebook. The caption?

[It's been so long! At last, our family got reunited!]

I just stared at the post for a minute.

It was my son between my wife and his first love, and all I could manage was a simple comment: [?]

Before I could even make sense of the picture and the caption, my phone buzzed. My wife.

"For Pete's sake, Duncan, I just let him hold the baby for a picture! Why are you making such a big deal out of it?!" she said, her voice sharp. "If you've got time to stalk him, how about changing a few more diapers for your son?"

Right after that, the call ended before I could say a damn thing.

When I checked the post again, it was already gone; I was blocked.

But that photo of the three of them? Still there, haunting me.

That's when I knew—divorce was the only option.

——

I was stuffing the last of my clothes into a suitcase in the bedroom when Ophelia walked in. Her expression soured the moment she saw the suitcase sitting by the door.

"Come on! Edmund and I have nothing on!" she snapped, crossing her arms. "I told you, he just wanted a picture with our baby. Why do you always have to be so damn possessive?"

I clenched my fists, trying to rein in the anger bubbling up inside me.

"Possessive?" I scoffed. "Since he came back, have you ever noticed the insane things you've done for him?"

Her eyes narrowed, and her tone turned cold.

"Duncan, don't you dare," she warned. "He's my childhood friend. I'm successful now—why shouldn't I help him out a little?"

I let out a laugh. Not the funny kind—the kind you make when you realize you're screwed.

"So, you 'helped' him all the way into bed. Is that what you're saying?" I retorted.

Her face twisted with anger.

Before I knew it, her hand came down hard across my face.

"Seriously, Duncan, when did you turn into this paranoid asshole? If I wanted to sleep with him, you'd be long gone! You better watch your mouth, or don't blame me if I push for the divorce myself!"

With that, she stormed off, slamming the door behind her.

I just stood there, touching my face, my cheek burning from the slap.

Since Edmund had shown up, my wife wasn't the same.

She paraded him around at our product launch like some star, even handed him the project I'd been working on for three years just because "he wanted to prove himself."

And when that project lost three freaking million she brushed it off, casually saying, "So what?"

The staff got furious, calling Edmund "just a handsome dude" behind his back.

But by the next day, they were all fired. Every single one of them. And no one dared bring Edmund up again.

But if all of this wasn't real, if it was just me being paranoid, then what about that damn "family" photo Edmund posted? What was that?

The next morning, Ophelia was gone before I woke up. Her assistant called me in a panic, saying no one could reach her.

But I wasn't interested in dealing with that. Wherever she was or whoever she was with—that didn't bother me anymore.

I had other things to worry about—like taking my son to get a paternity test.

After submitting the samples, I sat quietly in the hallway, waiting for the results.

Deep down, I already knew what the result would be. But I needed to see it on paper with my own eyes.

Before I could get too far into my thoughts, I looked up and spotted my wife—with her first love.

The second he spotted me, he practically hid behind her like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't.

"H-Hey, dude, w-what are you doing here?" he stammered, trying way too hard to play it cool. "Uh, Ophelia... She just bumped into me. It's not what you think."

But his lame excuses only made things clearer.

Meanwhile, Ophelia didn't even try to smile. The moment she saw me, her face turned stone cold.

"Seriously? You're not following me now, are you?" she said disappointingly. She then insisted, "How many times do I have to say it? Edmund's like a little brother to me. Stop being paranoid!"

I shot them both a cold glance.

Just then, my phone buzzed with a text, informing me that the report had been prepared.

Without a word, I locked the screen and turned towards the office.

Seeing that I was ignoring her, Ophelia frowned slightly and quickly stepped forward, grabbing my sleeve.

"He was in a car accident yesterday. I was just here taking care of him," she explained.

I turned to face Edmund, sizing him up.

"He's not missing any limbs, no internal injuries whatsoever. How serious could it be that someone else's wife has to babysit him overnight? Or is he like me, with both legs broken once before?"

Ophelia tried to explain, but her words trailed off, and she pressed her lips together, going silent.

Two years ago, I was in a car accident myself. An eight-wheeler truck lost control and came barreling right at me.

I got pinned underneath, and all I could think about was calling my wife.

I desperately wanted to tell her that if I didn't make it, she should take my inheritance and find a good man who could take care of her for the rest of her life.

But the reality—I called her 50 times, and she didn't pick up...

Thank goodness, just when I was about to give up, the call finally connected.

I told her I was in a car accident and might not survive.

But instead of sympathy, all I got was her irritated lecture. "Dammit! Can you stop calling me out of the blue?! I'm busy as hell, you know?"

She even threatened me, hissing, "If you're just trying to get my attention, I wouldn't hesitate to divorce you, Duncan!"

After that, I didn't dare disturb her again. I faced death all on my own.

I was lucky, though. The emergency responders showed up just in time, pulling me out seconds before the truck exploded.

But the long period of pressure on my legs crushed the bones, and it took six long months before I could walk again.

It wasn't until a few months ago that I found out what had kept Ophelia so "busy" back then.

She was planning a welcome-back party for Edmund, who had just returned from abroad.

Meanwhile, I was stuck with post-traumatic rheumatoid arthritis, a constant reminder that flared up every time it rained.

With my words leaving her no room for excuses, Ophelia just stood beside Edmund, both of them quiet.

Just as she opened her mouth to try again, I cut her off. "I've got things to take care of. You take care of your first love."

With that, I continued my tracks, disappearing down the hallway.