Sorry, Husband Expired

I still wanted to give him a shot—give us a shot after ten years.

He froze mid-scoop, guilt flashing in his eyes. The room went still. His mouth opened like he had something to say... but nothing came out.

The clink of the bowl hitting the table broke the silence. I looked up. Peter was grinning. "Didn't you always want to hit up an amusement park? Your birthday's coming. I'll take you."

I didn't say a word. Just kept stirring my soup like it had answers.

Days passed. Cindy kept blowing up my phone, bragging about how sweet Peter was being.

I watched him cook for me, squeeze out my toothpaste, kiss me good morning and goodnight. But all I saw were two different versions of him—and I was stuck somewhere in between.

***

Peter was up early on my birthday. By the time I was dressed, breakfast was already waiting.

He smiled. "Come eat, Yuna. After this, we'll head out. Got us a spot at that place you've been dying to try."

Later, when I came out fully ready, he clipped a Tiffany necklace around my neck.

He looked proud, kissed the corner of my mouth. "Knew it'd look perfect on you."

I stared at it. "Birthday gift?"

"Not exactly. There's more."

Right before we walked out, my phone buzzed. Message from Cindy:

[Happy birthday. But do you really think one word from me wouldn't bring Peter running?]

I didn't answer. Just glanced at Peter grabbing his coat.

His phone started going off—again and again. He checked it, frowned, hit decline, then walked over, took my bag, laced his fingers with mine. "Let's go."

Even in the car, his phone wouldn't shut up. He ignored it, but the texts kept lighting up the screen.

At a red light, I broke the silence. "Check it. Might be important."

***

Peter glanced at his phone—just for a second—and his whole expression shifted.

Then mine buzzed. Cindy again.

[So? Think he'll ditch you for me?]

I muted it and looked at him. His face said everything.

"Yuna, I'm sorry. Something came up at the firm. A client's demanding to meet today."

And just like that, whatever love I had left for him? Gone.

I didn't say a word. His jaw clenched. Light turned green. He drove.

Then I said, "Alright. Go."

He pulled over.

"Yuna, call a ride, okay? I'll try to make it back for dinner."

I got out without a word.

Called a ride. Went to the amusement park alone.

While watching the parade, lost in the crowd, Phoebe texted:

[That girl's in labor. Peter's been with her the whole time.]

I typed back:

[Got it.]

I slipped out of the crowd and called Lionel Rinehart, the noise of the park buzzing around me.

"Hey, can you get your friend in Rivera to draft up a divorce agreement? And if he can, have it ready to file ASAP."

There was a long pause. Then, "Yeah. I'll have him reach out."

When I got home, I opened the door to a floor covered in rose petals. On the table—wine, birthday cake, a bouquet.

But the house was quiet. Just the petals catching the last bit of sunset.