The Day You Chose Her
That’s when I found it: a saved location, a strange apartment complex in the West End, woven into the fabric of my husband’s daily commute home. The footage showed him getting out of the car with bags of groceries, his back disappearing into the building with an ease that spoke of routine. Once, I even heard a woman’s voice, a soft, melodic complaint drifting through the open car window.
“What took you so long? You’re ten minutes late. I’m starving.”
Five years of marriage. Four rounds of IVF to get this baby. I couldn’t bring myself to detonate our world. So I did nothing. I pretended I saw nothing.
A week later, I was in the delivery room, the birth turning complicated, when Michael’s phone rang. A frantic voice crackled through the speaker.
“Chloe’s on the roof. She says if you don’t come right now, she’s going to jump.”
His hand pulled away from mine before his brain could even process the choice.
“She’s the daughter of my late mentor…” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “I just have to talk her down.”
“If you walk out that door today,” I screamed, my voice tearing from my throat, raw and desperate, “this baby will not have a father.”
He paused at the door, his shoulders tight. He threw a look back at me, a flicker of something—pity, maybe, or regret. But then his resolve hardened, and he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he ran.
1
I knew the woman on the phone. Chloe. I’d seen her face countless times on Michael’s dashcam.
I lay on the operating table, my gown soaked through with sweat, clinging to me like a second skin. My child wasn’t even born yet, and his father had already abandoned him.
Through a haze of pain and fear, I could hear shouting in the hallway. My parents, his parents, their voices clashing in a storm of anger and disbelief. Another contraction ripped through me, a tidal wave of agony, but it was nothing compared to the shattering of my heart.
My mother’s voice, choked with tears, was the loudest. “Who the hell is that woman? Is Michael insane? Leaving his wife while she’s in labor?”
Michael’s parents were desperately making calls, their voices trembling. “Claire, honey, just hold on. We’ve sent someone to find that damn fool. If he doesn’t come back today, we don’t have a son!”
In my struggle, my wedding band slipped from my finger, falling to the floor. A nurse’s shoe kicked it into the shadows under the bed.
The contractions were coming faster now, a frantic, punishing rhythm. The alarms on the machines began to shriek, one after another.
“Fetal heart rate is dropping!”
A doctor’s shout cut through the chaos, and then, my world went black.
When I woke up, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose. A nurse was adjusting my IV drip. Seeing my eyes open, she spoke in a hushed, gentle tone.
“You lost a lot of blood. You’re lucky we were able to save you. As for the baby… you can always have another.”
A bomb went off inside my chest, leaving a gaping, silent crater where my heart used to be.
My mother sat beside me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears as she gently wiped my own away. “Oh, my sweet girl. You’ve been through so much.”
My father stood by the bed, his face a mask of pain. Michael’s parents hovered in the corner, their faces etched with guilt. I stared at the blank white ceiling, silent tears tracking a path back into my hair. The last five years of my life played out in my mind like a silent film. Michael’s proposal at our college graduation. The way he stayed up all night researching recipes for my morning sickness. The look of pure joy on his face as he meticulously recorded the baby’s heartbeat at every check-up.
Every single one of those tender moments was now a bitter joke.
Michael’s best friend, Leo, stood hesitating in the doorway, his guilt radiating off him in waves.
“Claire… Chloe, she… she had a depressive episode. Said she’d jump if Michael didn’t go. He didn’t have a choice… you…”
He trailed off, unable to finish, as if he finally heard how hollow the words sounded.
“And what?” I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I’m supposed to be understanding?”
I wanted to ask him how many times he’d covered for Michael. How many of their “guys’ nights” were really something else entirely. But then, suddenly, I didn’t want to know.
I waited for my husband to come back. I waited as the sun set and the moon rose, as the darkness of night gave way to the pale light of dawn, and then as night fell once more.
At eight p.m., after twenty full hours of silence, Michael finally appeared. His suit was rumpled, and his gaze skittered away from mine.
“Claire, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice raspy. “Chloe was in a really bad place. Her father made me promise I’d look after her before he passed. I had to…”
I cut him off. My voice was a shredded whisper. “Do you know that our baby is gone?”
My words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
“You knew I was having a C-section yesterday. You knew, and you still chose to go to her.” I could feel the last threads of my control starting to fray. “Michael, that was our child.”
Silence stretched across the sterile room. He reached for my hand; his palm was cold as ice.
“Claire, in five years, I’ve never asked you for anything. Not really. But this one time, I am begging you not to make a scene.”
My blood ran cold.
“Chloe just lost her father,” he continued, his voice low and urgent. “If she gets accused of breaking up a marriage on top of that, her depression will get so much worse.”
I looked at the desperate plea in his eyes, and my heart felt like it was being ripped into confetti. He shouldn’t be begging me for this. He should be on his knees outside the NICU, sobbing his heart out.
A person’s first instinct doesn’t lie. He hadn’t asked the doctors why I’d hemorrhaged. He hadn’t asked how scared I was during the surgery. His first words, his only concern, were for another woman.
Tears streamed from my eyes, soaking the pillowcase. It took every ounce of strength I had left to force a single word from my throat.
“Fine.”
He let out a breath he was clearly holding. “Chloe can’t be alone right now,” he said, as if discussing a business arrangement. “I’m going to move in with her for a little while. Just until she’s more stable. Maybe five months or so. Then I’ll come back, and we can start trying for another baby. Okay?”
His tone was so casual, like he was rescheduling a meeting.
My eyes snapped wide open. It was like having a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. The child we had waited five years for was gone, and my husband was already making five-month plans for another woman.
In that instant, my world didn’t just crack. It imploded.
2
My hand instinctively went to my flat stomach. Just days ago, it had held a new life, the living proof of the love we once shared. Now, it was just an empty, mocking space.
I slowly pulled my hand from his grasp. My voice was terrifyingly calm.
“Michael.”
He looked at me, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“The first time you tried to make soup for my morning sickness, you filled the entire kitchen with smoke. You secretly recorded the baby’s heartbeat and made it your ringtone, showing it off to anyone who would listen. You stood outside the ultrasound room and shouted, ‘Don’t be scared, honey!’ until a nurse chased you away three times.”
My voice started to break.
“For five years, you spoiled me so completely I barely knew how to function. You insisted on tying my shoes for me… I really, truly believed we would be happy forever.”
I lifted my tear-streaked face to his. “But now… when I look at you, I can’t see a single trace of that man. There’s no concern for me in your eyes at all.”
The weight of five years of memories washed over us. Michael’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “But Claire,” he finally choked out, “Chloe really needs me right now.”
She needs me.
Those three words pulverized the last glittering shard of hope I had left. I stared at him, at this man who had suddenly become a stranger.
My voice trembled as I bit out the words. “Get. Out.”
He flinched, took a half-step toward me as if to embrace me, but then he turned. Without another word, he walked away, his figure disappearing down the long, empty hallway.
On the day that would have been our baby’s three-month memorial, I knelt at the tiny grave. Michael wasn’t there.
“Hi, sweetie. Mommy’s here to see you.” My voice was a soft whisper, but I couldn’t stop it from shaking.
My mother wrapped an arm around my shoulders, her own tears falling freely. “I’m here, Claire. Mom’s right here.”
I leaned into her, my voice thick with grief. “It’s okay. At least I had him with me for a little while. And… maybe, with things being the way they are… maybe it’s better that he didn’t have to come into this family.”
Just as the words left my lips, Michael arrived. He knelt beside me.
“My sweet boy, Daddy’s…”
“I told you that day,” I cut him off, my voice cold as stone. “If you walked out, this child wouldn’t have a father.”
He frowned, a look of pained exasperation on his face, as if I were a petulant child throwing a tantrum and he was the magnanimous adult, tolerating my outburst. “Claire, I know you’re hurting, but don’t say things like that. I’m his father, and I’m hurting too. You…”
My mother’s hand shot out, the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek echoing in the quiet cemetery.
“Hurting?” she spat. “Is your idea of hurting abandoning your wife during a high-risk delivery to go take care of some tramp?”
Michael’s face darkened instantly. But before he could speak, Chloe herself came rushing toward us from the cemetery gates, her eyes red and swollen.
She looked only at Michael, her voice catching on a sob. “Michael? Are you done? Are we… are we finally going home now?”
My father surged forward. “Michael! What day is it? Do you have any idea what you’re doing, bringing her here?”
Michael seemed to realize how terrible this looked. He stammered, “Dad, I didn’t have a choice. Chloe’s not been well. I couldn’t leave her at home alone.”
“Not well? And it’s your job, a married man’s job, to take care of her? Do you know what today is for your son? Do you have any idea what your wife has been going through?”
Chloe immediately bowed her head, her voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz. “I’m so sorry, sir… I didn’t mean to. It’s just, Michael said he was coming out here today, and I got scared being alone, so I followed him.”
It was a masterful performance of fragile victimhood.
And, of course, it worked. Michael immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her. “Dad, if you’re angry, take it out on me. Don’t blame her.”
My father, incandescent with rage, turned to Michael’s parents. “This is the fine son you two raised!”
My mother helped me to my feet, her whole body trembling with fury. “Michael, are you even human?”
His parents were frantic now. “Michael, this really isn’t the place,” his mother pleaded. “Please, just have someone take Chloe home.”
But Michael acted as if he hadn’t heard a word. Instead, he took Chloe’s hand, his grip tightening. “Her mental state is finally stabilizing. She can’t handle any more stress.”
I stared at him, my voice cracking. “So… in your world, she can’t be stressed, but I can? I’m just supposed to handle the death of our child on my own, is that it?”
Before he could answer, Chloe spoke up, her voice laced with wounded nobility. “It’s okay, Michael. Claire’s right. It was thoughtless of me. You… you should go back to her. Take care of your wife.”
She sniffled. “I’ll… I’ll go home right now and pack your things.”
She turned, stumbled, her high heel catching on the edge of a headstone, and she went down hard.
Michael’s hand, which was still holding mine, clenched so tightly I thought my bones would snap. He almost let go, almost lunged for her. But he stopped himself, watching as Leo rushed over to help her up.
A long moment passed. Then he spoke, his voice low and heavy.
“I’ll stay with you a little while longer.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Chloe.
“But you need to remember something, Chloe. Claire is my wife. The one I married. The day she needs me to come home, I have to leave. No tears, no scenes. I’ve done more than enough for you over the years.”
Chloe bit her lip, and then, as if she could no longer hold it in, she burst into tears and ran from the cemetery.
Michael didn’t move. He didn’t chase her. He just stood there, his expression unreadable.
But the hand holding mine was trembling.
You can’t hide what you truly care about.
Years ago, I was hospitalized with acute gastritis, and he drove all night from a business trip to be with me. His eyes were red with worry, but he put on a stern face and lectured me about eating street food. He was just like this then, too. Saying harsh words with his mouth, while his thumb gently, unconsciously, stroked the back of my hand.
3
That evening, in the private dining room of a restaurant, the air was thick with tension. Our parents sat around the large circular table, the silence broken only by the clinking of silverware.
Leo leaned over and whispered in Michael’s ear. “Chloe’s still in the parking lot. The valet said she’s just sitting in her car, crying.”
Michael didn’t even look up. He was spooning soup into a bowl for me, his movements steady and deliberate. “Let her,” he said, his voice flat.
The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.
The meal was tasteless. It felt no different from all the meals I had eaten alone lately. Chloe was the daughter of Michael and Leo’s beloved professor, a man who had been a mentor to them both. They had all grown up together. Leo never said it outright, but he always looked out for her more than he ever did for me, his supposed sister-in-law.
When the main courses arrived, the final dish, a steamed snapper, was placed in front of me.
Leo suddenly spoke up. “We should save some of that for Chloe. Fish is her favorite. If you want more, Claire, we can just order another one.”
Michael let out a short, cold laugh. He reached out and pulled the entire platter of fish directly in front of my plate.
His voice was hard as ice. “What my wife likes to eat is not for outsiders to share.”
He said the words. But after he put down his chopsticks, his eyes kept darting toward the door of the private room.
A waiter came in to clear the empty dishes. As he was about to take the scraps to the kitchen, Michael, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly stood up. “I’ll do it.”
The waiter stared, baffled, but handed over the trash bag.
After Michael left, Leo quickly moved to the farthest seat at the table and pretended to be engrossed in an email on his phone. Our parents lapsed back into an awkward, mechanical silence.
The tightness in my chest was becoming unbearable. I stood up and walked into the hallway, needing fresh air.
Without thinking, I found myself walking down to the underground parking garage.
That’s when I heard it: Chloe’s soft, aggrieved sobs, mingled with Michael’s low, comforting murmurs. I ducked behind a concrete pillar. Outside, a light snow had begun to fall.
Michael and Chloe were sitting side-by-side on the hood of his car, sharing a takeout container.
He reached up and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.
Chloe, her eyes red, balled her fist and hit his chest playfully, a pout on her face. “You’re going back to her anyway, so why are you still acting like you care about me?”
Michael let her hit him, his expression filled with an endless, patient indulgence. It was a look of pure, unguarded tenderness—completely different from the careful, deliberate kindness he always showed me.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, his voice laced with resignation. “I promised your father I’d take care of you for the rest of my life. You know I’m not going to abandon you, don’t you?”
Chloe’s sobs subsided as she leaned into his side. Michael picked up a piece of pork rib with his chopsticks and held it to her lips.
“I had this sent over from that private kitchen you like,” he murmured. “It’s much better than the food at the restaurant.”
She took a bite, and her crying finally stopped.
Michael began to explain, his voice low. “Claire just lost the baby. She’s emotionally unstable. This is just one dinner to keep the peace. Once she’s satisfied, she won’t keep pushing me to come home all the time.”
So that was it. That was his calculation.
All those times, over five years, when he’d sided with me in small, insignificant arguments—it wasn’t about love. It was just a strategy to keep me quiet, to stop me from making trouble for Chloe. A few crumbs of affection were enough to make me feel grateful, to keep me docilely by his side.
I looked at the two of them, huddled together against the falling snow. Michael had a sensitive stomach and a small appetite. He’d eaten a full meal upstairs in the dining room, yet he was now eating most of the food in the takeout container.
Maybe it’s true what they say. You can only truly enjoy a meal with someone who shares your heart.
Whether it was a childhood sweetheart or the great love of his life, one thing was clear.
That person wasn't me.
4
I turned and walked away silently. From my purse, I pulled out the divorce papers I’d had drawn up days ago.
When I returned to the private room, divorce papers in hand, both sets of parents stood up. After the spectacle in the cemetery, even Michael’s parents didn’t know how to argue for their son anymore. My own parents just sighed and told me, “If you want a divorce, you have our support.”
Michael’s mother hesitated, then gripped my hand, her eyes pleading. “Claire, can’t you just give him one more chance? He’s only like this because he feels so indebted to his mentor.”
I said nothing. I just placed the papers on the table.
Just as tears started to well in her eyes, the door swung open.
Michael was back. And he had brought Chloe with him.
She was wearing his suit jacket, and she surveyed the room with an air of entitlement, as if she were the incoming Mrs. Davies.
The room fell dead silent. Every eye was on them.
“Michael,” his mother’s voice trembled. “Why is she back here?”
His father slammed his wine glass on the table. “Michael, have you lost your mind?!”
Michael didn’t answer them. His gaze swept over the coat I was wearing and finally landed on my face. “Finished eating?”
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “I’m going home.”
He seemed to relax. “Okay. Text me when you get there.”
He said it so casually, then turned and gently guided Chloe forward.
“Mom, Dad, you know my mentor passed away. Before he died, he entrusted Chloe to me. I can’t go back on my word. For the next little while, I need to give her a job, so she’ll be starting at the company.”
His brazen honesty made our earlier outrage seem petty and overwrought.
Chloe smiled politely and reached for his mother’s arm. “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am. Michael has taken such good care of me. He wanted me to meet all of you tonight. Since everyone is here, perhaps I could offer a toast?”
Michael’s mother looked at me, her face a mess of conflicting emotions. “Claire, why don’t you… sit down and we can talk about this?”
I was about to refuse, but Chloe cut in, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Yes, Claire. You should sit. You’re still his wife, after all. There are some things you should be aware of, don’t you think?”
CRACK.
The sound of the slap was sharp and clean in the silent room.
I stared in shock as my mother lowered her hand from Chloe’s face.
“Mom!”
My mother turned to me, her eyes blazing, her voice shaking with a rage I had never seen before. “I carried you for ten months. Do you think I don’t know my own daughter? You married him when you were twenty-two. You’re twenty-seven now. Five years! You gave up a scholarship to study abroad for him. You managed his company socials for him. When he had stress-induced gastritis from drinking too much, you stayed by his hospital bed for three days without sleep. You loved him that much. You wouldn’t be letting go unless your heart was completely dead.”
Her voice broke. “I don’t need you to be rich or famous. But I will not stand here and watch him humiliate you with his mistress. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you!”
Her words were like a hammer blow, and the tears I had been holding back finally broke free.
Chloe cradled her cheek, tears pooling in her eyes. Michael immediately pulled her behind him, his expression dark and terrifyingly angry.
“Claire,” he seethed. “When did you learn to hide behind your parents to…”
“Do you know what I find most disgusting about you?” I cut him off, stepping forward and slapping him across the face with all the strength I had.
“Michael, you’re the one who deserves to be hit!”
I snatched the divorce papers from the table and threw them at his chest.
He caught them automatically. His eyes widened as he read the title. His pupils contracted.
“Claire… you want a divorce?”
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