Deciding to Divorce After Emotional Coldness

Eight months pregnant, and I was at the hospital alone for a check-up.
As I passed a park bench, I saw my husband, Vincent, who was supposed to be on an overseas business trip. He was kneeling, gently massaging the ankle of his childhood sweetheart, Stella.
Vincent, always a man of few words, was now murmuring endless reassurances, making promises to soothe Stella’s petty pouting, letting none of her complaints fall on deaf ears. The sweet nothings I’d never heard from him made her giggle coquettishly.
The Vincent I saw then was a stranger, a completely different person from the man I knew.
This time, I didn’t collapse. I didn’t rush forward screaming and shouting like I used to.
Instead, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and tossed it onto the side of the road.
In the third year of our marriage, I decided I wanted a divorce.

1
It was three in the morning when Vincent finally came home.
He froze for a second when he saw me sitting on the sofa, then walked over, the faint scent of another woman’s perfume still clinging to him.
"Why are you still up so late? Is the baby kicking up a fuss?"
I shook my head and pushed the divorce papers across the coffee table toward him.
"Let's get a divorce."
Vincent let out a soft, weary sigh. He spoke with the casual, placating tone one might use with a child.
"Oh, I see. Don't you think it's time for bed?"
I unlocked my phone, pulled up the photo I’d taken that afternoon, and held it in front of his face.
"I saw everything."
He paused for a fraction of a second, his expression unchanging, a familiar look of weary resignation settling on his features—the look that said I was overthinking things, as always.
"I just see her as a sister."
With that, he sat down on the sofa opposite me, calmly waiting for the storm to break. He was prepared for the usual scene: me, hysterical and relentless, interrogating him, cornering him, demanding an answer he would never give.
He would just sit there, silent, letting me unleash my fury, letting me smash things around the house until I collapsed onto the floor, exhausted.
Then, he would shatter my remaining strength with a single, dismissive phrase.
"Don't be dramatic."
He would methodically clean up the chaos I’d created, replacing every broken object with an identical new one, putting everything back in its place. He would help me up, guide me back to our room, and, completely unfazed, even bring me a glass of water.
"You must be tired. Have some water. It'll soothe your throat."
Looking at Vincent's impassive face, a profound exhaustion washed over me. It all felt so pointless. My emotional turmoil was just a performance to him, and in his eyes, I was no different from a madwoman.
The eight-month belly was a heavy, leaden weight, and my legs were swollen and stiff. I calmly pushed myself up from the sofa and presented the signed divorce papers to him again.
"Sign it."
My composure seemed to catch him off guard. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then finally relented with a condescending smirk.
"Who put you up to this? Playing for such high stakes this time? Aren't you afraid I'll actually walk away?"
"Fine, I'll sign. Then you go to bed. Remember the baby."
He added, almost as an afterthought, "We have to go to my parents' place in a few days. I'll come and pick you up then."
I knew he wasn't taking the divorce seriously. He thought that with me being eight months pregnant, an abortion was out of the question. To him, this was just a more sophisticated tantrum than smashing vases. Signing a piece of paper meant nothing; it was just a way to placate me. He scrawled his name with the practiced ease of someone signing a trivial document—messy and indifferent.
After signing, he even noticed me struggling to stand and came over to massage my cramping legs, cooing at the baby in my belly.
But this time, I was serious.

2
Everyone said I’d married a wonderful man.
Mature, stable, and endlessly patient with all my moods. A rising star in the business world with a brilliant future, he was the perfect match for a pampered girl like me.
And Vincent played the part perfectly.
When we first married, I tried to be the perfect wife. I, who had never cooked a day in my life, tried to make him a meal and nearly burned the kitchen down. As I stood there crying in fear, Vincent came home. He said nothing, just quietly cleaned up the mess.
"We have a housekeeper. Just tell her what you want to eat."
The dish I had painstakingly prepared was unceremoniously dumped in the trash.
Whenever I clumsily messed something up, whenever I was heartbroken and falling apart, there was no comfort. My feelings were ignored, though he always efficiently fixed the problem. Then he would say:
"Crying over something so small is pointless."
I thought that was normal. I thought I was just too clumsy, too sensitive.
During my pregnancy, I couldn't keep anything down. Morning sickness was an all-day affair. The constant nausea and discomfort, a double torment, made my temper increasingly volatile. I’d break down over the smallest things or burst into tears when I caught the scent of an unfamiliar perfume on his clothes.
Vincent would just watch. Sometimes, he’d shut me in a room and let me scream and rage, never offering an explanation or a defense.
"Pregnant women are sensitive. You're overthinking it."
And yet, in his own way, he was good to me.
He would drive four hours in the middle of the night to get me the specific cream-filled donuts I was craving. He would stand in line for five hours just to buy my favorite cake. He always remembered my cycle, ready with a cup of hot tea and a heating pad.
Piece by piece, these gestures built a picture of a perfect, problem-solving husband. But my emotions, never acknowledged, never soothed, were like nails hammered into a board; the slightest touch sent a fresh wave of pain through me, leaving behind a scarred and splintered surface.
Looking back on our three years of marriage, I realized I’d become a caricature of a bitter, nagging wife.

3
I packed a bag and went to my best friend’s place.
Anna’s jaw dropped when she saw me on her doorstep, pregnant and hauling a suitcase.
"You and Vincent had a fight?" she asked, her expression pure disbelief. "No way. It takes two to argue, and Vincent is basically a brick wall. I don't believe it."
Before I could answer, a small, sweet-smelling bundle of energy launched herself at me. Anna’s four-year-old daughter, Lily, beamed up at me.
"Auntie Aria, I missed you so much!"
I smiled and stroked her hair. "See? Auntie came to visit you."
Anna gently pulled her daughter back. "You little rascal, be careful! Auntie has a baby in her tummy. Go get her a glass of water."
Watching Lily’s vibrant energy, I instinctively cradled my belly. A faint flutter, a tiny movement, answered my touch. I wondered if my baby would be just like her.
I sat down, catching my breath, and got straight to the point.
"I got a divorce."
Anna choked on her water. "A divorce? You? I don’t believe it."
"Vincent is so good to you! He remembers every little thing, drives across the state for your cravings, even lets you get away with murder at his company."
"And you," she continued, "you're head over heels for him. You analyze every little thing he does, get lost in your thoughts, cry yourself to sleep at the slightest hint of trouble."
"If you two could get a divorce, I'd give up on love entirely."
A tired smile touched my lips. "But that’s not what I wanted. He could handle any problem, but he could never handle my emotions."
"What he felt for me… it wasn't love. It was a sense of duty."
Anna was speechless, her face etched with concern. "What about the baby? You want your child to be born without a father?"
I bit my lip, feeling a wave of uncertainty as my hand went to my stomach again.
Seeing my expression, Anna sighed in resignation. "Alright, forget it. Just get some rest for now."
I was drifting in a hazy sleep when a knock on the door startled me awake. A glance at the clock showed it was three in the morning. I opened the door to find Vincent standing there.
He was holding a bag.
"You didn't tell me you were staying at a friend's. You forgot your usual toiletries, and I brought them over, worried you wouldn’t be comfortable. I'll come back to take you home in a few days."
He then turned to Anna, who had appeared silently behind me. "Pregnant women can be like that," he said, his tone dripping with false apology. "Please bear with her. I really appreciate you looking after her."
I stared at him. He was so considerate, even bringing a gift for Anna. But he never once asked me why I had left. He just had his one-size-fits-all explanation: she's pregnant, she’s hormonal, she’s irrational.
As Vincent drove away, the passenger-side window rolled down. In the dim glow of the streetlights, I saw her.
Stella’s profile.
Three in the morning. A man and a woman, alone.
A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. My heart felt surprisingly calm.
So this is what it feels like to be completely numb.
If all those unresolved emotions were the fuse, his infidelity was the final, crushing weight that made me certain: I had to get a divorce.

4
The first time I suspected Vincent was cheating was in our second year of marriage, at his company’s annual gala.
That night, a torrential downpour swept through the city. I was late because I had been visiting my mother's grave.
Vincent was a man of rigid principles. Punctuality was paramount. So, he left me behind and went to the event by himself.
The cemetery was in a remote area. I was soaked to the bone after waiting half an hour in the rain before a car finally stopped for me.
By the time I arrived, the gala had already been underway for thirty minutes. I searched everywhere for Vincent but couldn't find him.
I called his assistant, whose voice was hesitant and stammering.
"Mr. Blackwood ran into Ms. Stella on the way... she wanted to stop for bubble tea... He'll probably be here in another half hour."
I waited. Finally, I saw them. Vincent and Stella, arm in arm, strolling into the grand hall.
Rage erupted in me. I stormed over, tore Stella away from him, and grabbed the front of his suit jacket. My eyes were red with fury as I confronted him in front of everyone.
"So you left me behind to go pick her up?"
"Vincent, I am your wife!"
Whispers rippled through the crowd. The accusations flew. Vincent, publicly humiliated, didn't even flinch.
Only after I had vented my rage did he speak, his voice smooth and placating.
"Aria, Stella is like a sister to me. We grew up together."
He reached for my hand, but I slapped it away. With a sigh of theatrical helplessness, he pulled me into his arms.
"My dear wife, you always misunderstand. Isn't my devotion to you enough? What more do you want from me? Should I tear my heart out for you to see?"
He looked out at the guests, his eyes filled with a look of indulgent apology, as if to say, forgive my wife, she has a bit of a temper.
The onlookers chuckled knowingly.
They saw me as the spoiled princess and him as the doting, world-class husband.
Stella chimed in, her voice dripping with innocence. "Aria, please don't misunderstand. There’s nothing between Vincent and me. If something were going to happen, it would have happened years ago."
I was half-convinced, calmed by Vincent's gentle reassurances. But the fact that he had broken his own rigid rules for Stella left a deep unease in my heart.
It was the first time I had ever seen him bend his principles for anyone.
Later, I found out I was pregnant.
Vincent’s attitude towards me didn’t change; if anything, he became even more attentive.
I let the incident go, but life had another blow waiting for me.
I accidentally saw his chat history with Stella on his computer.
Their conversation was a constant stream of messages, back and forth, about everything from a stray dog on the street to planning her upcoming birthday. Their chat window was full, vibrant, and alive.
I slumped in the chair and opened my chat with him. A month’s worth of my one-sided chatter, my attempts to connect, was met with his terse replies.
"Okay."
"Fine."
"Got it."
I had always thought Vincent was just a man of few words. I never realized he saved his words, his stories, and his comfort for someone else.
When I brought him lunch at his office, I discovered Stella had become his personal assistant. Vincent seemed rushed when he came out to meet me. As he leaned in, I saw it—a smudge of lipstick on his collar.
I don’t remember how I got out of there. All I recall is the image of the overturned lunchbox and Stella crying in Vincent’s arms.
It was the first time I had ever seen him comfort someone. He was so gentle, so patient.
But I was already pregnant. I didn’t want my child to grow up in a broken home. I didn’t want my child to be without a father.
Through countless nights, awake with pain and crying until my pillow was soaked, my spirit completely crumbled.
I kept asking myself, what is the point of marriage? Is this what love is supposed to look like? But for the sake of my child, I swallowed the bitter pill and carried on.

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