The Hundredth Tear: End of Our Marriage

My wife, Rosalind Judd, has been tearing up our marriage certificate 99 times in the past ten years of our marriage.

This is her usual tactic to make me apologize and make amends.

The first time, I transfer 100 thousand dollars for Rosalind to come back from her travel abroad with her childhood friend, Jackson Lane.

The tenth time, she ruins the anniversary I have prepared meticulously and forces me to immediately help him get back to work.

The 50th time, she humiliates me in front of my client during the day and forces me to sign over the transfer agreement to a villa at night, while she has a candlelit dinner with Jackson.

...

Now, for the 100th time, she forces me to transfer my company shares.

Staring at the love bites on Rosalind's collarbone, I suddenly chuckle. Then, I board the plane decisively.

This time, I no longer want her.

I first met Rosalind Judd on a torrential, rain-soaked evening.

I had just come out of a business negotiation that lasted 20 hours straight. My suit was thoroughly drenched.

As I stepped into the hotel lobby, a young woman in a red evening gown was arguing with the receptionist.

"I told you. I only want the presidential suite!" She slammed her hand against the marble counter, the limited-edition bracelet on her wrist clinking softly.

The receptionist replied, "I'm sorry, miss. The last one has just been booked—"

As I looked at the young woman's pretty face, something compelled me to hand over my key card. "You can have mine."

She turned around, raindrops still clinging to her eyelashes. "Why?"

"You look like you need the rest more than I do," I replied honestly.

The young woman's eyes were red like a rabbit's. It was obvious she had been crying, and exhaustion weighed heavily on her face.

Her diamond-tipped nails brushed lightly across my palm when she took the key card. "My name is Rosalind Judd. Remember it. You'll see me again."

Sure enough, Rosalind appeared downstairs at my company just three days later.

She was dressed in a white sundress, holding a bouquet of roses. "Hendery Stone, right? I'm here to pay you back for the room."

I never told Rosalind my name, let alone my company address. I could hardly believe she actually found me.

Later, I learned that she had searched through the check-in records of every five-star hotel in the city over those three days.

That bouquet had cost twice the price of the room.

…

Rosalind was like a perfectly planned hurricane, tearing my heart apart piece by piece.

On the fifth day after we met, she brought me to try all kinds of extreme sports. As we leapt from the plane, she shouted my name into my ear.

On the tenth day, Rosalind drunkenly filled the bathroom of my apartment with lipstick-drawn hearts.

On the 18th day, she showed up at the entrance of my office dressed in a wedding dress.

"Marry me," Rosalind said as she climbed onto the conference table, her skirt brushing across my project proposal. "Or I'll jump."

My colleagues started laughing and applauding, urging us to get together.

"Alright." I went down on one knee and used the pull tab from a can of Coke as a ring.

…

Rosalind was unusually quiet on the day we registered our marriage.

As the clerk slid the marriage certificate across the desk and asked us to sign, Rosalind suddenly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. She leaned in and whispered to me, "Promise you'll forever spoil me like you do now, Hendery."

I leaned down and gently pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I promise."

Rosalind chose an infinity motif for the decor of our wedding dinner, saying she liked how it had no end to it.

That night, she danced alone on the stage in a custom-made gown, like a vivacious butterfly.

No one noticed the way her childhood friend, Jackson Lane, looked at Rosalind.

That was not the look a best friend should have.