"Oliver—" "Belinda," I interrupted. "I wish you luck. Truly. But you don't get to burn down the house and act surprised when the smoke alarm goes off."
She stood there shaking. "You'll regret this." I turned, leaning against the counter. "I already regretted marrying you. This part's just damage control."
Her lip quivered. "You're cold." "I'm healed," I said simply. For a long, quiet moment, she just stared at me, maybe waiting for me to crack.
But I didn't. I couldn't. I'd already grieved the marriage. This was the epilogue.
Finally, she grabbed her bag, muttered something under her breath, and stormed out. The door slammed hard enough to rattle a frame on the wall. The house fell silent again. I exhaled, long and steady.
The tension that had lived in my shoulders for months finally loosened. Milo trotted over and rested his head on my leg, tail thumping softly. "It's just us now, buddy," I said, scratching his ears. "And look at that. We finally have peace and pancakes."
I sat back down, poured another cup of coffee, and stared at the empty seat across from me. For the first time in a long time, it didn't feel lonely. It felt earned. Like quiet was no longer the absence of noise, but the presence of sanity.
The phone buzzed. A text from Tar. "Did she get the note?" I smiled and typed back.
"She got the deluxe package. Screaming, denial, exit slam. Ten out of ten performance." He replied with a laughing emoji.
"And damn, man, you're free." Free. The word looked good on the screen. I leaned back, watching the morning light spill across the kitchen.
The same kitchen that had heard every fight, every fake apology, every lie. Today it felt new. Lighter. Like the house itself was relieved she was gone.
I grabbed my phone again and opened my playlist. Song number one: "Don't Stop Me Now." Fitting. I turned up the volume until Milo's ears perked.
Dancing in pajama pants at 8:00 a.m. wasn't on my bucket list, but freedom does strange things to a man. I sang along off-key, flipping pancakes with one hand and air-guitaring with a spatula in the other. Halfway through the song, I caught my reflection in the microwave door. Messy hair, wrinkled T-shirt, ridiculous grin.
And thought, yeah, this guy's going to be okay. Before heading out to meet Mrs. Delgado to file the final set of documents, I cleaned the kitchen, fed Milo, and tucked the envelope back into my drawer. A keepsake, not of her, but of the moment I took my life back. As I grabbed my keys, I noticed her mug still sitting on the counter, lipstick print and all.
I considered throwing it out, then decided against it. No. Let it stay. A reminder of what blind trust costs.