I Do... Divorce

My childhood sweetheart got into a car accident and lost his memory. He was stuck at eighteen.
He complained that I’d aged ten years overnight and insisted on a divorce.
The joke was on him. I had just time-traveled from ten years in the past. To me, he was the old man.
At first, I thought he’d traveled back in time with me and was just pretending to have amnesia.
Then I overheard him talking to a friend.
"Amnesia? Nah, I'm faking it."
"The wife's been a little overbearing lately. A little divorce drama will give us some space to cool off."
"Relax. She's so in love with me, she'd never actually go through with it."
I didn’t say a word. I just quietly watched him sign the divorce papers.
The moment the mandatory cooling-off period was over, I pushed his wheelchair right up to the doors of the city courthouse.
As he stared at me, dumbfounded, I planted my hands on my hips.
"We are getting this divorce today!"

1
I’d been in this timeline for two days when Barry Pierce, my husband, got into a car crash and conveniently lost his memory.
His mind was stuck at eighteen—the year he found me most annoying.
The first time I walked into his hospital room, our eyes met.
The first words out of his mouth were:
"I want a divorce."
He scowled. "You were annoying enough back then. Now that you’re ten years older, you’re even worse."
A hot sting burned behind my eyes.
He really did sound like the eighteen-year-old Barry. Just as cruel, just as thoughtless.
Staring at this familiar yet foreign man, I remembered my sister’s words from earlier. She’d urged me not to make any rash decisions, to think about my future. She reminded me of how Barry had spent ten years chasing me, just for the chance to marry me.
All those beautiful memories we were supposed to have.
But I wasn't that woman.
The seventeen-year-old me, the one without a decade of shared history with him, could walk away without a second thought.
But what would happen to the twenty-seven-year-old me when—or if—she ever came back?
I didn’t argue with the man screaming for a divorce. I just turned, my eyes blurring with tears, and left.
I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone in the hospital garden. Everything here felt alien. Everyone I knew had changed so much.
If only the eighteen-year-old Barry had time-traveled with me…
I shot to my feet.
Of course!
What if he did come with me? How else could you explain the sheer coincidence of his memory stopping exactly at eighteen?
The thought sent a jolt of desperate hope through me, and I raced back to the hospital wing, my heart pounding.
As I approached his room, I hesitated. If we recognized each other, what would he say? Knowing his arrogant personality, he’d probably complain about his broken leg and demand I wait on him hand and foot.
A wicked smile touched my lips. If he was really incapacitated, this was my golden opportunity to get back at him for all the times he’d tormented me, knowing full well I had a crush on him.
When I reached his floor, I saw that the hallway outside his room was overflowing with flower arrangements. As I got closer, I could hear a lively mix of male and female voices from inside.
I peeked through the doorway. The people inside all looked older than me; I didn't recognize a single one. I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach.
After a moment, I took a deep breath, summoned my courage, and looked inside again. That's when I saw him. Barry was propped up in bed, letting a young woman feed him peeled grapes.
They looked… intimate.

2
Barry seemed to be in high spirits. A crowd of people surrounded his bed, all clamoring for his attention.
"Jules, you're always such a careful driver. How did you manage to total the car?" one of them asked.
Barry opened his mouth for another grape, his uninjured hand casually tracing patterns on the back of the woman beside him.
"You'll get it," he said with a meaningful smirk, "when you have a girl like this in your passenger seat."
The room erupted in knowing laughter and suggestive hoots.
"I heard the girl was disfigured," Barry added, his tone nonchalant. "A real shame." He said it with a shrug, but there wasn't an ounce of regret on his face.
The others, used to his callousness, changed the subject. "So, what's this about you losing your memory?"
A smug grin spread across Barry's face.
"Amnesia?" he scoffed. "Nah, I'm faking it."
"The wife's been on my case lately," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "A little divorce drama will give us some space to cool off."
His friends roared with laughter, praising his performance. They’d almost fallen for it.
But standing in the doorway, a chill seeped into my bones.
How could this be? How could the Barry I knew have turned into such a despicable, cheating scumbag? Or… was this who he’d been all along?
And I had actually, genuinely, loved him.
He was disgusting. I didn’t want to love him anymore.
I wiped away a tear and turned to leave, my heart a hollow ache in my chest. I walked straight into someone.
It was Carter Evans.
He was Barry’s arch-rival in high school, a guy known for being reserved and aloof. I glanced at the fruit basket in his hands; he must have been here to see Barry, too.
Carter steadied me, then immediately let go. He was even colder than I remembered. Just a few days ago, in my timeline, he had been helping me study for our final exams. Now, he was a sophisticated, polished man in a tailored suit.
I didn't know what to say. I managed a tight smile and started to walk away.
But he fell into step beside me. His dark eyes were unreadable. "Need a hand?" he asked casually.
I looked at him, confused.
He raised an eyebrow, gesturing with the legal file he was holding.
"I can help you," he clarified. "With the divorce."

3
Carter Evans was, without a doubt, a legal prodigy.
Within a few days, he had the divorce agreement drafted. He walked me through the process, explaining all the steps. I had no idea getting divorced ten years in the future was so complicated. There was even a mandatory "cooling-off period."
Carter was incredibly professional, reminding me several times to contact him on WhatsApp if anything came up.
But I wasn't used to WhatsApp. As I was leaving his office, I asked him sheepishly, "Can we… use Discord instead?"
Carter froze. He gave me a long, searching look, then nodded slowly. "Whatever works for you," he said, his voice low.
I beamed, relieved. Clutching the papers, I waved enthusiastically as I left.
"This is great, Carter! Thanks again! Bye!"
He gave a small, formal nod and escorted me to the elevator like a perfect gentleman. It wasn't until the doors opened on the ground floor that he spoke again, his voice quiet and thoughtful.
"I haven't seen you in a dress in years. Why the sudden change?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "Years?!" I blurted out.
Good heavens, what kind of life had I been living?
I looked down at my own outfit—a delicate, lace-trimmed sundress that screamed "first love." I looked back at Carter, genuinely puzzled.
"I just thought it looked nice. What’s wrong with it?"
Carter didn't say another word, just silently saw me out of the building.

4
Back at home that night, I started going through the divorce agreement. Carter had told me to pay close attention to the division of assets and let him know if anything was missing.
Even with the papers in my hand, I felt a flicker of hesitation. Was it fair for me to make this decision for my twenty-seven-year-old self?
I mulled it over for a long time but came to no conclusion.
The only thing I knew for sure was that, right now, I was on top of the world.
No final exams, no school, and I’d painlessly skipped ten years of my life to become…
A soon-to-be divorced, incredibly wealthy woman.
I counted the string of zeros on the asset list five times. There were so many. My older self and Barry had accumulated a staggering amount of wealth together.
I immediately pulled out my phone and ordered the entire new Apple ecosystem—phone, watch, laptop, the works.
It was late by the time I finished reading the thick stack of documents. After taking inventory, I realized the agreement didn't specify who would get the condo I was currently living in.
I pinged Carter on Discord to ask him about it.
He replied almost instantly.
See if you can find the deed. If not, I'll run a property search.
It's late. You should get some sleep.
Don't worry. Leave the rest to me.
Carter was just as reliable as I remembered—quietly competent, always getting things done. His message was a small comfort.
Confirmed: Carter, you are officially the most dependable person on the planet.
A moment later, three dots appeared, followed by a new message.
...That's a little cheesy, but I'll take it.
I giggled and rolled around on the bed, phone in hand. Then, out of habit, I opened my private blog.
First step of the divorce: get rid of the "couples" theme I shared with Barry.
But when I logged in, I found the blog was already wiped clean.

5
I don't know when the "couples" theme was removed. The blog was now starkly empty, save for four private, self-visible posts.
The earliest was from six months ago:
So tired. So broken. Marriage has changed Barry into someone I don't even recognize.
The second post was four months after that. It was a photo taken from the back seat of a car, showing Barry at the wheel. In the passenger seat was a young woman, her profile uncannily similar to my own.
The caption was long:
Barry has been so much better lately. He's been attentive, clingy… it almost feels like we're dating again. He's picked me up for a date three days in a row.
Today, I had a sudden craving for hot pot and decided to surprise him at his office.
When I popped up behind his car, he jumped. He seemed angry. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.
I told him I missed him and started to open the passenger door.
He stopped me. "Don't sit there. It's dangerous. Get in the back."
I just said "oh" and closed the door, my heart sinking as I got in the back. He must have forgotten that I get carsick and always have to sit in the front.
For a long time after I got in, he didn't say a word. He didn't start the car. He just sat there, head down, texting.
My good mood completely evaporated.
When he finally finished, he turned to me, frowning, and asked where I wanted to go. He didn't seem happy either.
I'd lost my appetite and was about to ask him to just take me home.
But then the passenger door swung open. A young woman slid into the seat. "Let's get hot pot today, babe!" she said, her tone familiar, almost intimate.
I don't know why, but I took this picture from the back seat. Maybe because in that moment, seeing her, I was thrown back in time, to when I was her age, calling Barry "babe" just as sweetly.
The third post was from just a few days later. The image was a photo of a phone screen, showing a text exchange.
The other person: Is your wife mad?
Barry: She won't stop crying. I don't even want to deal with it. She wasn't like this before.
Barry: Women are so much trouble. Married women are the worst.
Barry: Be more careful next time. Don't let her see us together.
The other person: Okay, Mr. Pierce.
Barry sent a winking emoji. Not "babe" anymore?
Barry: I only fast-tracked your hiring because you look so much like my wife did when she was younger.
Barry: Don't be nervous. I just think of you as a little sister.
Barry: I'll take you for a drive sometime soon.
Reading this, I suddenly remembered the scene in the hospital, when Barry was talking about "cooling off" with a divorce. The girl by his side had looked intrigued.
"Are you really planning to divorce her, Mr. Pierce?" she'd asked tentatively.
"You want to take her place?" Barry had sneered, grabbing her chin, his eyes cold and cruel. "You look a little like her, sure. But who the hell do you think you are? You're not worthy."
He shoved her face away. The room fell silent.
Barry's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "That's my wife. The one I chased for ten years. You think I'd ever really let her go? I'm just scaring her a little. She's so in love with me, she'd never agree."
...
My gaze returned to the phone screen. There was only one post left.
It was dated the day before my arrival in this timeline. Exactly six months after the first post.
This time, the picture was of an open safe. Inside, two marriage certificates lay side-by-side with a stack of property deeds.
The caption was only four words:
I want a divorce.

6
I was rummaging through the safe, searching for treasure, when Barry called.
I couldn't be bothered to answer. I silenced the call and ignored it.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.
I checked the security camera. It was one of the guys from Barry's hospital room.
I didn't open the door. I spoke through the intercom. "What do you want?"
It was the middle of the night. If I’d been asleep, I would have been furious.
The guy on the screen looked awkward. "Uh, Mrs. Pierce… Barry is craving your corn chowder. He was hoping you could bring some to him tomorrow."
Corn chowder was one of the few things I knew how to make, and I made it well.
I snorted. "He's got some nerve. We're getting a divorce and he still expects me to wait on him? Tell him to get lost."
The guy's face fell. He started to say something else, but I cut him off, my voice sharp. "Are you deaf? I said he can get lost. That goes for you too!"
For the next few days, I holed up at home, preparing the divorce documents. Once the agreement was finalized, I had Carter submit it to the court to start the cooling-off period.
Then, I took a copy of the agreement and went to see Barry.
He’d been stewing over my recent cold shoulder and was already in a foul mood. The second he saw me, his face soured.
"Old woman! Who let you in? We're getting a divorce, what are you doing here?"
The other people in the room tried to play peacemaker.
"Mrs. Pierce, don't be mad. Barry's lost his memory, he's basically a kid right now. Just say something nice, humor him a little."
I crossed my arms, staring at Barry without a word. Men are boys until they die, huh? Why was everyone telling me not to be angry? Why wasn't anyone telling him to stop being an ass?
"Did I cause his amnesia?" I said, my voice dripping with ice. "Is it my fault he was driving like an idiot and broke his own arms and legs? He’s a child? What am I, then? Am I not my parents' child? Barry, you wanted a divorce? Fine. You've got it."
I threw the prepared agreement onto his lap. "Sign it."
No one had expected this. Barry, especially, looked at me with utter disbelief.
"Stella, you want to divorce me?! We've only been married for six months! Are you cheating on me? Who is he?"
He gritted his teeth, his eyes boring into me. "Don't you dare tell me it's Carter Evans."
"Barry," I said calmly, "you remember we've only been married six months? Did you get your memory back?"

7
My question left him speechless. It took him a moment to stammer out a reply. "They… they told me."
He clutched the papers, his knuckles white, his eyes locked on mine. "They also told me I was famous for being a devoted husband. That it took me ten years to win you over. I might not remember that, but you should. Are you really this desperate to leave me?"
I was done arguing. I snatched the papers back from him.
A wave of relief washed over Barry's face, but he quickly covered it with a defiant sneer. "Hey, what are you doing? I thought you wanted me to sign."
I didn't say a word. I flipped to the signature page, placed it in front of him, and handed him a pen. I tapped the line.
"Sign."
His face darkened. He snatched the agreement, hopped over to the window on his good leg, and threw the papers out. He shoved away a friend who tried to help him, standing stubbornly before me.
"You think I'll divorce you just because you say so, Stella? Fat chance! You want a divorce? Maybe in your next life!"
I sighed, a little exasperated. Then I reached into my bag and pulled out another copy.
Before he could protest, I spoke, my voice low and soothing.
"Barry, your memory is stuck at eighteen. It's not fair to you to be tied to me like this. But if you never get your memory back, it's not fair to me, either. Your friends are here today as witnesses. This agreement is a promise. I'll give you one month. If you're still like this in a month, we get the divorce. Of course," I added, "if you get your memory back, we can talk then."
I didn't know the twenty-eight-year-old Barry, but I knew the eighteen-year-old one. He was stubborn and rebellious. The only way to handle him was to stroke his ego and humor him.
His anger visibly subsided.
I watched quietly as he signed the document without even reading it. He then tossed it back at me. "Fine. Who needs you anyway."
I tucked the agreement safely away. Then I looked at him, my eyes pleading. "Barry, I hope you get your memory back soon. There's so much I want to tell you."
The moment I turned my back, the mask of vulnerability dropped from my face. I walked out, my expression a cold, hard blank.
After all, he was unfaithful. And for that, there would be a reckoning.

8
After I left, Barry flew into a rage, smashing everything he could reach in his room.
"What the hell is her problem?! We just got married and she wants a divorce?"
His remaining friends didn't dare try to calm him down, fearing they'd become the next target of his fury.
In the days that followed, Barry realized I was serious about ignoring him. Panic started to set in.
"Do you think… do you think my wife is really angry? Was faking amnesia a mistake?" he asked them, his voice laced with uncertainty.
His friends just exchanged nervous glances, unwilling to offer an opinion.
But Barry's arrogance was his default setting. He quickly recovered, blaming everyone but himself.
"I get it," he sneered. "She's playing hard to get. Trying to use a divorce to control me. Whose idea was that? I almost fell for it. And she probably never imagined I'd actually sign the papers. I bet she's at home crying her eyes out right now."
With that, he ordered them to arrange for his discharge from the hospital. He pointed at one of his friends.
"You. Drive me home."

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