He came home, I left the room.
He still ordered takeout from the same place, never remembering to note “no onions or ginger.”
If I didn’t say anything, he’d never even notice I was angry.
On the third night, he got a call and rushed out, forgetting to even shut down his laptop.
In the dark, the glowing screen drew me in. I sat down at the desk almost against my will.
His messenger was still open, synced with his phone.
Only one pinned contact.
Saved as “Little Princess.”
And me—his wife—buried under a flood of work group messages, impossible to find.
I clicked into the chat. Ten minutes earlier, Chloe had called him.
Then came a photo of her hospital report. She’d slipped and was having pregnancy complications.
“Ethan, will the baby be okay?”
“It’s my first time being pregnant. I don’t know what to do. Can you come be with me?”
“It’s my fault. If only I’d been more careful.”
Ethan’s replies were overflowing with patience and tenderness.
“It’s okay. I’m on my way. Don’t worry.”
“You’ve always been reckless. Now you’re going to be a mom, you still don’t know how to take care of yourself. Be careful, even when I’m not around.”
Chloe sent back a crying cat emoji.