Chapter 3: The End of Us

She hurried off in a rideshare, not even glancing back. I watched the taillights fade into the city night, wondering if I’d ever stop waiting for her to come back.

I checked my phone. She’d already posted a photo of the divorce certificate—no caption, just a flood of likes. Every like felt like a slap, every “Congrats, queen!” another nail in the coffin.

Comments like ‘The queen is finally free’ filled the screen. The support stung—like our marriage had been some prison she’d just escaped from.

Her little brother even sent three thumbs up: [Sis, awesome! You finally ditched that loser Caleb.]

I felt like a fool. All those years, and this was the ending everyone wanted but me.

Memories flooded back—when Natalie and I were madly in love. How did we get here? I could almost smell her shampoo, remember the way she laughed at my dumb jokes.

Back then, after college, we got married as soon as we found jobs. Our families thought we were rushing, but we didn’t care.

Life in that tiny apartment was cramped but cozy—we’d order takeout pizza, eat straight from the box, and binge old sitcoms on Netflix until we passed out on the couch. Even ramen noodles felt special with her.

She loved making plans for our future, talking about how much money we’d need, telling me she wanted to give me a cute baby. We’d sit on the fire escape, drinking cheap wine, dreaming up names for our kids.

I always wanted to tell her: Just wait three years, and you can have everything you want. I had a card up my sleeve, but I never played it.

But I’d sworn a promise—I couldn’t tell her. The secret was a stone in my pocket, heavy and useless.

At that moment, I closed Instagram, opened my contacts, and called that number I hadn’t dialed in years. My thumb hovered, then I hit call anyway.

“Hello, you brat. Don’t say another word—it’s impossible. I don’t dare give you a single cent.” The voice was gruff, but the worry was there, hiding under the tough act.

I was silent for a moment, then spoke, voice weary:

“Uncle Jeff, I’m divorced. Tell Dad I’m coming home.” The words felt like surrender and relief all at once.

There was a pause, then the voice on the other end grew serious: “Alright, Caleb. I’ll check and send someone to pick you up.”