Our Fate Ends Here

After the miscarriage, my best friend booked me a session at a virtual-reality AI memorial studio.

She told me that through immersive simulation, I would be able to hold my baby girl in my arms one last time before letting her go. My daughter had been stillborn at seven months, a tragic accident where the umbilical cord had wrapped around her neck. This memorial was supposed to be a fragile, digital balm for my shattered heart.

Naturally, I called Thomas, asking him to come with me.

But his voice through the receiver was flat, thick with irritation. "It's all a marketing gimmick, Gemma. I already had a priest say a prayer for the baby. Hes in heaven now. Let it go."

He hung up before I could say another word.

In the end, I went to the studio alone. When I finally stumbled out of the building, my eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying, I ran straight into Thomas.

He was standing near the entrance, holding his graduate student, Serena, as she sobbed. They had just finished an AI memorial service for her deceased cat. A digital projection of a playful kitten was still bounding around their ankles. Serena, crying hysterically, threw her arms around Thomass neck. Thomas held her close, leaning down to gently kiss the tears from her face.

That night, after wandering the freezing streets of Boston for hours, I returned home.

The heels of my black pumps had worn my skin raw, and the biting wind had left me dizzy and feverish. The moment I crossed the threshold, I collapsed onto the sofa, my head spinning.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. Thomas walked in carrying a bouquet of tulips and a boxed Mille-feuille pastry.

Seeing me slumped on the sofa, he rushed over, kneeling before me and grasping my hands in a panic of guilt. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I was buried under peer reviews and thesis grading today, which is why I couldn't make it to the studio. If you still want to do the service, I'll take off work and go with you tomorrow. I promise."

He rambled on, but my mind was numb. My eyes drifted past him to the pastry box on the coffee table.

When I had walked out of the memorial studio earlier, I had watched Thomas and Serena leave together. I couldn't help myself; I had hailed a cab and followed them to the upscale shopping center downtown. I watched him take her to the very French bistro we had frequented since our college days. He ordered her favorite Mille-feuille, the exact dessert I loved. To cheer her up, he had bought her tulips from the boutique florist next door. I watched him smile, pluck the glazed cherry from the top of the pastry, and feed it to her.

I had fled before the tears could blind me.

Now, looking at the Mille-feuille on our coffee table, I saw the empty indentation where a single cherry had been plucked away. A bitter, dry burn rose in my throat.

I pushed Thomas away, stood up without a word, and locked myself in the bedroom. He knocked on the door repeatedly, offering frantic apologies, saying he knew how much I was hurting after losing our baby and that he was a fool for prioritizing work. I buried my face in the duvet, sobbing until the pillows were soaked.

Thomas slept on the sofa that night. He always did that. Whenever we had a disagreement, he would play the martyr, sleeping on the couch without even a blanket just to make me feel guilty. Usually, I would slip out of bed in the middle of the night, kick his leg to wake him up, and tell him to go to the guest room. By the next morning, the anger would be gone.

But not tonight.

I walked out silently and picked up his phone. The passcode was still my birthday. But his WhatsApp had a new pinned chat. I was number one, and Serena's profile picture was number two.

Unlike our dry, transactional messages about groceries or bills, his chat with Serena was alive, buzzing with messages every few minutes. It had started with academic questions, but quickly evolved into sharing their daily lives, meeting for breakfast before going to the clinic, and then, something far more intimate. She had sent him photos of herself in a silk slip, complaining about a bug bite on her neck. He had gone from short, professional replies to buying her soothing creams online.

Last night, he had told me he had a breakthrough on a research paper and had to run to the clinic. In reality, Serena had messaged him: My cat passed away. I'm so heartbroken.

I put the phone down, my tears spilling onto the cold screen. Later that night, he slipped into the bedroom, wrapping his arms around me and whispering, "I love you, wife," before falling back asleep. I stared at his face, then quietly slipped out of bed, walked to the dining room, and tore the divorce papers I had drafted the night before into tiny pieces, throwing them in the trash.

The next morning, he was gone, but he had left my favorite breakfast on the kitchen counter.

My phone buzzed. It was Sasha, my best friend. "Did you talk to Thomas? What happened yesterday?"

I had called her from the studio, so she knew I had seen him there. But I couldn't bring myself to say the words out loud. I was still clinging to a desperate hope that it was all a misunderstanding.

"I asked him," I lied. "It was just a misunderstanding. She's his student, and they ran into each other."

I turned off my phone, sat at the table, and began to eat. But as I chewed, my tears began to fall, splashing into my coffee cup.

After breakfast, I called the assistant nurse at his dental clinic. "I'm ready to schedule my dental implant procedure. I can come in this afternoon."

Thomas is a dentist. In fact, he had chosen the profession because of me. As a child, I had terrible cavities and was absolutely terrified of dentists. When we were teenagers, Thomas had grown so frustrated with my tears that he declared, "Fine, I'll become a dentist so I can fix your teeth myself."

After establishing his practice, he had imported a specialized titanium implant material from Switzerland, customized specifically for me, with a fifty-year warranty. I was supposed to get the procedure months ago, but my pregnancy had put it on hold. Now seemed like the right time, and it gave me an excuse to see Serena in person.

But the nurse hesitated on the other end. "Oh, Gemma... Dr. Bennett already used that imported material for someone else."

My heart faltered. "Who?"

"His new graduate student's younger brother. The boy just finished his high school exams and needed the procedure before moving out of state for college."

I sat in silence, unable to process her words. It took her calling my name several times to bring me back. I muttered a quick thank you and hung up.

I sat on the sofa for half an hour, staring at the wall, before dialing Thomass number.

He answered almost instantly, his voice dripping with warmth. "Hey, sweetheart. Why are you calling at this hour?"

"I was planning to come in for my implant today," I said, keeping my voice remarkably level. "But your nurse told me you gave my customized Swiss material to your student's brother. I wanted to ask what happened."

Thomas remained completely calm. "Ah, the nurse told you? That's my fault, Gemma. I figured you wouldn't be able to get the procedure this year anyway since you're still recovering from the miscarriage. Serena's brother really needed it before college. But don't worry, I've already ordered another batch from Switzerland."

It was the first time in twenty years I had ever known Thomas to show such soft-hearted generosity to anyone other than me. He was naturally reserved, almost cold, barely speaking to his own parents.

I opened my mouth, the bitter urge to scream rising in my chest. Did she beg you in your office? Did she beg you in your bed?

But before the words could leave my throat, a sweet, youthful voice echoed on his end of the line. "Dr. Bennett, I've booked our table. Let's go get lunch."

Without another word to me, Thomas hung up.

Listening to the dial tone, the tears finally spilled over. At four in the afternoon, my phone rang again.

"Sweetheart, some colleagues are gathering for drinks tonight, so I'll be home late. Don't wait up for me."

True to his new pattern, he hung up before I could reply.

This time, I didn't sit on the sofa and cry. I went to the bedroom, changed into a sleek dark dress, and took a cab straight to his clinic. I needed to see the truth with my own eyes.

I arrived at six. The other dentists from his department waved to each other, getting into their cars in the parking garage and driving away.

Thomas walked out, lit a cigarette, and stood by the entrance. Once he finished smoking, he took a detour to the secluded alley behind the clinic. Ten minutes later, Serena slipped out of the back door.

The moment she saw him, she ran forward and threw herself into his arms. Thomas didn't push her away. Instead, he cradled the back of her head and kissed her passionately.

When she finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, she whispered something that made them both laugh.

The scene looked agonizingly familiar. It was the exact mirror of when we were eighteen, hiding in the shadow of my parents' house, sharing stolen kisses. I would push him away, blushing, saying, "Stop, what if my parents see us?" and Thomas would pull me back, growling, "Who cares? We're adults."

Now, Thomas did the exact same thing. He pulled Serena back to him, deepening the kiss until they were both breathless. Then, holding her hand, he led her to the luxury SUV my parents had bought us as a wedding gift.

They drove away.

The cab driver turned to look at me in the rearview mirror. "Do you want me to follow them, ma'am?"

My tears were silent, hot as they tracked down my face. "No. Take me to Sashas law firm, please."

When I walked into Sasha's office holding a six-pack of beer, she looked up from her desk in surprise. "Gemma? What are you doing here? I have three divorce files to draft tonight, I don't have time to listen to you brag about your husband."

I set the beer on her desk, cracked open a can, and took a long swig. "Let me skip the line. I need a divorce."

Sasha's pen slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.