The Call He Never Answered

At my company' s anniversary party, my husband Mark, beaming, played a game with his assistant, Lily, a cookie balanced on his forehead. As the room erupted in applause when he succeeded, I cheered, "Go, Mark!" The room fell silent. Lily' s smile vanished, her eyes welling with tears as she whimpered, "Oh, Mark."

Mark, furious, snapped at me, "What' s wrong with you, Olivia? You always have to ruin everything. You're such a killjoy. So boring." Then, in front of everyone-our colleagues and friends-he bent down and kissed Lily, deeply and passionately.

On our tenth wedding anniversary, watching Mark kiss another woman, I felt absolutely nothing. Later, Lily, riding comfortably in the passenger seat of our car, flashed a sickeningly sweet smile and called me "Sis-in-law." I remembered Mark once scoffing at my handmade charm, saying it didn' t match his car' s style, yet he found a custom pink paint job acceptable.

The next morning, Lily posted a photo of red roses on Instagram: "This big silly man always remembers my birthday." In the corner, my wedding ring rested on a man' s hand. When Mark returned, he joked, "What' s the occasion? You even made a cake?" He then smeared frosting on my cheek, remarking on the cake' s poor presentation.

If this had happened any other year, I would have screamed and cried. Instead, I calmly dumped the cake in the trash. He tried to appease me with expensive jewelry, a routine apology after every fight. But when I saw Lily' s text on his phone-"Mark, I had so much fun tonight, see you tomorrow~"-he erupted in a rage.

He shoved me, throwing me off balance. My arm sliced on the coffee table, and my ankle twisted. He simply muttered, "For God' s sake, Olivia," before rushing to Lily' s side after she called him, leaving me injured and alone. Why did he care more about her fake sickness than my real injury?

I was numb. I was utterly done. What else could I do but finally set myself free? That night, for the first time in a decade, I slept soundly, knowing I had made the right decision. My life had to change.

The company anniversary party was in full swing, music pulsing through the air. Mark Davis, my husband, stood in the center of the room, a wide grin on his face. He was playing a game with his assistant, Lily, a cookie balanced on his forehead.

The crowd roared with laughter as he tried to wiggle it into his mouth without using his hands. Lily, her face flushed with excitement, cheered him on, her voice high and sweet.

I stood on the edge of the crowd, a glass of flat champagne in my hand, watching the scene unfold. When Mark finally succeeded, the room erupted in applause. I raised my hands and clapped along with them, my voice joining the cacophony.

"Go, Mark!" I yelled, a smile plastered on my face.

The noise died instantly. A sudden, heavy silence fell over the room. Everyone turned to look at me, their expressions a mixture of pity and embarrassment.

Lily' s smile vanished. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears. She looked like a wounded animal.

"Oh, Mark," she whimpered, her voice breaking.

Mark, who had been basking in the attention, dropped the half-eaten cookie. He turned and released Lily from the playful hug he had her in. His eyes, when they found mine, were cold as ice.

"What is wrong with you, Olivia?" he snapped, his voice low but carrying in the silence. "Can' t you just let people have fun? You always have to ruin everything. You' re such a killjoy. So boring."

He didn' t wait for a response. He turned back to Lily, pulling her into a tight embrace. Then, in front of everyone, our colleagues, our friends, he bent his head and kissed her. It wasn' t a small, comforting peck. It was a deep, passionate kiss that left no room for interpretation.

A few years ago, I would have lost my mind. I would have stormed over there, ripped them apart, and unleashed a torrent of insults at Lily, shaming everyone in the room for watching.

But now, as I watched my husband kiss another woman on our tenth wedding anniversary, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like watching a scene from a movie I had no interest in.

The party ended an hour later. I stood by the entrance, saying my goodbyes to colleagues, a practiced social dance I had perfected over the years. I was waiting for Mark to bring the car around from the parking garage, just like always.

A bubblegum pink sedan pulled up to the curb, its garish color an assault on the eyes. I felt a brief moment of confusion before the passenger window rolled down.

Lily was sitting there, nestled comfortably in the front seat. She smiled at me, a sickly sweet expression on her face.

"Sis-in-law," she said, her voice dripping with false sincerity. "I get carsick in the back. Do you mind?"

My gaze dropped. I remembered begging Mark, years ago, to hang a small crochet charm I had made for him from his rearview mirror. He' d scoffed, his voice impatient.

"Your charm doesn' t match my car' s style, Olivia. What would people think?"

So, a custom paint job the color of a child' s toy was fine, but a handmade charm was embarrassing?

I didn' t say a word. I simply walked around the car, opened the back door, and slid inside. The old me would have thrown a fit, would have insisted Lily get out of the car, out of my husband' s car.

But I didn' t care anymore.

Mark, watching me in the rearview mirror, looked surprised by my lack of reaction. He didn' t reach for Lily' s hand or whisper in her ear like he normally would when I was in the back. The drive home was silent, thick with unspoken things I no longer had the energy to say.

When we pulled up to our house, I finally spoke.

"Drop Lily off and come back early," I said, my voice flat.

Mark glanced at me in the mirror, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He forced a smile. "Of course, honey."

He returned at 2 AM.

Our anniversary was officially over.

I was sitting in the living room, scrolling through my phone. Lily had just posted a new photo on Instagram. A huge bouquet of red roses on a table. The caption read: "Even when he' s busy, this big silly man always remembers my birthday."

In the corner of the photo, a man' s hand rested on the table, a familiar wedding ring on his finger. My wedding ring. The one I gave Mark.

The front door opened, and he walked in. He saw me on the couch, the single-layer cake I' d baked sitting on the coffee table.

He walked over, a lazy smile on his face, and wrapped his arm around my waist.

"What' s the occasion? You even made a cake?"

Before I could answer, he dipped his finger into the frosting and smeared it on my cheek.

"It tastes okay," he said, licking his finger. "But the presentation isn' t great."

If this had happened last year, or any year before, I would have erupted. He forgot our anniversary, spent it with her, and then came home to criticize the one thing I did to try and celebrate it. I would have screamed. I would have cried. We would have had a massive fight.

But now, I didn' t want to say a single word.

I pushed myself out of his embrace, stood up, and walked to the kitchen. I picked up the cake, the result of three hours of careful work, and dropped it into the trash can. I didn' t want him to have it. I didn' t want him to have any part of me.

Mark' s smile faded, replaced by a deep frown. He watched me for a moment, then turned and went into the bedroom. A minute later, he came back out, a small jewelry box in his hand. He must have seen the calendar on the nightstand.

He stood in front of me and opened the box, revealing a delicate silver necklace. Without a word, he fastened it around my neck. I instinctively reached up, my fingers brushing against the cool metal.

"It' s just a wedding anniversary, who cares if I forgot?" he said, his tone dismissive. "You' ve been giving me an attitude all day, so this necklace is your gift."

He turned and headed for the shower. This was his pattern. After every fight, after every time he hurt me, he would give me a small, expensive gift. It was his apology, our signal to reconcile, to pretend nothing happened.

I listened to the water running. I took off the necklace, placed it back in its velvet box, and set it on the table.

Just then, his phone, left on the arm of the couch, lit up. A new message.

From Lily.

"Mark, I had so much fun tonight, see you tomorrow~"

As my eyes scanned the words, the sound of the shower stopped. I looked up. Mark was standing in the doorway of the living room, a towel wrapped around his waist. His face was a mask of cold fury.

"Who told you to look at my phone?"