Unfollowing My Husband

Before they wheeled me into the operating room, the nurse kept pressing me to contact my family.

Eventually, a courier from a local delivery app arrived at my room, panting and out of breath.

Hi, are you Camille? Alan Lockhart hired me to sit with you through your surgery.

My phone buzzed twice in my hand. I looked down.

It was a notification from Instagram. Crystal had just posted a new photo.

A scratchy throat from a cold and Alan noticed immediately. He insisted on taking me to the clinic and even brewed hot ginger tea for me. So spicy, but so sweet!

The attached photo showed a tall, lean man with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carefully pouring ginger tea from a stainless steel saucepan into a thermos. His gaze was focused and incredibly gentle.

I stared at the image, my mind drifting.

I had been in the hospital for five days, and my husband of five years, Alan, hadn't visited once. He told me he was buried under work. Yet, here he was on Crystals feed again.

The attentive, tender, deeply loving Alan.

Just before they rolled me into the operating room, I sent an email to HR with my resignation. Then, I dialed a number.

"Mr. Davis, please draft the divorce papers."

I was discharged at eleven in the morning.

The anesthesia had entirely worn off, leaving a suffocating tightness in my chest. It felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my lungs, making every breath a struggle. I had to lean against the hallway wall for several minutes before I found the strength to unlock the apartment door.

The rich aroma of simmering broth hit me immediately, accompanied by Alans familiar voice.

"Don't rush it. You need real patience to draw out the flavor of a good soup."

A second later, Crystals giggly voice drifted out.

"But you know Ive never had any patience! Alan, from now on, whenever I want soup, can I just come to you?"

Alans voice carried a warm, easy smile. "Of course."

I placed my medication on the entryway table and leaned against the wall to slowly slide into my slippers. Hearing the rustle, Crystal emerged from the kitchen. When she saw me, her face lit up.

"Hi, Camille! I heard you were getting discharged today, so I begged Alan to let me tag along. I wanted to help him make some comforting soup for you!"

Alan followed her out, wearing a linen apron, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

"You're back. You look incredibly pale. Have some of this slow-simmered herbal chicken soup in a bit to regain your strength."

I had told him at least twenty times over the years that I don't eat poultry.

This time, I didn't bother saying it.

I watched them turn back into the kitchen together.

Crystals excited whisper drifted through the door.

"Is it ready?"

"Here, taste."

Her voice rose in surprised delight. "Wait, you're letting me have the first sip? Is that really okay?"

Alans tone was incredibly soft. "It's fine. Tell me if it needs more salt."

I looked down at my leather tote bag. The unsigned divorce papers were tucked inside.

When I finally walked into the dining room, Crystal was standing quietly beside Alan, her eyes rimmed with red. Alan looked at me, his brow furrowed with irritation.

"Crystal went out of her way to buy all these groceries and wanted to welcome you home. Why do you have to ruin the mood with that face?"

I glanced at the dining table.

Aside from the chicken soup, there was sauted sweetbreads, pan-seared calves' liver, bone marrow, and a heavy arugula-cilantro salad. Every single dish was buried under a thick layer of chopped cilantro.

When we were dating, Alan remembered that I couldn't stand offal or cilantro. He used to tease me about how picky I was, joking that it would take serious effort to feed me.

Five years of marriage, and he had forgotten entirely. Or perhaps, he simply didn't care to remember anymore.

After all, he had been completely absent during my week-long hospital stay. He had promised to pick me up today, but instead, he spent the afternoon playing house with Crystal in our kitchen, leaving me to find my own way home to a table full of food I couldn't touch.

As for who actually liked these dishes... Crystal did.

"You guys eat," I said quietly, turning toward the study. "I don't have an appetite."

"Alan..." Crystals voice trailed behind me, thick with unshed tears.

Alans gentle murmurs of comfort followed. "Don't let it get to you. Camille has always had a difficult temper; it's not about you. Let's eat, just ignore her."

"But..."

Alans voice took on a teasing, mock-stern quality. "I made this entire spread specifically for you. I'll be very angry if you don't finish it."

Crystal let out a soft giggle. "I'm not a pig, Alan! I can't eat all of this."

I closed the study door, shutting out the sounds of their laughter. I pulled the divorce agreement from my bag and signed my name on the dotted line: Camille Lockhart.

Looking up, my eyes fell on our wedding photo sitting on the desk. He had his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, holding me close. I couldn't comprehend how we had drifted so far apart, so quickly.

The study door was suddenly pushed open.

Alan stood there, his forehead creased with frustration.

"Camille, what kind of tantrum is this? You're twenty-nine, not nine. Can you please grow up?"

I stared at him, momentarily dazed.

"Grow up."

Those were the two words Alan had used most frequently during our five years of marriage.

Whenever I sent him photos of a stray cat I found on the sidewalk, or the camellias blooming outside, or a strange tree I couldn't identify... he would tell me to grow up and stop acting like a schoolgirl.

Whenever I shared a song I loved, a funny meme, or a story that made me sad... he would tell me to grow up and stop cluttering his inbox with trivialities.

Later, when the pilot light went out on the stove or a pipe burst in the basement... his impatient response over the phone was always to grow up and learn to handle basic life issues without running to him.

And finally, it had come to this. Getting stranded in torrential rain, landing on a late-night flight, being hospitalized for surgery... it was always the same refrain: Grow up and deal with it yourself.

I snapped back to the present. Alan was tapping his fingers impatiently against the mahogany desk. "Camille, speak to me. What are you actually throwing a fit about?"

A fit?

I looked at him, my voice entirely flat. "Was that dinner really made for me? In five years, we've never had sweetbreads or bone marrow on this table. You pour your heart into cooking for someone else, and I'm not even allowed to say I don't want it?"

His expression shifted slightly, and then he let out a heavy, disappointed sigh.

"Crystal paid for the groceries. She bought a couple of things she liked. Do you really have to be this petty and make everyone miserable?"

The tightness in my chest flared up, making it hard to draw a full breath. I looked down, too exhausted to say another word. "Alan, let's get a div"

Slam.

The heavy oak door shut. He was gone.

The study was left in a suffocating silence.

My phone chimed. It was an email from HR, confirming my resignation and requesting that I complete my hand-off within three days.

I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket to Portland, Oregon, departing in three days.

Then, I ordered some delivery. When it arrived, I walked slowly to the dining room to eat.

My phone buzzed again. Crystal had updated her Instagram feed.

Happiness is sharing a quiet moment and incredible food with someone who gets it~

The photo showed two hands clinking foil containers of roasted bone marrow, heavily garnished with cilantro.

I stared at the hand on the left, noting the elegant, long fingers. Alan had beautiful hands, the kind that could easily do hand modeling. I would recognize them anywhere.

We used to spend rainy afternoons curled up on the sofa, with me tracing the lines of his palm. Looking out the window at the bright autumn sunshine, I realized I couldn't remember the last time we had been that close.

And then my eyes drifted to his ring finger.

The simple silver wedding band was missing. His finger was completely bare, leaving no trace of the past five years. Just like our marriage.

I locked my screen, finished my lukewarm lunch in silence, and went to the office to start wrapping up my work.

My coworker looked at me with deep concern. "Camille, you look awful. Was the surgery that bad?"

I shook my head. "The procedure was successful. I just need some rest."

At the end of the day, she insisted on driving me home and handed me a beautifully wrapped box. "I bought these premium red ginseng extracts for you. Please take care of yourself. If you're feeling weak, we can handle the rest of the transition online."

My throat tightened. My colleagues had visited me in the hospital. My coworker had immediately noticed how pale I was and offered to help. Yet my husbandthe man legally bound to protect mehad nothing but criticism and resentment. Not a single word of care.

When I got home, the apartment was dark and cold. Alan wasn't there.

I was almost used to it.

I changed into my loungewear, prepared a simple dinner, and took my medication. After finishing my remaining work in the study, I began mapping out a solo road trip through the Pacific Northwest.

As I searched, the algorithm began flooding my feeds with scenic routes, towering pines, and misty coastlines. I clicked on a videolush green forests, the sound of the wind, and a girl's free, joyful laughter filled the room.

Hearing a noise in the hallway, I stood up and opened the study door.

Alan was sliding his leather shoes off, frowning at the tablet in my hand.

"Camille, I told you, I'm buried at work. I didn't have time to stay at the hospital, and I definitely don't have time for a vacation right now."

"I haven't forgotten about the Pacific Northwest trip we talked about. You don't need to drop passive-aggressive hints. We'll go when I have time."

I froze.

I had completely forgotten that when we first got married, we had promised each other a road trip through the Pacific Northwest.

When had I stopped expecting it? Probably after his hundredth "when I have time."

Five years of waiting. Yet, he could find three hours to slow-cook herbal chicken soup for his young assistant; he could spend an entire afternoon taking her to a specialty market for bone marrow just to make her smile.

He was never short on time. He was only short on time for me.

I closed the video. I didn't tell him that I had quit my job, or that I was leaving in three days to live out that dream alone.

Instead, I said calmly, "Could you come into the study for a second? We need to talk."

I wanted to lay out the terms of our divorce.

He followed me in, his eyes immediately landing on the open notebook on my desk. The top line read: Pacific Northwest Road Trip Itinerary.

He stopped in his tracks, his voice dripping with irritation. "Camille, for God's sake, grow up. I told you I don't have time for a vacation!"

"I have a major meeting tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

He turned and walked away without a backward glance, heading to the master bedroom to shower and sleep.

I looked at the unsigned divorce papers resting right next to the notebook. I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Even knowing he didn't love me, his absolute lack of patience to even hear me speak still stung. But the pain was duller now. In three days, I would be gone.

The next morning, I woke up to find Alan busy in the kitchen.

I was surprised. He walked out holding a thermal lunchbox.

"There's extra breakfast in the pan. Help yourself. I'm in a rush."

As I walked into the kitchen, my eyes landed on the torn packaging on the floor. It was the box of red ginseng extract my coworker had given me.

I whipped around, my voice rising. "Alan! You took my things without even asking?"

He stopped adjusting his collar and turned to look at me. His gaze was cold and dismissive, as if he were looking at a hysterical, unhinged woman.

"Camille, I get that you're mad I'm bringing Crystal breakfast. But I left some for you, didn't I? There's a limit to how unreasonable you can be."

He threw the accusation at me, picked up the lunchbox, and slammed the front door behind him.

I looked at the cold, watery oatmeal left in the pot. It was laughable.

Ten minutes later, as expected, Crystals Instagram updated. She was sitting at Alans desk, eating a gourmet breakfast he had hand-prepared.

Before we got married, Alan had told me one of his absolute rules was never eating inside the office. For five years, I had respected that rule religiously. But for Crystal, his rules didn't exist.

I stared at the photo and smiled faintly.

I dialed my mothers number. "Mom, I'm getting a divorce. I'm going to ship some boxes to your place over the next couple of days. Tell Dad to keep an eye out for them."

My mother didn't sound surprised at all. "Understood, sweetheart. Just come home. Your father has been worrying about you anyway."

I returned to the office to finish my handover and pack my things.

At noon, I took my close coworkers out for a farewell lunch. I picked an upscale, highly popular bistro downtown. I had only managed to book a private dining room because I was good friends with the owner.

But when we arrived, the private room was already occupied.

By Alan and Crystal.

"Camille, Crystal really wanted to try this place," Alan said smoothly, completely unbothered. "I knew you were friends with the owner and must have reserved the private room, so we took it. Do you mind eating in the main dining area tonight? I'll cover your tab."

My coworkers exchanged stunned, uncomfortable looks behind me.

I stared at the two appetizers already sitting on their table. I couldn't make a scene and kick them out. It would be incredibly humiliating for everyone involved.

"No, thanks."

As the words left my mouth, that post-surgery tightness gripped my chest again, making it hard to draw a breath.

But I kept my expression blank, smiled at my coworkers, and led them to a different restaurant down the street.

During lunch, one of my coworkers asked quietly, "Who was that guy?"

"Just an acquaintance," I replied.

She scoffs. "I've never seen anyone hijack a reservation so shamelessly. And with another woman in tow? Unbelievable."

When I chose to marry Alan, I never envisioned it ending like this. I couldn't even remember why I had once thought he was the man I wanted to spend my life with.

After lunch, my coworker dropped me off. The apartment was dark. I turned on the lights, took my medication, and finalized my road trip plans in the study.

Tomorrow afternoon, I would fly to Portland. This would be my last night here.

I cleaned the study until there wasn't a single trace of my existence left.

Alan didn't come home.

At 12:30 AM, Crystal posted another photo: "So grateful to have you by my side, Alan."

It was a photo of her in a white lace nightgown. In the background, a man in a damp bathrobe, his wet hair glistening, looked out over the city skyline.

I looked at the photo for a long time, then smiled.

I had wanted to sit down with him, to end this five-year chapter with some dignity and closure. I thought we owed each other that much.

But to him, it would just be a waste of time. There was no need to talk.

The next morning, he was still gone. I didn't try to call. I packed my life into a few suitcases.

Around noon, Alan rushed back. He didn't even notice the packed suitcases and taped boxes in the living room. He went straight to the pantry and grabbed the remaining boxes of my red ginseng extract.

"Crystal said the red ginseng worked wonders for her yesterday. I'm taking the rest to her. I'll buy you a new box later."

I opened my mouth to stop him, but he didn't give me the chance. He grabbed the boxes and hurried back out.

I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh.

The movers arrived and took my packages.

I opened our text chat on my phone. Five years of messages, stretching back to a time when he used to send me sweet photos and late-night check-ins. The last loving photo was from three years ago.

I look at it for a long, quiet moment. Then, I backed out of the chat, uploaded a photo of the signed divorce papers, and pressed send.