The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

Today is my fifth wedding anniversary. It's also the day my husband, Ethan, asked me for a divorce for the 38th time.

He does this for Ilene, his childhood friend. The woman who crashed her car on our wedding day, leaving her unable to have children. Ever since, he's been repaying a debt of guilt, and I've been the price.

For five years, I endured the cycle of divorce and remarriage. But this time was different. Ilene pushed me down a flight of stairs.

Ethan found me bleeding and promised me justice. He swore he would make her pay.

But days later, the police called. The security footage of the incident had been mysteriously erased. There was no evidence, no case.

That night, Ilene had me kidnapped. As her men tore at my clothes in the back of a van, I managed to call Ethan.

He rejected my call.

I jumped from the moving van. And as I ran for my life, bleeding on the cold asphalt, I made a vow.

This time, there would be no 39th remarriage.

This time, I would disappear.

Chapter 1

Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.

Ethan Bruce, my husband, stands before me. He possesses the same handsome severity as the day I met him, all sharp angles in his eyes and the straight line of his nose. But the words that issue from his mouth are a dissonance on such a day.

"Let's get a divorce."

I register no shock. I feel no particular sorrow. I merely watch him, a stillness settled in my chest, not of peace, but of vacancy.

"Do you know this is our ninth divorce?" I ask.

A flicker of something hunted crosses his eyes. His gaze slides away from mine, finding a point of interest on the wall behind me.

"Ilene Wolf is threatening to jump off the roof," he says, his voice a low current of sound. "She says she won't come down unless I divorce you. You know her anxiety..."

I cut him off. "Hmm, I know."

I've known for five years. I've known through eight previous dissolutions.

"So, how long will this one last?" I ask, my voice even.

He looks surprised, as if he had braced himself for the storm of tears or the shriek of recrimination. He no longer receives what he expects from me.

"Once her mood stabilizes, we'll get remarried," he promises. He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, but his hand arrests itself in mid-air and falls back to his side. "Okay?"

I study his face, the war playing out in the tight set of his jaw, and I am struck by the absurdity of it. A terrible, hollow comedy.

"Okay," I say. "After all, we owe it to her."

The courthouse staff knows us by name.

"Back again?" The clerk, a woman named Martha, pushes a pair of spectacles up the bridge of her nose. She retrieves the familiar forms from a drawer, the motion practiced and weary. She has become an expert in the architecture of our ruin.

"Still an amicable divorce this time?"

I nod and take the pen she offers.

Ethan signs his name beside mine. The nib scratches against the parchment, a sharp, decisive sound. He has made this sound eight times before. He is proficient at it.

When it's my turn, the pen hovers over the paper. I feel a brief, internal hesitation, a tremor of some old, forgotten sentiment.

This is the ninth time.

The first time, I cried until my throat was raw and I could not draw breath.

The second time, I asked him, "Why, Ethan? Why?"

The third, the fourth... a confused smear of pain and pleading.

By the fifth time, I could walk in here and exchange a dry pleasantry with Martha. "Please hurry," I'd say, "We have plans."

I take a deep breath. I meticulously sign my name, Aurora Kemp. This time, I inscribe it with unusual care. Each letter is rendered perfectly, a small, final monument.

When we step outside, Ilene is waiting. Not on a roof, but right there on the courthouse steps, a study in frail victory.

She rushes past me and throws herself into Ethan's arms.

"Ethan! I knew you'd choose me! I knew you loved me more!"

Ethan's body goes rigid. He looks over her shoulder at me, his eyes filled with an emotion I cannot name. Guilt? Apology? It is of no consequence.

He tries to gently push her away. "Ilene, that's enough."

She just clings tighter, ignoring him completely. She snatches the divorce papers from his hand and waves them in my face like a captured standard.

"See this, Aurora? He's mine now. He was always mine."

I don't say a word. I just watch them. A profound weariness has settled deep in my bones.

"Ilene!" Ethan's voice is sharp with annoyance. "Stop it."

She immediately changes tactics. Her face crumples, and she starts to sob against his chest. "I'm sorry, Ethan. I'm just so happy. Let's go celebrate! Please?"

Then, she looks at me, a malicious glint in her tear-filled eyes.

"Why don't we invite Aurora? To celebrate our new beginning. And her end."

Ethan looks at me, his expression an apology writ large. He is asking me with his eyes to play along. Just one more time.

For a reason I don't understand myself, I nod. "Sure."

We all get in his car. Ilene sits in the front, leaning against Ethan, her hand resting possessively on his leg. I sit in the back, an unacknowledged shade in the theater of my own life.

I watch her fingers trace patterns on the coarse fabric of his trousers. I watch him grip the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out white and stark, but he does not remove her hand. He never removes her hand.

Silence. Indulgence. Compromise. That has been his response to Ilene for five long years.

It starts to rain outside, the drops drawing long, weeping lines down the glass. The sight sends me back in time.

Five years ago. Our wedding day.

Ethan and I were the golden couple of our university. He was the brilliant business student, and I was the promising artist. Our love was a swift, consuming fire. He was possessed of a different sort of gentleness then. He would hold my hands, the ones stained with turpentine and paint, and tell me they were the most beautiful hands in the world.

Ilene was always there, a figure in the periphery. His childhood friend. The girl who was obsessively in love with him, who followed him everywhere.

"She's just like a sister to me," he would say, brushing off my concerns. "Don't worry, Rory. It's you I love."

I believed him.

On our wedding day, as I stood in my white dress, his phone buzzed relentlessly. It was Ilene.

"Don't answer it, Ethan," I said, a knot of cold unease tightening in my stomach. "Not today. Today is for us."

He smiled, kissed my forehead, and silenced his phone. It was the best day of my life, for a few hours.

Later, we found out what happened. While we were saying our vows, Ilene, drunk and hysterical, crashed her car. The accident was severe.

She was rushed to the hospital. Her body was a ruin of broken bones. The doctors told us she would never be able to have children.

The guilt became a living thing inside Ethan, a weight that bent his shoulders. He felt responsible because he had ignored her calls.

From that day on, a debt was formed. A debt he felt he, and by extension, I, had to repay.

Ilene's physical wounds healed, but her mind did not. She was diagnosed with severe anxiety and depression. She began to wield her fragility as a weapon.

Anytime Ethan and I were happy, she would have a breakdown. A panic attack. A suicide threat.

And every time, Ethan would give in.

To calm her down, he would agree to her demands. And her biggest demand was always the same: "Divorce Aurora."

So we did. The first time, he held me as I cried and promised it was just for show.

After a few weeks, when Ilene was "stable" again, she would come to us, crying and apologizing. Ethan would forgive her. And we would remarry.

Then the cycle would repeat.

And repeat.

Nine times.

I went from agony to numbness to a bone-deep weariness that settled into my soul. My paintbrushes gathered dust. The world, which had once presented itself to me in a symphony of vibrant color, became a muted landscape of grey.

In the car, I watch Ethan's profile as he drives. He is still handsome, still the man I fell in love with. But he's also a stranger who has allowed another woman to ruin our lives.

He just let her touch him. He let her sit in my seat. He's taking us to celebrate my divorce.

A strange quietude descended upon me, and in that silence, a single, unadorned thought took root.

This time is the last time. There will be no tenth remarriage.

I take out my phone and send a text to my brother.

[Are Mom and Dad home?]

He replies almost instantly. [Yeah. What's up?]

[I'll be there in an hour. We need to talk.]

Then I text my parents. [I'm leaving him. For good this time. I want to move. Far away. Will you come with me?]

My mother's reply is a string of worried emojis. My father's is simple and direct.

[We are here for you. Always.]

A single tear, hot and unexpected, escapes and traces a path down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. I have cried enough tears for this man. I will not cry anymore.

We arrive at a fancy restaurant. Ilene insists on sitting next to Ethan, clinging to his arm like a child. He tries to pull away, but she starts to whimper.

"Ethan, you hate me now, don't you? After everything I've been through..."

He sighs, defeated, and lets her stay. He cuts her steak for her, pours her wine. People at other tables look at them, smiling. They look like a couple deeply in love.

I feel like a piece of furniture, present but unregarded.

My bag is on the seat next to me. It slips, and a small sketchbook falls out. I haven't used it in months.

Ilene sees it. Her face changes.

"What is that?" she snaps. "Are you trying to show off? Trying to remind him of what you used to be?"

She lunges across the table, her eyes wild.

Before I can react, she grabs the bowl of hot soup in front of her and throws it directly at my face.

The scalding liquid struck my chest and face not as a splash, but as a solid sheet of fire.

The pain was a white, blinding nova. I screamed, my body recoiling, the chair tipping backward. I struck the floor hard, my head cracking against the polished wood.

The sounds of the restaurant-the clatter of silver, the murmur of conversation-warped and stretched, receding to a distant hum. Through a shimmering fog of agony, I saw Ethan leap to his feet, his face a mask of horror.

"Aurora!"

He starts toward me, but Ilene is faster. She grabs his arm, her own face streaming with tears, her voice a hysterical shriek.

"She deserved it, Ethan! She was mocking me! Don't you see? It's her fault I crashed my car! It's her fault I can't have babies! She ruined my life!"

Ethan freezes. He looks from my crumpled form on the floor to Ilene's sobbing face. The old, familiar battle played out in his eyes: the debt against the vow, the ghost against the wife.

Ilene wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "Take me away from here, Ethan," she cries. "Please, take me home. I'm scared."

He looks at me one last time. I'm lying in a puddle of soup, my skin screaming, my vision constricting to a narrow tunnel. I see his hesitation. I see the choice he is about to make.

He scoops Ilene into his arms and carries her out of the restaurant. He doesn't look back.

The last thing I felt before the darkness took me completely was the cold, sticky texture of the floor beneath my cheek.

Consciousness returned not as a light, but as a sensation: a deep, internal throbbing, as if hot needles were stirring in the muscle beneath my skin. My eyelids were gummed together, and it took a great effort to pry them open a crack. The world above was a blurred expanse of white ceiling tiles and the translucent form of an intravenous bag suspended in my field of vision. A figure in blue scrubs moved nearby, the rubber soles of their shoes making a soft, rhythmic friction against the linoleum.

"Oh, you're awake," a gentle voice said. "You gave us quite a scare. You have some nasty second-degree burns, but you'll be okay."

I don't feel okay.

"Your parents were here all night," she continued, fluffing my pillow. "They were so worried. Your father just stepped out to get some coffee. Oh, and a man identifying as your husband called a little while ago, asking about your condition. He sounded very anxious."

The image of Ethan carrying Ilene away flashed in my mind. A knot of iron formed in my throat, a pain sharper than any burn.

He left me on the floor.

"We're divorced," I say, my voice a dry rasp.

The nurse looks surprised, but before she can say anything, the door to my room swings open.

It's Ethan. He looks tired, his hair is a mess, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

"Rory," he says, relief flooding his face. He rushes to my bedside. "Don't say things like that. We're not divorced, not really."

He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.

"Ilene... she didn't mean it," he starts, a familiar excuse on his lips. "She's just not well. She feels so guilty, she's been crying all night."

He apologizes. "I'm so sorry, Rory. I am so, so sorry."

I look at him, at this man I have loved for so long, and I feel nothing but a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion.

"She's more important, isn't she?" I say, my voice flat. "The one you left me on the floor for."

"That's not it-"

"This whole thing," I interrupt, "this sick game of divorce and remarriage, of my pain to soothe her 'anxiety'... I'm done, Ethan."

My voice is quiet, but it's stronger than it's been in years.

"Go be with her. Go take care of her. She obviously needs you more."

He looks confused, as if he can't comprehend my words. "Rory, are you still angry? I know I messed up. I know I should have stayed with you."

He grabs my hand, his grip tight, and avoids my eyes, his gaze fixed on a stain on the wall. "She was holding a knife, Rory," he said, his voice hoarse. "What else could I do? You just need to get better... once this is over, everything will be fine."

"How long, Ethan?" I ask, the question hanging in the sterile air between us. "Another five years? Ten? Will you be placating her on her deathbed while I wait?"

He falls silent.

"It's my fault," he finally whispers, the same words he has said a thousand times. "I owe her."

I've heard that phrase so many times. It used to make me feel sympathy. Now it just makes me feel tired.

I close my eyes. My chest feels heavy, as if it were packed with wet earth.

"Yes," I whisper back. "You do owe her."

I take a breath, preparing to say the words I should have said years ago. The words I decided on in the car.

But just as I open my mouth, his phone rings.

It's a video call. Ilene's tear-streaked face fills the screen. Her voice is shrill and accusatory.

"Ethan Bruce! You promised you would be right back! Why are you with her? I told you to stay away from her!"

She starts sobbing. "I'm not eating. I won't eat anything until you come back. If I starve to death, it's your fault!"

Ethan's face sets in a familiar mask of frustration and resignation. He rubs his temples.

"Okay, Ilene. Calm down. I'm coming."

He gets up to leave. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I turn my head away.

"Rory, get some rest," he says softly. "I'll be back later tonight to check on you."

A dry, bitter laugh escapes my lips. Later tonight. After he's tucked Ilene into bed and promised her the world.

I watch him hurry out the door, his phone still pressed to his ear, his voice a low, soothing murmur meant for another woman.

The door clicks shut, leaving me in silence.

I turn my head and stare at the empty doorway.

"I was going to say," I whisper to the empty room, "that you owe her everything. So you can have her."

"But I don't owe either of you a damn thing."

"From this moment on, Ethan Bruce, you and I are over. For good."

I spent a week in the hospital. The burns on my chest and neck slowly began to heal, leaving behind angry red scars.

Ethan came to visit, sometimes.

He would promise to be there for my check-ups, to help the nurse change my dressings.

But then his phone would ring. Ilene would be crying, or screaming, or threatening to jump. And Ethan would leave. Every single time.

After he left, my own phone would light up.

A text from Ilene.

[Ethan just made me his special chicken soup. He said it's only for me.]

Then a picture of a steaming bowl of soup.

Another text.

[He stayed with me all night. He held my hand until I fell asleep.]

Followed by a video of Ethan sleeping in a chair by her bed, his hand clutching hers.

[My lease is up soon. I wonder what a homeless patient might do. But Ethan said he'd never let me be on the street. 😉]

[He carried me home because my feet hurt.]

And then, the one that finally broke through my numbness. A picture. Ilene, her face tilted up, pressing her lips against Ethan's. His eyes were closed.

A video followed. Her hand sliding under his shirt.

I felt my throat tighten, a sudden, fierce constriction that made it difficult to draw a breath.

I didn't reply. I just deleted the messages, one by one.

On the day I was discharged, I handled the paperwork myself. I took a cab back to the house we once called home.

When I got there, Ilene was standing on the doorstep. Ethan was next to her, looking stressed. She had a suitcase.

"Her landlord threw her out-put all her luggage on the curb," Ethan said before I could speak, his words a frantic rush. "She called me thirty times, screaming that if I didn't come get her, she would lie down in the middle of the road. I... I couldn't let her do that. Just for a few days, Rory, I swear. Just until I find her a new place."

Ilene was trying to force her way inside. "This is Ethan's house, which means it's my house! You can't stop me!"

Ethan was holding her back, his voice firm for once. "Ilene, no. This is my and Aurora's home. You can't stay here."

She started to scream, a wild, cornered sound. "If you don't let me in, I'll run into traffic right now! I'll do it!"

He looked helpless, trapped.

Then he saw me standing by the gate. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Rory! You're home."

He rushed over, his voice a low, apologetic murmur. "She's just going to stay for a few days. Just until I find her a new place. I promise."

I looked past him at Ilene, who was now glaring at me with triumph.

I lowered my eyes. My voice was calm, devoid of any emotion.

"Okay."

Ethan looked shocked. "You... you don't mind?"

I shook my head, a bitter smile touching my lips. "What is there to mind?"

I wasn't the lady of this house anymore. I was just a temporary guest, soon to be evicted.

Ilene pushed past Ethan and marched into the house like she owned it.

"Ugh, this place is so tacky," she declared, wrinkling her nose. "Everything needs to be changed."

She started ordering the maids around. "This couch is hideous, get rid of it. And these curtains! Throw them out!"

Then her eyes landed on the large wedding portrait hanging in the living room. It was a picture of Ethan and me on our happiest day.

"And that," she said, pointing a sharp finger, "is the ugliest of all. Take it down and burn it."

The maids looked uncertainly at Ethan.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a slight, defeated nod. "Do as she says."

I had expected it. I had expected his surrender.

I felt a ghost of a laugh in my chest. I turned without a word and went to my bedroom to pack.

If they wanted me gone, I would make it easy for them. I would erase myself from this house.

I pulled out a suitcase and began to fill it with my things. Clothes, books, my old art supplies. Things I loved.

When I came out of my room, dragging the suitcase, the living room was a disaster zone.

Our wedding photo was on the floor in a spray of shattered glass, my smiling face torn in two. My books were pulled from the shelves and thrown in a pile. The beautiful vase I had bought on our honeymoon was in pieces.

The home I had so carefully built, so lovingly maintained, was destroyed.

I stood there for a moment, just looking at the wreckage.

Ilene stood in the middle of it all, a smug, victorious smile on her face.

"All of this," she said, gesturing around the room, "and you... you're all in the past now."

I ignored her. I was done with her games.

But she stepped in front of me, blocking my way. "Where do you think you're going?"

Her eyes fell on the half-open suitcase. She saw the dusty set of oil paints I had packed. Her expression twisted.

"Still pretending to be an artist? Are you trying to show off how talented you are? How much he used to love you?"

I just looked at her, my silence a wall she couldn't break. "Let me pass, Ilene."

I tried to move around her.

Her face contorted with rage. "You bitch!"

She grabbed a heavy porcelain vase from a side table and swung it at my head. I stumbled back, dodging the blow. The vase shattered against the wall behind me.

As I staggered, off balance, she lunged.

She put both hands on my chest and pushed. Hard.

I was standing at the top of the grand staircase.

"Go to hell, Aurora!" she screamed, her voice dripping with venom.

I felt a moment of weightlessness. Then a sharp, violent impact as my body tumbled down the stairs.

Pain exploded through me. I landed in a heap at the bottom, my head hitting the marble floor with a sickening crack.

Blood. I could feel warm blood matting my hair, pooling beneath me.

My body convulsed, a series of violent shudders.

My vision blurred.

The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Ethan, running through the front door, his face a perfect picture of horror.