…she already knew.
“I’ve known for months,” she said quietly, her expression calm, almost unsettlingly so. “Long before you ever confessed.”
My chest tightened. “Then why are you acting like this?”
She rested her hands together on the table, composed—too composed. “Because I needed time. Time to understand it… to decide what I wanted, and what you deserved.”
The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
“At first, I was devastated,” she continued. “Fifteen years, and it ends like this? I thought I’d break things, scream, throw you out.” She exhaled softly. “But I realized something. Holding onto anger only keeps you tied to it.”
I stayed silent, the weight of my guilt suddenly unbearable.
“So I started letting go,” she said.
“Letting go?” I echoed.
She nodded. “Every dinner I made, every small gesture… it wasn’t pretending. It was me slowly saying goodbye. Not to the life we had… but to you.”
My throat went dry.
“I wanted to leave without hate,” she added. “Without becoming someone I didn’t recognize. I wanted whatever was left between us to end in peace.”
A sharp panic rose in me. “Wait—what do you mean leave?”
She pushed back her chair and stood, moving toward the hallway. “I’ve already filed for divorce,” she said calmly. “You’ll be served tomorrow.”
The room tilted, like the ground had shifted.
“You’re just ending everything?” I asked, barely able to speak.
She stopped for a moment, then looked back at me one last time.
“No,” she said softly. “You already ended it. I’m just deciding how to finish it.”
And then she walked away, leaving behind the quiet routines, the warmth of shared days—and a silence that felt far heavier than anger ever could.
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