Love Amounts to Nothing

I receive a mysterious parcel on my fifth wedding anniversary. Inside the box are photos of my husband, Luke Madden, being intimate with his assistant.

The photos go back a long time—they seem to start from over five years ago. The latest one was taken half a month ago. He, his assistant, and their daughter are playing by the seaside.

They smile brightly in the photo and look like a happy family of three.

I suppress my devastation and take medication to terminate my pregnancy. Then, I pull out my phone to text my mother. "I'll do as you say and get a divorce, Mom. I'll be back next month to take over the company."

The doctor's words still echoed in my ears even after I left the hospital. "Ms. Lane, the baby's heart is developing well. At your age, getting pregnant again won't be easy. Are you sure you don't want to keep it?

"Maybe you should go home and talk to your husband."

I stared at the tiny dot on the ultrasound scan. Steeling myself, I took the mifepristone pill.

Before the medication took effect, I went to the supermarket and bought a lot of groceries. When I got home, I prepared an extravagant dinner consisting of all of Luke Madden's favorite food.

Then, I sat quietly on the couch and waited for him to come home.

Eventually, the sky turned dark. The food went cold, and the candles on the cake burned out.

Luke never came home.

Just then, I saw an update on Wendy Chapman's social media. She had posted a photo of a man wearing an apron while baking a cake. The photo was angled so that only his hands were shown.

The caption read, "I can't believe he remembered our 10th anniversary of knowing each other. Who says men can't be romantic? Mine's different."

I recognized those hands—slim, well-defined, and that very familiar scar between the thumb and forefinger.

Luke had gotten that scar last year while saving me during a dog attack. He used to say that it had affected his dexterity and caused him to be less precise during surgery.

Now, those hands that once only held surgical tools were willingly cooking for someone else.

It was almost midnight when he finally returned home.

When he saw me waiting by the food-laden table, he looked a little surprised. "Didn't I tell you I was working overtime? You didn't have to wait up for me."

I stood up stiffly and cleared the table, throwing all the food away. "It's fine. I already ate. I just hadn't cleaned up yet."

When Luke saw the cake on the table, his surprise was mixed in with a hint of nervousness. "You got a cake? What's the occasion?"

I took off the small card proclaiming our 5th anniversary and said indifferently, "No occasion. I just felt like having some."

Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked over and kissed my cheek affectionately. "Thank you for your hard work today. I'm tired. I'm gonna turn in early tonight."

He probably worked even harder today, having to juggle between two women.