She Divorced Me for My Own Replacement

The day my wife divorced me for the ninth time, she attended a charity gala with her new assistant, making quite the public statement.

I didn't make a scene. I just looked at that man's faceit was identical to mine before the car accident.

But I knew that in thirty days, she'd come back to remarry me. That's how it went the previous eight times.

The first time, his eyes resembled mine.

The second time, his mouth.

The third time, his nose...

The ninth time, his entire face looked like mine.

But today is the thirty-second day.

For the first time, she hasn't come back.

I stare at my face in the mirror, destroyed by hormone medication.

It's fine. This time, I'm not waiting anymore.

The invitation to the charity gala was delivered by her assistant.

That assistant stood at my door, wearing the suit brand I used to love, carrying the same cologne scent I used to wear.

When he handed me the invitation, he deliberately used his left hand.

Because he knew my wife liked left-handed men.

Three years ago, I was left-handed.

"Mr. Cavanaugh, Miss Bernard asked me to give you this."

He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

That smile curved exactly like mine did in photos from three years ago.

I took the invitation. "Got it."

I closed the door and tossed the invitation on the shoe cabinet.

The invitation featured a photo of her with her assistant. She wore a black dress, he stood beside her, their faces close together.

The caption read: Miss Bernard and her assistant attending the annual charity gala.

With her assistant.

She used to attend all those business dinners with me.

I flipped the invitation over and left it face-down on the table.

It's fine. I'm used to it by now.

Today is the thirty-second day. After the previous eight divorces, she always came back to remarry within thirty days. This time she hasn't.

I picked up my phone and sent my mom a message: "Mom, book me a flight back to New York for tonight."

"How many tickets?"

"One."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What about her?"

I stared at that word "her" on the screen, then replied: "Not waiting for her anymore."

Then I turned off my phone, walked into the bedroom, and opened the closet.

Her clothes took up most of the space. Mine occupied a small corner.

I pulled out my clothes and packed them in a suitcase. Not muchjust a few changes of clothes.

Before leaving, I placed something on the coffee table: an agreement, the ninth divorce agreement.

She'd already signed it. She signed it quickly that day without even looking.

She didn't know this agreement contained a gift contract tucked inside. I'd transferred our only propertythe big houseinto her name.

There was nothing to fight over. She bought the house. She bought the car.

The only thing I ever had of value was her love.

Now that the love is gone, it's time to leave.

At seven that evening, I still went to the gala.

Not to say goodbye, but to confirm something.

I stood at the entrance to the ballroom and spotted her immediately.

She wore that black evening gown, her hair pulled up, wearing the necklace from our wedding day around her neck.

That necklaceI'd saved up six months of wages to buy it during our first marriage.

She wore that necklace while holding another man's arm.

She saw me. Her gaze paused on me for a second.

Then she turned her head and reached up to adjust her assistant's tie.

That gestureI'd taught her that.

The year we got married, she tried tying a tie for the first time and couldn't get it right.

I held her hands and taught her step by step.

She learned, and then every morning for three years, she tied my tie.

Now she was tying another man's tie.

Her fingers moved with the same motions, even more practiced now. Then she took her assistant's arm and walked toward me.

"You came." She smiled.

"Yeah."

"This is Diego, my new assistant."

I looked at the man. He extended his hand.

"Hello, Mr. Cavanaugh."

I looked at that hand but didn't shake it.

I turned to her. "Today is the thirty-second day."

Her smile froze for an instant, then returned to normal.

"I know."

"You're not planning to come back."

She didn't answer.

The assistant spoke up: "Miss Bernard, let's go over there. Rafael is waiting for us."

She nodded. "Alright." Then she patted her assistant's arm. "Let's go."

She didn't look at me.

As she passed by, she still wore that same perfume.

The first time I met her, she wore this scent. She'd never changed it in all these years.

But now, this scent no longer belonged to me.

I turned to watch her retreating figure.

She walked into the crowd holding that man who looked ninety percent like me, her steps steady, never looking back.

"Bernard." I called her name.

She stopped and turned to look at me.

The entire ballroom went quiet for a moment. Everyone looked at us.

She froze. This was the first time I'd called her like this in public.

I used to call her "honey." Later, I called her "Miss Bernard."

Today was the first time I called her by her full name in front of everyone.

"Thank you for putting up with me these past few years."

After saying this, I turned and walked away.

Whispers rose behind me. Someone asked "Who's that?" Someone said "I think that's Miss Bernard's ex-husband."

I didn't look back. I walked straight out of the hotel entrance.

The evening breeze rushed in, a bit chilly.

I took out my phone and sent her one final message: "I'm leaving. Don't look for me."

Then I powered it off, removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, and threw it in a trash can by the road.

I hailed a taxi. "To the airport."

The car started. The city's night scenery flew backward past the window.

I'd lived in this city for eight years, from having nothing to having nothing.

I closed my eyes. The last image that floated through my mind was from many years ago, at the university gates, when she stood before me and said "I like you."

Back then, there was light in her eyes. That light illuminated me for many years.

Later the light went out, and I couldn't get it back.

On the way to the airport, my mom messaged me again.

"Your dad is going to pick you up. Oh, there's something I think you should know."

"What?"

She sent a photoa hospital test report with Bernard's name on it. The examination date was three months ago.

The report showed: she had taken mifepristone and misoprostol within a monththe drug combination used to terminate pregnancy.

I gripped my phone tightly.

My mom sent another message: "She had an abortion three months ago. I don't know whose child it was. Did you ask her?"

I stared at the word "abortion" on the screen.

Three months ago was before our eighth divorce.

During that time, she treated me well. She came home on time every day and even cooked on weekends.

One night, she suddenly asked me: "Do you want children?"

I was stunned, thinking she was just asking casually.

Later I found an obstetrics appointment slip in her coat pocket.

That night I bought flowers and a cake and waited for her to come home.

When she saw the cake, her expression changed.

"You went through my things."

"I didn't mean to. I saw it when I was doing laundry."

She was silent for a long time, then said: "The baby is gone."

I wanted to hold her, to tell her it was okay, we could have another one.

But she pushed me away and said: "That child wasn't yours."

When she said this, she didn't look at my eyes. She stared at the cake on the table, her gaze empty.

"The child was Costa'sthat intern whose eyes looked like yours."

"You know what disgusts me most about myself? Even when I betray you, I can only find someone who looks like you. Even when I make mistakes, I can't betray you completely."

That night she moved to the guest room. I sat in the living room all night without sleeping.

When morning came, I asked for a divorce.

She nodded. She didn't try to keep me. That was our eighth divorce.

Later she came back, said she'd fired that intern, said she'd never make the same mistake again.

I believed her. Then we remarried for the ninth time and divorced for the ninth time.

From beginning to end, she never told me whose child it really was.

Now, looking at the report my mom sent, I suddenly didn't want to know anymore.

Whoever it belonged to didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was that she never intended to tell me the truth.

I messaged my mom back: "Not going to ask her."

"Why not?"

"I'm tired."

After sending that message, I turned off my phone too.

We arrived at the airport. I dragged my suitcase into the terminal.

The electronic board displayed: To New York, 23:45.

Twenty minutes until the flight. I found a seat and sat down.

Next to me was a young couple. The girl leaned on the boy's shoulder. "When we get to New York, I want to eat roast chicken."

The boy said: "Okay, you can eat whatever you want."

The girl looked up at him. "What about you? What do you want to eat?"

The boy smiled and pinched her cheek. "I want to eat you."

The girl blushed and playfully hit him.

I watched them, remembering how many years ago, Bernard and I had similar conversations.

Back then we'd just graduated, broke as could be, renting a basement apartment for six hundred dollars a month.

She worked as a salesperson at a small company. I worked as a site supervisor at a construction site.

Life was hard, but every night when she came home, she'd bring me fried chicken from a street vendor, saying: "Eat up, I already ate."

I knew she was lying. She saved money to buy food for me while she became skin and bones.

Back then I held her and swore to myself that I'd give her a good life.

Later her company grew from a three-person workshop to an enterprise with hundreds of employees. She became a lady boss.

Everyone said she married down when she married me.

She never cared. Whenever someone said that, she'd hook her arm through mine and say: "Who says that? My husband is the most handsome."

When she said this, her eyes were bright. There was light in them, shining only on me.

Then came the car accident.

That afternoon she drove me to see the ocean. Her phone kept ringing in the carcalls from the company.

I told her to answer. She said she wouldn't.

She tilted her head and smiled at me. "Today I'm only with you."

Sunlight fell on her profile. I reached out to block it. "Don't look at me, watch the road."

Then that truck came at us.

When I woke up three days later, my body was wrapped in bandages and I couldn't move.

She sat by the bed, her eyes so swollen they were almost shut.

When she saw me open my eyes, she burst into tears. "You scared me to death."

Later the doctor told me that my endocrine system was damaged in the car accident. I'd need to take hormone medication long-term to maintain function.

I asked about side effects. The doctor said I'd gain weight.

I asked how much. The doctor said I might become unrecognizable.

She stood beside me and gripped my hand. "It's okay. I'll love you no matter what you look like."

When she said this, her eyes were still bright.

I believed her.

But I didn't expect the medication's side effects to come so quickly.

Three monthsI gained twenty pounds.

Six monthsforty pounds.

After a year, the man in the mirror had nothing to do with me anymore.

From that point on, she stopped looking at my face much.

Then one day I went to her company to find her and saw a young man standing beside her.

That boy's eyes looked very much like someone.

It took me a long time to rememberthey looked like mine from three years ago.

She said he was a new intern named Costa.

He was her first "assistant."

Later, she and he grew closer and closer.

I started hearing gossip. I didn't believe it.

Until one day that intern resigned. She came home, held me, and cried, saying she was sorry, saying his eyes looked too much like mine, saying she was just confused for a moment.

She said: "I still love you."

I believed her. Then we remarried.

Six months later, she found a second one.

A third, a fourth...

Each one looked like me. Each one wasn't me.

I couldn't understand it before. Later I understood.

She never loved me as a person. She loved my face.

When that face was gone, she had to look elsewhere.

When she found someone who could piece together a part of it, she could hold on for a while. When she couldn't hold on anymore, she'd come back to remarry me.

Because no matter how many she found, she couldn't piece together a complete me.

So she had to come back, to confirm I was still here, to check in before going to find the next one.

She wasn't looking for substitutes. She was extending her own life.

And I was her oxygen tank. When she ran out of air, she'd come back for a breath. When she'd had enough, she'd go out into the world to breathe.

The airport announcement sounded. I stood up and dragged my suitcase toward the gate.

Past the gate, I didn't look back.

The night wind was cold. I pulled my coat tighter.

I found my seat by the window and sat down, looking out at the pitch-black night.

My phone vibrated in my pocketthe new phone. Only my mom knew the number.

I took it out and saw my mom's message: "Cavanaugh, your dad already left. Be careful on the road."

"Okay."

"Did she contact you?"

"Don't know. I turned off my phone."

"What if she comes looking?"

"She won't. She doesn't know I left."

"What if she finds out?"

I looked out the window, thinking for a long time.

"Even if she knows, it won't matter. I'm not waiting anymore."

The plane taxied out onto the runway and rose into the night sky.

This city, this woman, this eight-year relationshipall of it became nothing but distant lights.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

For the first time in eight years, I didn't look back.

After the gala ended, she returned home.

She pushed open the door. The lights were still on.

The living room was quiet. An agreement sat on the coffee table.

She picked it up and flipped through a few pages. It was the divorce agreement, the ninth one.

She'd already signed it without even looking.

But tucked inside this agreement was another papera gift contract.

It stated: I voluntarily gift my only jointly owned property, one house, entirely and freely to the woman.

The signature was my name. The date was today.

She held that paper, her fingers beginning to tremble.

She rushed into the bedroom.

All my clothes were gone from the closet.

My computer was gone from the study.

My toothbrush was gone from the bathroom.

She pulled out her phone and dialed my number.

Powered off.

She tried again. Still powered off.

She called my mom. No answer.

She panicked.

Really panicked. Every previous divorce, I'd kept my phone on, waiting for her call, waiting for her to come back.

But not this time.

She rushed out and drove around the city searching.

She went to that noodle shop. The owner said he hadn't seen me today.

She went to that old fifty-square-foot apartment. Inside it was dusty, clearly no one had been there in a long time.

She went to the gym I used to frequent. The receptionist said I hadn't been there in three months.

She searched every place she could think of. Nothing.

As dawn approached, she stopped by the roadside, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, her whole body shaking.

Then her phone rang. She grabbed it frantically.