I Never Entered His World

During our worst arguments, my hearing-impaired husband had a habit of ripping out his hearing aid. He would stand there in absolute silence, leaving me to scream and cry like a hysterical lunatic, entirely ignored.

But this time, I froze.

I had finally realized that he never treated his childhood sweetheart this way.

I remembered a time when he had upset Lydia. In a fit of temper, she had accidentally slapped his hearing aid off, sending it shattering onto the pavement.

Instead of getting angry, he had dropped to his knees, frantically searching the ground. "Lydia, please don't be mad," he had pleaded, his voice trembling as he groped in the dark. "Please don't shut me out."

His first instinct wasn't anger; it was sheer, suffocating anxiety.

He was terrified of being locked out of her world. He was desperate to hear her voice, her sighs, her anger. He couldn't bear to miss a single second of her response.

The moment the device was repaired, he had rushed straight back to her, just so she could repeat the harsh words she had yelled at him.

Seven years of built-up grief suddenly crashed over me. Looking at Oliver, I finally understood that I had never truly been allowed inside his world.

Seeing that I had quieted down, Oliver calmly slid his hearing aid back into place. His expression was completely detached.

"Since you've calmed down, go make dinner. Cook some sweet and sour ribs. Lydia is coming over later, and they're her favorite."

My voice was flat when I spoke.

"Oliver, let's get a divorce."

He froze for a fraction of a second, his hand hovering over his ear. "What did you say? My hearing aid static was acting up."

"I said," I began, but the doorbell cut me off.

At the same time, his phone chimed with a custom ringtone. He glanced at the screen, a genuine smile instantly softening his features.

"Lydia is off her shift. I'm going to pick her up," he said, turning toward the door. "Don't forget about dinner. And remember, no green onions. Lydia hates them."

With that, he hurried out.

In our seven years of marriage, he had memorized every single one of Lydia's preferences. For me, he only ever had one excuse: If you don't tell me what you want, how am I supposed to know?

Yet Lydia never had to say a word. A single crease of her brow was enough to send him into hours of anxious worry.

I didn't make the ribs. Instead, I cooked a table full of spicy, heavy dishes that I loved.

Both Oliver and Lydia preferred bland, mild food. To accommodate them, I hadn't eaten a proper, sweat-inducing spicy meal in years.

Just as I plated the last dish, the front lock clicked.

Oliver walked in, his arm gently guiding Lydia through the doorway. They were carrying several shopping bags. Oliver set them down and handed me a small, elegant box of red bean pastries from the Crescent Bakery.

It was a famous, expensive shop. And those pastries were the one sweet I genuinely loved. Whenever Oliver upset me, he would bring a box home, and my anger would immediately dissolve at the sight of it.

But this time, I didn't reach for it. I simply pointed toward the coffee table. "Put it there."

When Oliver saw the bright red, chili-laden dishes on the dining table, his face darkened. "Bridget, did you do this on purpose? Lydia can't handle spicy food. What is she supposed to eat?"

Lydia quickly grabbed his sleeve, her voice soft and sweet. "Oliver, it's fine. I can manage. Today is Bridget's special day, after all."

The anger in Oliver's eyes melted instantly. He looked at her like a protective dog being patted on the head. "Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, leaning down.

Lydia nodded, a sweet smile on her face.

They were standing so close. It was only then that I noticed the matching cartoon rabbit stickers pasted onto their identical hearing aids.

I remembered our seventh anniversary. I had begged Oliver to use matching cartoon profile pictures with me on social media, wanting some small, public acknowledgment of our marriage.

Don't be so childish, he had said.

Yet, the matching rabbits on his hearing aid apparently weren't childish at all.

I lowered my head, blinking back the hot tears stinging my eyes.

Across the table, Oliver set a glass of plain water next to his plate. Every time he picked up a piece of food, he would carefully rinse it in the water before placing it gently into Lydia's bowl.

The lump in my throat grew tighter. I bit my lower lip, fighting to keep my composure as I sat across from them.

Suddenly, Oliver placed a piece of rinsed beef into my bowl.

I stared at it, caught off guard. This was the first time in our marriage he had ever served me. "I can get it myself," I muttered.

He didn't look up. "Lydia is still recovering from her ear surgery. She can't have beef right now. She's eating this spicy food just to make you happy, so you should thank her."

My chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder.

I had accommodated them for seven years, and not once had anyone thanked me. Why did I have to thank Lydia for tolerating one meal?

I slammed my chopsticks onto the table. "If you don't like it, cook your own damn food."

I had always been mild-tempered, rarely raising my voice, so my sudden outburst shocked them.

Lydia scrambled to her feet, looking terrified. In her haste, she choked on a piece of chili, her face turning bright red as she began to cough violently.

Oliver reacted as if a bomb had gone off. He slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

"Bridget, Lydia came all this way to celebrate your birthday! You made this spicy food specifically to exclude her, and now you're throwing a tantrum?"

A cold, sharp pain pierced my heart.

So he did know. He knew today was my birthday.

Lydia shook her head frantically, her hands moving in rapid, fluid sign language that I couldn't understand. Oliver replied to her in the same silent language. I stood there like an intruder, completely shut out of their conversation.

Finally, Oliver let out a frustrated growl. "Why should you be the one suffering? Come on, I'm taking you out to eat."

He grabbed Lydias hand and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind them.

The tears I had held back for so long finally spilled over. I sat down alone and began stuffing the spicy food into my mouth, chewing through my sobs. The spice burned my throat until I had to run to the bathroom to throw up, but I didn't stop.

I couldn't understand how the food I used to love so much had turned into pure poison.

By the time the plates were empty, my lips were swollen and my eyes were red.

I wiped my face and pulled a black bank card from my wallet. It held the savings I had scraped together over the last seven years.

Seven years ago, Oliver had a chance to undergo a surgery that could have restored his hearing. But he had jumped in to save me from a group of thugs, and his ear bones were shattered in the fight, permanently destroying any chance of recovery.

That guilt had been a phantom ache in my heart for years. I felt like I had ruined his life. To repay him, I spent three months nursing him day and night, eventually marrying him and spending seven years acting as his servant.

A dull pain throbbed in my left leg.

A year ago, when Lydia had broken his hearing aid, Oliver had wandered into the street without it and was nearly hit by a speeding truck. I had thrown myself in front of the vehicle to push him out of the way, shattering my leg. Even now, I walked with a permanent, slight limp.

I had paid my debt. I owed him nothing more.

I opened my phone, booked a consultation at a rehabilitation clinic in my hometown, and bought a one-way train ticket for the next morning. Whether Oliver agreed to the divorce or not, I was leaving.

As I closed the travel app, my phone rang. It was the Crescent Bakery.

Because I loved their pastries, Oliver had signed up for a VIP membership under my phone number.

"Hello, is this Mrs. Cross?" the clerk asked politely.

"Yes, speaking."

"Your husband ordered our exclusive 'Four Seasons' gift set, and it has just arrived. We tried calling his number, but he isn't answering. Would you be able to pick it up?"

"Of course," I said, my heart fluttering with a tiny, fragile hope.

The Four Seasons gift set was incredibly expensive and required booking months in advance. Perhaps, in some hidden corner of his heart, Oliver still cared about me.

When I arrived at the bakery, the clerk handed over the beautifully wrapped box. I signed the receipt, my fingers trembling. But as I reached for the handle, the clerk stopped.

"Wait, let me double-check. I think the greeting card in the system was addressed to a Ms. Mercer... Let me verify the name."

I froze, the warmth draining from my body.

It wasn't for me.

After a few agonizing minutes, the clerk returned with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cross. The name on the order doesn't match. I can't let you take this package."

My hands clenched into tight fists. I forced a polite, empty smile onto my face. "Oh, I see. No worries. I'll have him pick it up himself."

I practically fled the shop, only to run straight into Oliver at the entrance.

I stumbled and fell onto the concrete, a sharp pain shooting through my bad leg.

Oliver didn't even look down at me. He muttered a quick, distracted apology to the air and pushed past me into the bakery.

"Hi, is my gift set ready? I saw a missed call."

The clerk smiled and handed the elegant box to him. The transaction went smoothly, without a single hitch.

As he turned to leave, the clerk called out, "Mr. Cross, would you like to add a small box of red bean pastries today? I noticed you always buy one whenever you pick up a gift for Ms. Mercer."

Oliver paused, then nodded. "Yes, the usual small box is fine."

I sat on the cold pavement, laughing until tears slipped down my face.

I had always thought Oliver, who was usually so careless, bought those pastries because he kept my favorite treat close to his heart. It turned out I was nothing more than a afterthought, a cheap buy-one-get-one-free bonus to soothe his guilt while he spoiled Lydia.

I watched his hurried figure disappear down the street. I didn't call after him.

I dragged myself to a bench in a nearby park, staring up at the gray sky.

There had been a time, very early on, when we were happy. He would fill a basin with warm water to massage my feet after a long shift, and he would surprise me with small gifts.

When did it all change?

It was when Lydia returned from her studies abroad. They shared a childhood, and they shared a silent world of hearing loss. They had an endless supply of secrets and a language I could never speak.

Sometimes, I couldn't help but think that if Lydia hadn't left for her treatment years ago, she would have been the one standing beside him at the altar.

The sky grew dark. My phone remained silent.

I scolded myself for still hoping he would call, for still wishing he would care.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated in my palm. The screen flashed with the contact name: Husband. My heart leaped against my ribs, and I answered quickly.

"Oliver, I'm"

"Bridget, did you put that trash on the internet?" his voice cut in, cold and accusatory.

I went numb. "What trash?"

Oliver let out a disgusted sneer. "Stop acting innocent. You make me sick."

I hung up and quickly opened my social media apps.

At the very top of the trending list was a headline in bold letters: Lydia Mercer, prominent jewelry designer, exposed as a homewrecker.

Clicking on the tag, the first image was a candid photo of Lydia and Oliver dining at a candlelit restaurant, sitting close enough that their lips seemed to touch. The captions were vicious, pointing out that Oliver was married and that they were out celebrating on his wife's birthday.

Lydia's tearful voice echoed from the background of the call. "Bridget, I know you hate me, but how could you destroy my career? No one else knew about our dinner except the three of us. If it wasn't you, who else would buy these rumors to ruin me?"

My throat felt tight. I couldn't find the words to defend myself, even though I was entirely innocent.

Oliver snatched the phone back. "Don't worry, Lydia. I'll handle this."

He hung up.

Within minutes, the trending tag about Lydia began to drop rapidly. But my relief was short-lived.

My best friend sent me a frantic text: Bridget, why would you post about what happened seven years ago? Didn't you swear to carry that secret to your grave?

My hands began to shake violently. I clicked back to the trending page.

When I saw the new headline at the very top of the list, my knees buckled, and I sank to the ground.