The Secret Scar She Never Saw

Ten years into my marriage, I had grown accustomed to solitude.

Going to the clinic alone, catching a movie or dinner by myself, and even handling the rear-end accident that afternoonall solo missions.

Staring at the birthday cake on the table, I dialed her number, only to be sent straight to voicemail.

AuroraRoryKnight sent a curt text: Working.

I lit the single candle, then blew it out, a hollow ritual just for me.

My phone screen flared with a trending post:

The Dedicated Co-Pilot: Guessing if its a honeymoon phase or a married couple?

The top comment read: Definitely new love. If it were a husband, hed be sighing and scrolling through his phone by now.

The accompanying photo showed Rory in the drivers seat, her profile curved into a soft smile. Beside her, a young guy in the passenger seat was taking a mirror selfie. The Saint Christophers medal Id bought for her last year, the one hanging from the rearview mirror, swayed gently in the window.

I stared at that familiar, smiling curve of her face for a long time, unmoving.

She finally pushed the front door open at two in the morning, placing a sleek watch box on the coffee table.

Happy birthday. Limited edition, I had to pull some strings.

I looked at her, not reaching for the box. How old is he?

My phone screen was still illuminated with the post.

Rory glanced at it, a faint crease forming between her brows. Zane Abbott is a new project assistant at the firm, very talented. I just happened to be giving him a ride back to his campus. Dont overthink this.

I stood up, my voice deliberately flat. How old is he, Rory?

She hesitated. Twenty-two. Hes in grad school.

I closed my eyes. A dull ache spread through my chest. Ten years. I was thirty-five, and her world now included someone who was barely legal when we got married.

Quite young, I said, the calmness of my voice foreign even to me.

She walked over, pulling me into a hug, a trace of amusement in her tone. Oh, Wes. Are you actually jealous? Hes just a kid.

A strange, sharp scentcedar and a hint of citrusa mens cologne that was definitely not hers, stung my nostrils. My stomach clenched. I pushed her away.

Rory frowned, a flash of impatience in her eyes. Ive explained it. Believe me or dont. Im exhausted. Im going to shower.

She was exactly as she always was: no patience left to stay a moment longer or offer a few extra words of reassurance.

The bedroom door clicked shut quietlyshe couldn't even summon the energy to slam it anymore. The watch box on the coffee table gleamed with cold light.

On impulse, I opened my phone and found Zanes social media account. His latest post, half an hour ago, was a car-mirror selfie captioned: Thanks, Rory, for the ride home! He was prominently wearing a brand-new mechanical watch. The dial sparkled under the filter.

It was identical to the one in the box beside me.

She hadn't even bothered to buy two different watches for her separate lives.

That night, I scrolled through every one of Zanes posts. I also followed a subtle tag to Rorys burner account, the one I thought shed abandoned years ago.

October 8th: Zane posted a photo of a pair of coveted sneakers, crying emojis attached. Rorys small account commented: Consider it done. Bringing them by tomorrow.

November 3rd: Zane shared a ski resort brochure. Rory commented: Tickets and chalet booked for Chamonix. Taking you over the holidays.

December 24th: Zane complained about a tough thesis deadline. Rory replied: Dont stress. Come over this weekend, Ill help you structure it.

...

There was too much. I couldnt scroll to the bottom.

All those nights I thought she was too busy working, too overwhelmed to come home; all her so-called "client dinners" and "emergency meetings;" all the times I ate a cold dinner alone, eventually dumping the untouched portionsthey had been filled by another destination, another person who received her softest voice and boundless patience.

I used to believe that all marriages settled into this kind of quiet, flat terrain: love morphing into familial comfort, passion receding, leaving only habit and responsibility. We had survived the broke years, living in that cramped studio apartment, sharing a single cup of instant ramen. Shed promised me that once we were rich, shed give me the best life.

Now she was rich. And she was giving the best of her time, her energy, and her resources to someone else.

The sky outside began to lighten. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, falling across my body, offering no warmth.

Rory emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a sharp power suit, her makeup flawless. Seeing me still on the sofa, clutching my phone, she sighed, her tone weary and faintly accusatory:

You didnt sleep? Wes, what is it that you want? Do you have to be this suspicious? Maybe... I should just call him over and let him explain everything to your face.

I stood up, my legs stiff. No need.

Her phone chimed immediately. Seeing the caller ID, Zaney, she turned instantly, walking towards the balcony. Her voice, when she answered, was gentle in a way I hadnt heard in years:

Whats wrong, sweetie? Take a breath. Just tell me. Your advisor rejected the proposal? Its fine. The core idea is strong, Ill look over it tonight, well nail it.

Mmm, I know that coffee shop. Ill swing by and grab you a tiramisu latte.

Good. Now, be a good student, and Ill see you tonight.

She hung up and turned back to me, her expression instantly resuming its practiced, careful neutrality. Ill try to be home early tonight. Well go out. Where do you want me to make reservations?

The silence in the room was absolute.

Our marriage had become like a stagnant pond. You could throw a boulder into it, and it wouldn't create a single ripple.

Before we married, her contact for me was My Wes, pinned to the top, starred as a favorite.

Three years in, she claimed she needed to unpin it so she wouldnt miss client messages.

Five years in, my contact reverted to my full name: Wesley Miller.

She could offer patient solace and hands-on help for Zanes minor academic setback, yet she wouldnt spare ten minutes to hear about my day.

The luxury car dealership called to say my car was fixed.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at my reflection: dark circles, stubble, a tired, ravaged expression. I was thirty-five, my physique hadn't gone soft, but the light in my eyes had long since dimmed. This marriage felt like a shrinking cage, slowly suffocating me.

At the dealership, while signing paperwork, I overheard two young sales associates chatting.

That deal yesterday was smooth. Ms. Knight bought two new models, said one was for her, the other was a gift.

For who? Thats a huge purchase.

Some handsome young guy, Zane Abbott? A social media influencer, too. Ms. Knight was smiling the whole time. He even teased her about wanting matching cars in different colors, and she agreed instantly.

My signing hand paused briefly, then completed my signature.

Back on the road, familiar city streets flew past. The bitterness in my heart spread, quiet and invasive, making even my breath catch with dull pain.

Rory and I met at fifteen in the foster care system and married at twenty-five. We went from being two penniless orphans to owning a home, a car, and a respectable career in this city.

She had become sharp, brilliant, and magnetic. I, however, seemed to have stayed put, tending to our home, playing the man behind the curtain. I used to take pride in that, seeing it as a different kind of love.

Now I understood. The person who stays put is always the one left behind.

I pulled over by a quiet neighborhood park and sat on a bench. In the distance, a young couple was flying a kite, the girls laughter bright and clear. Youth was a precious thing. Their love could be declared without caution, without calculation, without suspicion.

My phone rang. It was Rory.

The insurance company contacted me about the renewal. They happened to mention you had an accident yesterday? Her voice held a note of tight suspicion.

Yeah, a rear-end. It wasnt serious. I watched the couple, my voice even.

Why didnt you tell me? Her tone held a flicker of actual concern, perhaps mixed with irritation at being kept out of the loop.

I handled it myself, I said.

The line was silent for a few seconds, then the dial tone hummed.

There was a time when she was my entire sense of security. Whatever problem I had, she was the first person I thought of.

Once, during a hurricane, the windows leaked and the power went out. I called her, terrified. She was on a business trip.

Wes, youre a grown man. Cant you handle a minor emergency? Her voice, strained through the static of the storm, was laced with exhaustion and impatience. Im swamped with clients and paperwork. Can you stop bothering me with these trivial things?

After that, I never asked her for help again.

When I had acute appendicitis, I signed myself in for surgery.

When my father died of a heart attack, I managed the funeral alone.

Even the surgery at the beginning of the year I didnt tell her about that, either.

Dusk was falling. I got home, ordered takeout, and collapsed on the sofa. My body was heavy with fatigue, but my mind was wide awake.

A key turned in the lock just after eight. Rory was home early. In the last two years, she rarely walked through the door before nine. Once, we went three months under the same roof without exchanging a single word.

She walked towards me and took my hand. Her palm was warm, but the contact made me profoundly uncomfortable.

Wes, she looked at me, her eyes filled with a complicated mix of guilt and an attempt to control the narrative. Were married. Any issues, we need to talk through them, face them together. When you bottle things up like this, it makes my life difficult.

I withdrew my hand. When was the last time we touched like this? I couldn't remember. Kissing felt like a memory from a past life. We had been sleeping in separate rooms for two years. We were not a couple; we were highly familiar roommates.

Rory, I truly can handle things myself, my voice remained perfectly calm.

She suddenly flared up. Then what do you want from me? You take on everything yourself! Do you even need me as a wife anymore?

I clenched my fist, fighting to maintain my composure. Isnt that what you told me?

You said it yourself: dont bother you with things I can manage alone.

You said that though we are married, we are first and foremost independent individuals who shouldnt be overly reliant on each other.

Rory looked choked. After a long pause, she rasped, Because of things I said years ago? Youve been keeping score this whole time? Wes, when did you get so petty?

It wasn't that I was keeping score.

It was that every time I tried to communicate, she was absent or dismissive.

It was that the desire to share had died a slow, painful death through endless silence and deflection.

It was that she often ignored my calls, and was always "busy" when I needed her the most.

Truly, I had become used to being alone.

Rory, I looked into her eyes. Zane needs you more, doesnt he? Hes young, vibrant, full of potential. He gives you that fresh feeling, that sense of accomplishment. A single call from him, and you drop everything.

Zanes presence was so complete that, earlier this year, when I was lying alone on the operating table, I had to sign the Family Member consent line myself.

The anesthesiologist had confirmed right before lifting the needle: Mr. Miller, is your family member not here?

Shes very busy, Id said.

My words hit her like a physical blow. Her voice immediately rose. Must you be so cynical? Wes, you were never like this!

Zane is a valued junior colleague. Whats wrong with me mentoring him, taking care of him as his boss? Must you always assume the worst?

I laughed, a quiet, humorless sound. Mentoring him by buying him a luxury car? Mentoring him by taking him skiing in Chamonix? Mentoring him while I was unreachable the week my father died because you were taking him to see a musical in London?

Rory, whats the point of this self-deception?

Her face flushed crimson, but before she could retort, the doorbell rang.

A bright, youthful voice called from the hall: Delivery! Takeout is here!

I opened the door.

It was Zane Abbott. Twenty-two, tall, wearing the season's trendiest hoodie and ripped jeans. His hair was perfectly styled, his face brimming with youthful energy and collagen. He held my takeout bag, his smile wide and clearand in his eyes, a flicker of transparent contempt and provocation aimed directly at me.

Mr. Miller? Hi, Im Zane Abbott, Rorys assistant. He extended his hand in a casual gesture.

My gaze dropped to his wrist. He was wearing a watch, the dial catching the hall light with a hard, cold sheen.

It was my wedding watch. It had mysteriously disappeared six months ago. Id looked everywhere. Rory had vaguely suggested it might have been accidentally swept into the garbage and promised to buy me a new one.

Now, it was on his wrist.

Zane followed my gaze, his smile deepening. He shook his wrist slightly. Nice, right? Rory gave it to me. Said it was a reward for my great performance during the internship. He handed over the bag. Your BBQ. Though, honestly

He scanned me up and down, a show of "concern" masking his malice. Mr. Miller, at your age, eating heavy, fatty, salty food this late is really bad for your heart and liver. You should really think about healthy eating.

I took the bag. Then, directly in front of him, I walked to the trash can and dropped it.

It landed with a dull thud.

Zanes smile froze. Then his eyes welled up, and he turned to Rory, a sudden wave of wounded vulnerability washing over him. Rory I was just trying to be helpful Does Mr. Miller hate me?

Rory instantly stepped forward, shielding him with her body. She glared at me, her eyes blazing. Wes! What is the meaning of that? Zane was kind enough to bring this up for you, and you just waste it and throw a fit?!

Zane clutched her sleeve, whispering, Rory, please dont fight with Mr. Miller. Its my fault, I shouldnt have said anything

Hes young, he speaks without thinking, he meant no harm! Why are you punishing him? Rory looked at me, her face full of blame and disgust. Wasting food, treating someone who did you a favor like garbage. Wes, when did you become so cruel?

Cruel. A word heavier and sharper than petty.

I looked at her, defending Zane, and felt a chilling desire to laugh.

I was twenty-two once, too. Full of fire, pinning all my future and dreams on her. I endured the cold, damp studio apartment, sharing instant ramen. When she came home drunk from client dinners, I stayed up all night, making sure she was safe, brewing hangover tea, massaging her temples. When the pressure of her start-up became too much, I held her and told her, Its okay. Im right here.

I swallowed all my exhaustion, insecurity, and hurt, determined to be her unshakable foundation.

Now I was thirty-five. My hairline was receding, I had fine lines around my eyes, and my body was starting to give way from lack of movement and long hours. I had become the hazy backdrop of her success story, the "idle husband at home."

Because I threw away a clearly insulting bag of takeout, she called me cruel.

Rory, my voice was terrifyingly soft. My wedding watch, the one that was lost six months ago. Does it look good on him?

Her eyes flickered violently, avoiding mine. Her throat worked. That he found it. I was just about to tell him to give it back.

Is that so? I nodded. What a coincidence. To find it in the bottom of my velvet-lined jewelry box, wrapped in flannel cloth, and to know the combination to wear it.

Zanes face paled. He instinctively tried to tuck the watch under his sleeve.

Rory, embarrassed and furious, snapped. Enough! Its just a watch, why are you being so relentless? Zane, take it off and give it to him!

Zane bit his lip, feigning immense hurt, and slowly began to unclip the band. The clasp seemed difficult to open, and he accidentally fumbled

Clatter.

The watch dropped onto the tile floor, face down.

I didn't move to pick it up.

Rory saw my indifference, took a sharp breath, and bent down herself. She picked it up and held it out to me, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. Wes, here is your watch! Stop picking fights and making a scene, can you please?

I looked at the watch that once symbolized our lifelong vow. The heart I once hadthe one that beat so fiercely and brightly for hersank, sinking into a cold, black abyss where I could no longer feel any pain.

Favoritism needs no reason.

The scales of her heart had tipped completely. So whatever I did was wrong; whatever Zane did was understandable, regrettable, and forgivable.

I was suddenly, profoundly exhausted. Too tired to say another word.

Keep it, I said.

Or give it to someone who deserves it more.

I paused, and then I spoke clearly, decisively:

Meet me at the County Clerks office tomorrow at 2 PM.

Were getting a divorce.