I went home, packed up his stuff, dumped it outside, and changed the locks.
He didn't show up until six AM, knocking, pleading for forgiveness.
Not wanting to wake the neighbors, I let him in.
He has changed into the same cheap suit he wore when we got our marriage license, still hanging on after three years.
What a stark contrast to the dapper man at the bar.
I couldn't help but laugh—how tiring it must be, playing so many parts.
His face brightened, thinking I was over my anger.
"Mia, I nailed a huge deal last night! I've been promoted—I'm a manager now! We can finally afford our own place!"
He was holding a bouquet of red roses, all excited about his triumph, convinced we were on the brink of securing our dream home.
I stepped back, suddenly realizing the years of effort were just a farce.
"Let's get a divorce."
I spoke the words coldly, bluntly.
His smile froze, etched onto his face.
We'd clashed before, but I'd never mentioned splitting up.
I had intended to be with him for a lifetime.
He looked stunned, kneeling down, gripping my hands with tears welling up.
"Mia, I really had an emergency last night. I didn't mean to stay out. Please don't be mad."