We’ve known each other for fifteen years, yet I find it difficult to discern the truth in what he says. “Lisa, look! Hydrangeas!” I’m allergic to pollen, but I adore flowers. When he bought our house, Oliver opened up the balcony and built a glass cabinet just for them. Yet, not long ago, when I asked why there were no flowers on our wedding anniversary, he replied impatiently, “Aren’t you allergic to flowers? Why would I buy them?” I was momentarily speechless, gripping the divorce agreement in my hand. “Oliver, I need to talk to you…”
“Lisa, it’s cold outside. I’m going to take a shower to warm up,” he interrupted, his smile still curving gently, but there was a coldness in it that felt unfamiliar, making my heart race. “Okay,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You go first. I have something to tell you later,” he said, emphasizing, “Very important.”
I nodded, but Oliver seemed stunned for a moment before handing his phone to me. “If there are calls from the company, you’ll have to handle them.” “Then, Lisa, give me some time, okay?” Turning around, I entered my birthday, unlocked the phone, and opened the messaging interface.