About two months ago, I discovered that Oliver had someone else. Since then, the word “divorce” has sat at the edge of my lips, yet I’ve never been able to say it out loud. I thought I could become numb to the ebb and flow of love after so many shared moments, so many separations and returns.

But I overestimated my strength and underestimated the trust I’d built in Oliver over ten years. Now, the remnants of that love feel like sharp thorns, digging deeper with every memory. I still remember that day when the car lost control—Oliver, lying twisted before me, half his body soaked in blood, yet still reaching out, trying to shield my eyes.

“Lisa, don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

Maybe God doesn’t want us to separate, I thought. Childhood sweethearts—how easily people romanticize it. But sometimes happiness only exists when you’re blissfully unaware of the truth.

I opened the car window, letting the sharp autumn wind bite at my face. It stung, but not as much as the betrayal I now carry. Two months ago, I asked Oliver to go driving with me—just the two of us. For the first time, he refused.

"Lisa, you’re smart and independent. You can handle these little things just fine without me."

But I stubbornly insisted he teach me.

The notification sounded.

Oliver was sitting in the passenger seat, and the air around him felt frighteningly cold.

He glanced at me, then lowered the brightness of his phone.

The screen slowly shifted toward me.

Maybe he thought I was focused on the road, but I noticed every little movement.

So, I turned up the music in the car, pondering whether there was a rift in our marriage.

That afternoon, Oliver, who always hated animals, suggested we get a puppy.

While I spent a few seconds teasing the dog, he took a photo and shared it with Anna.

I usually avoid looking through his phone.

But Anna’s messages were too urgent, and I felt a lack of security.

As Oliver took a drag from his cigarette, his phone buzzed relentlessly, ringing over ten times.

“The puppy is adorable, but it doesn’t hold a candle to my cat, Honey.”

“Hey, your ex-wife didn’t teach you how to flirt, did she? Why are you so clueless?”

Oliver didn’t bother to argue. Instead, he sent a shy emoji followed by a hesitant, “Uh… yeah.”

She pressed on, teasing him further, “If you’re just looking to replace Honey, you might as well save yourself the trouble of hanging around all the time.”

Anna’s voice cut through the banter like a knife. “Are you jealous?”

“I told you to divorce her, but you keep putting it off,” she snapped.

“I’m running out of patience. If you think you can play games with me, I’ll go have a chat with the old witch!”

Oliver remained silent, the weight of his indecision hanging heavily in the air.

When he came in from outside, his eyes were red from the smoke.

I don’t remember how I returned the phone to him that day.

I also don’t want to recall Oliver’s careful yet familiar attempts over and over again.

After reading the news, his eyebrows suddenly furrowed, and he hugged me tightly: “The company is too busy lately, and I have too little time for you.

I’m sorry, Lisa.” Then he thoughtfully drove me home, taking a route completely opposite to where his office was.

Once home, I took out the divorce agreement I had read countless times.

The handwriting was mottled and blurred by my tears.

I was tired and cold, so I opened the closet and found the wedding dress we wore on our wedding day.

I stood there, holding the gown in my arms, laughter bubbling up inside me, a misguided attempt at self-encouragement. Suddenly, a crumpled piece of paper slipped from my pocket and landed at my feet—a pregnancy test result.

“Anna… she’s pregnant.” The weight of those words crashed over me, and I knelt on the ground, overwhelmed by disbelief.

Sudden speculations overwhelmed me, causing my eyelids to twitch and a wave of nausea to wash over me. Memories flooded back—Oliver had moved in next door when he was just seven years old.

During the darkest moments of my life, he was my lifeline, the one who pulled me back from the abyss.

After my father succumbed to alcohol, my mother unleashed her frustrations about their marriage onto me, forcing me to carry the weight of her grievances.

At eighteen, Oliver was slender and not particularly tall, yet he had the bravery to drop out of school for a year to earn enough money to send me to high school in the city. He even started a business to support my education, sacrificing his own dreams for mine. On the day he graduated, we obtained our marriage certificate. That night, overwhelmed by emotion, Oliver drank too much, holding me close as he cried. He beat his chest in desperation, as if trying to convey his heart to me. “I truly believe that people who cheat are disgusting, regardless of gender. Lisa, don’t worry; I will never cheat. This is my responsibility to you, and it’s my bottom line.” For ten years, I believed those words—until Anna appeared.

The sound of the door opening pulled me from my thoughts as I bit down on the gauze, bracing myself for the final bandage. “Oliver?” In his loose hospital gown, he looked even thinner than before. He approached me, gently touching my nose, a hint of affection in his eyes. “You seem unhappy today. I want to go home and be with you.” Suddenly, confusion and hurt overwhelmed me, leaving me unable to comprehend his words.

We’ve known each other for fifteen years, yet I find it difficult to discern the truth in what he says. “Lisa, look! Hydrangeas!” I’m allergic to pollen, but I adore flowers. When he bought our house, Oliver opened up the balcony and built a glass cabinet just for them. Yet, not long ago, when I asked why there were no flowers on our wedding anniversary, he replied impatiently, “Aren’t you allergic to flowers? Why would I buy them?” I was momentarily speechless, gripping the divorce agreement in my hand. “Oliver, I need to talk to you…”

“Lisa, it’s cold outside. I’m going to take a shower to warm up,” he interrupted, his smile still curving gently, but there was a coldness in it that felt unfamiliar, making my heart race. “Okay,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You go first. I have something to tell you later,” he said, emphasizing, “Very important.”

I nodded, but Oliver seemed stunned for a moment before handing his phone to me. “If there are calls from the company, you’ll have to handle them.” “Then, Lisa, give me some time, okay?” Turning around, I entered my birthday, unlocked the phone, and opened the messaging interface.

The notes Oliver gave me were always just one word long. When we first got married, I lost my temper and asked him to change, but Oliver always pushed back, saying, “My cell phone is full of company messages, so it’s inconvenient.” He added, “Lisa is the best to me and would never make things difficult for me.” I can’t recall if I eventually grew tired of being rejected or if I simply forgot, but I never brought it up again.

Today, “Anna Morgan” is the only name in his favorites in his phone. I clicked on it, and thousands of messages flooded the screen. Sister-in-law, sister, ex-wife, mistress… My title changed as Oliver’s affection for Anna grew. She claimed that the mistress is the one who is not loved. Oliver catered to her, saying, “It’s all time’s fault. We should have met much earlier.” I suppressed my racing heart, my fingertips lingering on the messages from the day of the car accident.

At midnight, Anna urged him, “Oli, when are we going to take our wedding photos?” Oliver replied simply, “Now.” He stayed out all night, and when he didn’t answer my calls or reply to my texts, worry gnawed at me, keeping me awake.

In the early morning, Anna gushed about the clothes again. “Oli, you really have an eye for this,” she said, giggling. “Wearing a suit makes you radiate sexual tension.” She added with a smirk, “There’s something thrilling about sleeping with someone else’s husband.”

Just then, Oliver called me back, saying he was taking me for our wedding photos. He mentioned he’d finished his makeup and was already in his suit. Heart racing with excitement, I slipped into the worn wedding dress from that year and sprinted toward the car.

It was five minutes before the crash. As I rushed, Anna began scrolling through her child’s ultrasound orders. “I’m pregnant,” she announced nonchalantly. “I stuffed the pregnancy test into your clothes. Want to bet when Lisa will find out?” She turned to Oliver, her eyes glinting. “Are you happy about becoming a father?”

The lights dimmed as if orchestrated by fate, plunging everything into darkness except for the bright yellow glow of my phone screen. My heart raced, a chilling dread creeping over me. It had taken an hour for the nearest ambulance to arrive that day, and I felt as if my entire world was crumbling around me.

I knelt on the asphalt, a desperate figure bowing in supplication, pleading for them to take Oliver to the hospital. My worst fears had been realized, yet I struggled to articulate the depths of my anguish. It felt as though my throat was constricted, making it difficult to breathe. My phone buzzed again, a harsh reminder amidst the chaos.

“You have to give me something sweet, Oli.”

“I heard you and the mistress didn’t have a proper wedding.”

“Why is she so worthless?”

…

“I’m not like her. I deserve the best in the world.”

“Oli, marry me. I won’t be able to wear a wedding dress once I’m pregnant.”

The sound of running water abruptly ceased. Oliver picked up his phone and walked back into the bathroom, just as he had countless times before. He even leaned down to plant a light kiss on my forehead, his mind elsewhere. The soundproofing in our home was lacking; the mere three to five meters between us felt like a chasm. Yet, he was Oliver. How could I suspect him of infidelity? Trust is a rare gem, often more precious than love, and I clung to that trust, even as it slipped through my fingers like sand.

It had taken him a decade to earn my unwavering faith, and he knew I would always believe in him. Our eyes locked, and in that fleeting moment, his dark gaze sparkled brighter than the stars above. Time seemed to stretch, each second lingering like an eternity. “Okay,” he murmured, a soothing promise in the chaos. “I promise you. Wife.” His voice, calm and gentle, offered me solace amidst the storm.

Half an hour later, Oliver emerged, his hair still damp from the shower. He noticed my silence and asked why I seemed troubled. “Nothing,” I replied, my heart heavy. “Get a divorce.” I squeezed my eyes shut, the pain tearing at my insides, relentless and suffocating.

Oliver’s expression turned to shock. “What?” My voice trembled as tears streamed down my cheeks. “Oliver, I said… I want a divorce.” In that moment, the years we had shared hung heavy between us, allowing him to grasp the weight of my words without further explanation. His gaze flicked to the open cabinet door, landing on the suit that had shifted position. Tentatively, he reached into the pocket, and with each step he took, despair and fear deepened in his eyes, filling the space between us with unspoken sorrow.

He approached me slowly, kneeling at my feet with palpable remorse. “I’m sorry, Lisa. I’m so sorry.” His voice trembled as he continued, “I... I swear, it only happened this once. I never expected it…"

“Which time?” I asked, my tone steady.

“On our anniversary, I drank too much. I was just so happy, so incredibly happy that we’ve been together for ten years.” He lowered his head, hurriedly defending himself. “I mistook her for you. I truly regret it! I was just too scared to tell you, afraid you’d be angry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve done worse things than this,” I replied, my heart heavy with the weight of our shared history.

Oliver’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

I shook my head, forcing a sincere smile despite the ache in my chest. “I stayed home and chose to trust you.”

In that moment, the gravity of my own words struck me like a painful reminder of the loyalty I had shown him. Trust, once broken, becomes fragile, and I fought to cling to its remnants as I searched his pleading gaze for a glimmer of the man I once loved—the man I believed he could still be.