His First Wife Is Walking Out

The night of my birthday, I spent six hours baking a cake, waiting at home for Dean Lawson.
He didn't spare it a glance. I'm buried in the lab tonight, he said, already halfway out the door. You should just eat it yourself.
I didn't argue. I just ate the entire cake, slice by silent slice.
In my midnight scroll, Deans post was glaringly conspicuous: a photo with his research assistant, Phoebe Carter, in the lab. She was holding a test tube; he was leaning over, recording data. The reflection in the polished window made it look like they were practically standing on top of each other.
The caption stung: He says having me on the research path keeps him from feeling lonely.
I didn't give in to the familiar ache of insecurity and send a frantic, demanding text. Instead, I left a single word: "Teamwork."
My phone vibrated just as I was swallowing the last bite of frosting.
"Don't make a big deal out of this, Sky," Dean's voice was heavy with exhaustion. "Next time, for your birthday"
"Don't bother."
I watched the rain streak the windowpane. "Research is important, Dean. I get it."
But there wouldn't be a next time for us.
1
The rain was still falling when Dean pushed the door open. Usually, I'd be waiting in the entryway with a dry towel. This time, I stayed curled on the sofa, flipping through a design magazine.
"Why didn't you meet me?" Water dripped from his hair, staining the polished wood floor with dark circles.
I turned a page. "I was busy."
He shrugged off his soaked jacket, his voice tired. "Can you warm up some milk for me?"
Any other day, I would have been on my feet immediately.
Now, I simply lifted my own mug. "I cant be bothered. Get it yourself."
He suddenly grabbed my wrist. "Is this about your birthday?"
I pulled my arm away, the ceramic cup base clicking lightly against the coffee table.
"The project is at a critical stage," he rubbed his temple. "Skylar, I honestly don't have the energy to coddle you right now."
"Research is important, I get it," I cut him off, echoing his earlier words.
The rain hammered against the glass, just like the torrential night a year ago. I was in the sterile hospital corridor, listening to him comfort Phoebe on the phone: Whatever happens, Im here for you, dont be scared.
Meanwhile, I had signed my own consent form for an emergency appendectomy.
Deans eyes swept over my face, searching for a flicker of the old neediness, before he sighed, exhausted. "Sky, why are you doing this to me? Do you have to be this way?"
I met his gaze calmly. "You're overthinking it."
Silence thickened the air.
He abruptly pulled a small, velvet box from his briefcase and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Here. Happy Birthday."
Inside lay a necklace, the pendant slightly askew, as if it had been jammed in there as an afterthought. It was a laughable contrast to the exquisitely wrapped Van Cleef & Arpels necklace Phoebe had flaunted on her birthday post last month.
"Thanks." I closed the box, my voice as neutral as if I were commenting on the weather.
Dean stood up sharply. "That's it?"
He opened his hands. "Where's my present?"
"Oh, I forgot." I pulled out my phone. "I'll Venmo you. You can buy something for yourself."
His expression was a mix of shock and utter bewilderment.
It was our thing. Every year, without fail, we exchanged gifts. For five years, I had insisted on it, even when he forgot mine. Last year, when his travel schedule made him miss my birthday, I flew across the country just to surprise him with a gift at midnight.
After sending the money, I stood up, went to the closet, and changed my clothes. I slipped on a pair of high heels, ready to walk out the door.
Dean called out, irritated. "It's late, and it's pouring. Where are you going?"
"Dean," I paused, pulling on my coat. "Do you know what the funniest part of all this is?"
He looked utterly lost.
"You always complained that I controlled you too much," I opened the front door. "Now that I've stopped controlling you, you're angrier than ever. And now you're trying to control me."
With that, I closed the door behind me, ignoring his frustrated yell.
The night air was a shock to my lungs, carrying a forgotten scent of freedom. Ever since I got together with Dean, I'd pushed away every late dinner and night out, based on his casual comment that he "preferred I was home early." My colleagues and friends eventually stopped calling me, assuming I was the dutiful, boring wife whose husband kept a tight leash.
Now, I was finally reclaiming those lost nights.
The bar was loud, vibrant.
My best friend, Maya, slapped my shoulder, laughing. "I thought you were going to be a perfect Stepford wife forever!"
I threw back the rest of my cocktail. "Consider me back on the roster, Maya. Every time."
The years with Dean had narrowed my world until he was the only point in it: canceled gatherings, abandoned hobbies, alienated friends. Looking back, it all felt like a tragic joke.
My phone screen glowed, the notification that Dean had rejected my Venmo transfer a harsh white light in the dark bar.
It was two in the morning when I got back to the apartment. Dean was sitting in the dark, the end of his cigarette glowing in the shadows. I paused, momentarily disoriented, thinking Id walked into the wrong house.
"You finally decided to come home?"
He crushed the cigarette and stood up. The smell of stale alcohol made him grimace. "You've been drinking? Stop playing this indifferent game. If you're jealous, just say so."
I leaned against the entryway wall and chuckled softly.
I was instantly reminded of the time three years ago when he'd come home late from a work dinner, and I had waited up until sunrise, only to be met with: "God, can't you just leave me alone?"
My head was spinning. I swayed slightly and braced myself on a dining chair.
Deans nostrils flared, and a flicker of disgust crossed his eyes. "I hate the smell of alcohol. You know that."
He flicked on the overhead light. "And Phoebe and I are nothing. Are you really going to resort to self-destruction to get my attention?"
I propped my head up with my hand and smiled languidly. "I was happy... so I had a few drinks."
He stared into my glazed eyes, his knuckles white. "Are you honestly going out drinking to spite me? I don't have the time for this, Skylar. You're a married woman. You have a husband. Can you please act your age and your station?"
I nodded dismissively.
He suddenly raised his voice. "Skylar, pay attention! My patience is limited! Don't think I'm going to chase you forever!"
My temple started throbbing, a deep, miserable headache settling in from the alcohol.
I waved a hand. "Think whatever you want. I'm tired."
Dean suddenly knocked the glass on the table over, and the sharp sound of shattering glass exploded in the silence. "Its always this! Every time we have a conflict, you put on this uncaring act! Do you even care about my feelings at all?"
I bent down to avoid the glass shards, wincing as my lower back hit the corner of the table. He reached out to pull me up, but I sidestepped his touch.
The instant I locked the bedroom door, I could hear his quick, agitated pacing in the living room.
That night, I curled up on the edge of the bed, listening to the occasional, heavy sigh from the living room. I slept without dreaming.
When the morning light finally cut through the blinds, I opened the door. Dean was slumped on the sofa, a dark shadow under his eyes, his face etched with exhaustion. He watched me silently as I walked past him, grabbed my car keys, and walked out. Just as I closed the door, I heard the sound of a mug being thrown against the wall.
I stood outside the company building, clutching the printout of my resignation letter. The glass facade reflected the glare of the morning sun, almost blinding me.
It was the same intense, burning sensation I felt three years ago when I gave up my secure job back home and dove headfirst into this new city just to be with Dean.
My director slid the contract renewal across the table. "You're our best Creative Director. Are you absolutely sure you won't reconsider?" I looked at the impressive salary, my fingers brushing against the faint outline of a yellowed acceptance letter hidden in my pursethe offer from Pratt Institute in New York that I had locked away in a drawer years ago.
Three days ago, I received my acceptance letter from a prestigious art program in London.
The blue screen glow reflected on my face. I remembered Dean, twirling his pen, his face bored, saying, "Developing locally is more stable."
It hit me then: some dreams weren't crushed by the passage of time. They were quietly buried by love.
As I cleaned out my desk, Maya leaned in. "I heard you're going to the UK? What about Dean? Are you two going to do long-distance?"
I turned the framed photo of us face down on the desk, the embraced figures dissolving into shadow. "No long-distance. Because soon, he won't be my husband anymore."
I returned to the apartment late that night. The motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered on. Dean was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his tie. The silver-gray suit made his features look especially handsome and sharp.
A beautifully wrapped gift box rested by his feet, tied with a precise black ribbonidentical packaging to the one he had given Phoebe on her birthday last year.
"I have a client dinner tonight," he said, not turning around.
His fingers were flying across his phone screen, and a soft, gentle curve played on his lipsa look I realized Id never once seen directed at me. When a sweet, playful laugh came through the phones speaker, he unconsciously bit his lower lip, his eyes crinkling in a way that made him look like a stranger.
He was smiling right up until the moment he noticed me staring at him. Then, the expression vanished.
He was generous with Phoebe, attentive and gentle, but he couldn't spare a single, real smile for me.
His face darkened when I finally looked away. He didn't say anything, just dropped his gaze in pure, unadulterated annoyance.
As he efficiently changed his shoes, I thought about our first date, how nervous he was, clutching a bouquet of roses so tightly he crumpled the wrapping paper. Now he was composed, mature, and his newfound tenderness belonged to someone else.
I knew the drill: he was starting the cold war. In our marriage, it always happened when Phoebe was involved. Before, I would always back down, trying to win him over. I would bring him food through rain and sun, even if he didn't respond to my texts.
Now, I simply watched him turn and leave.
The security doors soft clunk made a framed picture hanging near the entryway fall and shatter.
I knelt to pick up the pieces, and found myself laughing.
I opened my laptop to search for rental information in New York and brought up my saved list of must-try restaurants. Moonlight poured through the window, illuminating the plan Id been working on.
Those shelved dreams and futures were finally ready to begin growing again.
Later, scrolling on the chaise lounge, I saw Phoebes Instagram post: Its true what they say. When youre with someone whos truly your equal, you just shine.
The accompanying photo was a mirror selfie of her in her Masters gown, leaning into Dean. She was holding a bouquet of roses.
The top comment, from Deans friend Blake, read: Congrats, little sister! Looks like old Dean finally got himself a worthy partner! haha!
Scrolling down, Deans entire circlecolleagues and friendshad left comments, a stream of rose and heart emojis. Deans inner circle had always been cool toward me, subtly implying that a Bachelor's degree graduate like me wasn't a match for an academic star like him. They thought I lacked Phoebes higher education, her youth, and her ambition. In their eyes, I was just the tedious first wife, a stepping stone on his path to real happiness.
I pulled a self-deprecating smile as I read Deans reply to the thread.
He had written: Future guidance, little sister. Please.
The layers of subtle affection in those words felt like a pinprick to my heart.
Then Blakes reply popped up: Maybe send that privately? Don't want a certain someone seeing it and getting all dramatic. You know how sensitive she is.
I remembered the times I had cautiously asked Dean to maintain distance from Phoebe. She had chased him once; now he was her mentor and colleague. His friends had instantly jumped to his defense, calling me possessive and paranoid. Dean would simply frown and tell me I was too sensitive, that I lacked trust.
This time, I felt no urge for a hysterical fight. I simply closed the app and put on an old movie. As the familiar plot unfolded, I drifted into sleep.
I was woken up violently in the middle of the night.
Dean was standing over the bed, his face contorted in anger. A mixture of his cologne and alcohol fumes hit me.
"Skylar, I was out entertaining clients all night. You didn't send a single text? You didn't check in? Look at other wivesthey're picking their husbands up, asking how their day was. And you? You always look like thishalf-dead and completely disinterested!"
I stared at him, bewildered. Why was he so agitated?
I remembered when I used to ask him why he was late. Hed ice me out, saying, "We're married, but I'm not a criminal you can check up on. Stop being so suffocating."
Now that I wasn't asking, he was furious at my lack of concern.
I suppressed the urge to push back, my voice measured. "I figured you were out with friends. I didn't want to bother you with calls. And since you and Phoebe are close, I figured there was nothing to worry about."
Dean's eyes flickered, clearly surprised by the calm way I brought up Phoebe.
After a moment, his tone softened. "I was at Phoebe's graduation party tonight. That post was just encouragement. Nothing else. Don't let your mind wander."
I started to speak, but he rushed to elaborate: "What? You think I shouldn't have gone? I've known Phoebe for four or five years. Even if she chased me back then, were just pure colleagues and friends now. I cant exactly skip a friend's party."
I nodded slowly. "I understand. I'm not angry. It's late. You should get some rest."
Dean stared at me, his gaze searching, desperate to find a hint of displeasure or a hidden agenda in my expression.
Finally, he reached out, trying to cup my shoulder.
I subtly shifted, avoiding his touch. "I've been having some trouble sleeping lately. Could you sleep in the guest room tonight?"
Dean's eyelashes fluttered violently. He hadn't expected me to dodge him. In the past, if he so much as raised his hand, I would instinctively lean into his embrace.
His face turned as dark as a storm cloud. He spun around and slammed the master bedroom door, the frame rattling with the force.
Once his footsteps completely vanished, I sank quickly into sleep. When you stop obsessing over someone else's emotions, even sleep becomes light and easy.

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