After Divorce, I Sold Anti-Ex Cards—He Bought Ten Chapter 12

After Divorce, I Sold Anti-Ex Cards—He Bought Ten Chapter 12

He looked terrible, dark circles under his eyes, smelling of 

night air and rain. 

I froze. 

“Did your mom send you?” 

He shook his head. 

“Did she come find you?” 

“Yeah.” 

His brows furrowed. “I’m sorry.” 

I crossed my arms. “Is ‘I’m sorry‘ all your family knows how to say?” 

He stayed silent for a few seconds. “I didn’t come here to beg you to delete the posts.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

He held out a manila envelope. 

I didn’t take it. 

He set it on the floor by the door. 

“This is what I found out about the day your father was 

hospitalized, the day my mother blocked you.” 

My heart gave a violent thud. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your father’s surgery wasn’t minor.” 

“I only found out later that you called me seven times.” 

Of course I remembered. 

My father had a sudden medical emergency. I was in the 

kitchen, my mother on the phone, and my hands shook so 

hard I dropped a bowl. 

I wanted to rush back. 

Victoria stood in my way. 

She said the extended family was over, and it was a holiday. I shouldn’t bring bad luck. 

I called Julian. 

No answer. 

Later, he texted: [Busy. Talk later.] 

That “later” didn’t happen until the next morning. 

By the time he got back, I’d already caught the earliest bus out. 

My father was out of surgery. My mother was in the hallway, holding me and sobbing. 

That was when I realized marriage wasn’t a shelter from the 

world. 

Sometimes, it was just another storm. 

Julian looked at me. “My phone was taken by Chloe that day.” 

I stiffened. 

“She told me you were being dramatic over something small and ruining the holiday, so I shouldn’t bother responding.” 

The color drained from my face, inch by inch. 

Julian closed his eyes. “I believed her.” 

The hallway was deadly quiet. 

Rainwater dripped from his coat sleeves, hitting the floor with 

tiny, rhythmic splashes. 

I stared at him. 

“So, you’re telling me this now just to prove that the fault wasn’t entirely yours?” 

“No.” 

His voice sounded strained. 

“It’s to prove that I was even more wrong than you thought.” 

My chest ached. 

Seven calls. 

I’d waited in that hospital hallway until dawn. 

I didn’t get a husband. 

I got a text: [Stop being dramatic. Come home for the 

holidays.] 

I’d nearly shattered my phone back then. 

But in the end, all I’d replied was: [Okay.) 

Because my dad had just woken up, holding my hand and 

saying: “Sadie, don’t fight with Julian over me. You have to 

make the marriage work.” 

Make it work. 

So I swallowed every grievance. 

Until I was so numb inside I couldn’t even feel my own 

stomach. 

I leaned down, picked up the envelope, and opened it. 

Inside were bank records and chat logs. 

Chloe in the family group: [Sadie’s family is having another disaster. How annoying.) 

Victoria: [Don’t let your brother know. He’s too soft–hearted.] 

Chloe: [Don’t worry, I have his phone.] 

I stared at the words, and my hands started to go cold. 

Not from sadness. 

From disgust. 

Julian said, “I made Chloe move out.” 

I looked up. “So?” 

He choked on his words. 

I pressed him, step by step. 

“You show me this, and you expect me to know you’re finally doing me justice?” 

“Or do you want me to be grateful that you’re finally not blind?” 

“Julian.” 

I threw the envelope at him. 

“My father was lying in that operating room.” 

“I signed the papers alone, waited for the results alone, and comforted my mother alone.” 

“You’ve figured it all out now. So what?” 

The impact made him stumble back half a step. 

The envelope spilled, the papers scattered everywhere. 

He knelt down to pick them up. 

Rainwater soaked through the pages. 

Watching him in that pathetic state didn’t give me any 

pleasure. 

Just a heavy, crushing exhaustion. 

“Go home.” 

He said, “Sadie.” 

I cut him off. 

“Don’t call my name.” 

“Hearing it from you just reminds me of how desperate I was when I made that seventh call.” 

He stayed kneeling on the ground, his shoulders slumped. 

I shut the door. 

This time, I didn’t cry. 

I just sat on the edge of the bed and called my mother. 

She picked up, sounding concerned. “Sadie? Why are you calling at this hour?” 

I said, “Mom, I missed you.” 

She paused, then smiled. “You tired? Don’t push yourself too hard. You can earn money at your own pace.” 

My nose stinging. “Yeah.” 

She asked, “Julian hasn’t been bothering you lately, has he?” 

I stayed silent. 

My mother sighed. 

“Sadie, sweetie, I used to tell you to just endure it. I was 

wrong.” 

“I was afraid of what people would say after a divorce, afraid you’d have a hard time, afraid you’d regret it.” 

“But that day you came back, dragging your suitcase and sitting by the door, telling me you finally got a good night’s sleep…” 

“That was when I knew how miserable you’d been.” 

I covered my eyes. 

“Mom, I’m doing really well now.” 

“I know,” she said. 

“I saw the video of your pop–up stand. You gave them hell.” 

I burst into tears, laughing. 

“Who showed you that?” 

“Your cousin. She said she wanted to buy a combo for you.” 

“She’s got a great boyfriend, doesn’t she?” 

“Just keeping it for ‘preventative measures‘.” 

I laughed until the tears wouldn’t stop. 

After I hung up, I had the deepest sleep I’d had since the 

divorce. 

When I woke up the next morning, the internet had flipped upside down again. 

Julian had posted a new update. 

Only one sentence. 

[I owe Sadie. I don’t ask for forgiveness. I only ask that you stop bothering her.] 

Attached was a photo of a handwritten greeting card. 

[Boy, Bye.] 

Signed: Julian. 

The post hit the internet like a bucket of oil on a fire. 

The comment section exploded.