That night, Karl posted a photo with the hospital location. The woman beside him, lying on the bed, looked worried, her face a mix of tenderness and care. The next morning, I discharged myself from the hospital, packed my bags, and headed straight for the airport. On the way there, Caroline sent me the location of the restaurant.
“Husband, I have a surprise for you. I’ll pick you up at home soon. Wait for me.”
I opened Karl’s latest update, posted just minutes ago. In the video, the woman lovingly fed him white porridge, her eyes filled with a tenderness I’d never seen before.
I quietly liked the post, then deleted all their contact information.
As the plane took off, I sent a complaint letter to the director, attaching the records from Caroline’s phone.
I also sent her the signed divorce agreement.
At the restaurant, Caroline was preoccupied with organizing the scene, instructing her colleagues to spread petals across the floor.
Her phone lay on the table, the message I sent her still unread, stirring a feeling of unease deep in her chest. She reached for it, her finger hovering over the screen, tempted to call, but hesitating.