After I Caught Him With His First Love

For seven years, every Thanksgiving, Griffin Williams came home with me to visit my parents like clockwork.

That morning, Griffin casually slipped into one of his perfectly tailored suits, carefully adjusting his collar in the mirror. As I folded my clothes, I teased him, "You don't have to get so dressed up. My parents already have it in their heads that you're their future son-in-law."

Griffin paused mid-roll of his sleeves and said in that calm, collected way of his, "I forgot to mention—there's a problem with the project design plans. I won't be joining you this year."

"You should go ahead and book your flight."

Stunned, the clothes slipped from my hands to the floor.

"Wow, that's... unexpected."

Knowing how committed he was to that project, I nodded in understanding and let it go.

Before heading out, I noticed he'd left the design plans at home. Since I knew his schedule was packed, I grabbed the plans and rushed over to his office. But instead of finding him at work, I found Griffin at a café. He was cradling a little boy and smiling tenderly at the woman sitting across from him—Claire Rodriguez, his first love.

As I moved closer, I caught Griffin's cool, familiar voice: "I'll take care of you and the kid from now on."

The woman threw her arms around him. "Griffin, I knew you wouldn't leave us..."

I didn't stick around to hear more. From now on, Griffin, I don't need you by my side.

Back home, I sat on the couch, staring at the design plans in my hands for a long time. Then I snapped a photo and texted it to Griffin. Without another word, I went back to packing the clothes scattered around the bedroom into my suitcase.

As I moved, a sharp pain shot through my heel. I sat down and pulled off my shoe. My heel was rubbed raw, the skin peeling back and blood seeping through. I glanced at the bloodstained shoes. They were two sizes too small—meant to be returned. In my rush to get Griffin's plans to him, I hadn't noticed and had ended up wearing them.

I stared at the size 5 on the shoe, amazed I'd managed to squeeze into them at all. I switched into my slippers. Just then, my mom called. Her voice blended with the sizzle of frying food and the low hum of the range hood. She called out, bright with excitement:

"Sweetheart, I've made all your favorites and Griffin's. Where are you two?"

I looked at the open design plans on the table, unable to bring myself to say anything. My dad's voice came through the line:

"Look how excited your mom is. Oh, hey!" He suddenly remembered something. "Griffin doesn't like the strong stuff—I should run out and grab that beer he likes."

My mom laughed and shooed him off. She pulled the phone closer.

"Sweetie, tell Griffin to drive safe. We'll be waiting for you."

Just then, Griffin's message popped up:

[Are you on your way?]

[Your dad keeps calling me, asking what I want to drink. I'm swamped right now. Please tell Harold I won't be able to make it.]

Clutching the phone tightly, I drew in a breath and forced my voice to stay light.

"Mom, Griffin isn't coming this year. He won't be coming anymore."

"Tell Dad to skip the beer."

Silence stretched on the other end, and the range hood went quiet.

Finally, my mom's voice came through, a little hoarse. She didn't ask any questions, just said, "It's alright, sweetie. I'll be here waiting for you. We can go see Grandma for Thanksgiving."

"She's made your favorite pie and can't wait to see you."

I laughed softly and promised. After hanging up, the room was silent. I absently toyed with the plain ring on my finger, staring at my pale, hollow reflection in the mirror.

Without thinking, I opened WhatsApp and saw Claire's status update—we'd had each other added since high school. Right beneath hers was Griffin's, posted half an hour earlier with the same photo collage. They'd forgotten to block me.

I tapped the photo: three hands clasped together. Zooming in, I spotted a Ferris wheel in the background. They were at an amusement park. So this was what Griffin was so busy with—spending time with someone else.

Griffin had always been reserved, his life as routine and predictable as a retiree's. In all our years together, he'd never once posted a picture of me. Once, frustrated, I pointed out that other guys had photos of their girlfriends on their profiles, but not him. I nagged him to post one.

He was busy with work and nodded absentmindedly, but he never did. Looking back now, I wonder if he simply forgot—or if he was worried about someone seeing it.

Under Claire's post, Griffin's friends left congratulatory comments:

[Wow, seriously? The photos match—are you two back together?]

[Old flame rekindled, huh? Spill the tea, I'm here for it!]

[Is she gonna be our sister-in-law again? I love that!]

[…]

I read every single one. Then I liked every last comment.

A few minutes later, all those comments were gone.

Back on my chat screen, I found a 60-second voice message from Dad.

"Avery, your mom and I found a job for you in New York. You should come back for Thanksgiving. We'll be here, and it'll be easier to take care of you."

Last year, they'd tried to talk me into moving back to New York for work too. It was the dream job I'd always wanted, but Griffin was in San Francisco, and I chose to stay with him, so I turned it down.

Opening the sparse chat history with Griffin, I smirked at my own foolishness and typed my reply to Dad:

[Got it, Dad.]