His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 12

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 12

After a month settling into Chicago, I officially joined a top architecture firm.

My salary and title were both a significant step up from my position in the Bay Area.

As a core designer on the lakefront district renovation, my days were filled with on-site meetings with construction crews, and my free time was spent in lakeside cafés, sketching designs that inspired me. Life was busy and fulfilling.

I gradually grew accustomed to visiting the Art Institute of Chicago alone, reading on the lawn in Lincoln Park by myself, and enjoying the quiet of my apartment overlooking the city skyline.

My career was thriving, and I was whole.

A year passed.

The California sun and the memories of the wildfire grew increasingly blurred. Ethan’s face, too, faded like an old Polaroid.

With an award-winning community center design under my belt, I was smoothly promoted to design director.

On the day of my promotion, the firm booked a popular West Loop restaurant to celebrate.

I stood on a small stage in a tailored suit, swirling champagne and listening to the thunderous applause from my colleagues. My heart was filled with a solid, unmistakable pride.

I had a respected career, a spacious apartment in downtown Chicago, and friends who fit my life.

During holidays, I could fly to New York for exhibitions or go skiing in Colorado. I could do whatever I wanted.

Never again would I cry myself to sleep over a man’s perfunctory reply.

Never again would I humble myself into dust just to beg for a scrap of acknowledgment.