My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 04

My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 04

For the last time, I lay in this bed.

For the last time, I listened to the silence of this house.

For the last time, I was Julian’s wife.

At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me, “I have a business dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.”

“Okay.” I stood in the foyer and straightened his tie for him.

His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away.

“Julian,” I said, letting go.

“Your tie was crooked.”

He looked down. “Thank you.”

“Drive safe.”

He nodded and turned away.

Before the elevator doors closed, I saw him lift his wrist and check the time.

In the reminder list I had seen yesterday, today was marked as Serena’s birthday.

After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come today.”

Then I began the final cleanup.

My toothbrush, towel, and slippers.

The few pieces of clothing I had in the closet.

The half-read book by the bed.

I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never existed here at all.

At the very end, I placed the ultrasound report in his room.

At noon, I was pulling my suitcase through the living room when I realized he had come back.

He was watering the pothos.

He had bought a new one.

He turned around, still holding the spray bottle.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

My voice was flat.

“Business trip.”

He picked up his coat.

“I’ll drive you.”

He had already taken the car keys.

I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I only nodded.

Fine. For the last time, then.

It was also the first time in seven years he had ever driven me somewhere.

He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside.

The car was spotless, with a faint scent of lemon.

Hanging from the rearview mirror was the good-luck charm I had gotten three years ago.

He started the car, and warm air flowed from the vents.

Then he did a series of things I never expected.

He lowered the volume, turned on the podcast I usually listened to, and handed me a cup of coffee.

An oat latte.

My usual order.

“Picked it up on the way,” he said.

I took it from him. The sleeve was the pale blue color I liked.

No sugar, extra oat milk, and just the right temperature.

He knew all my preferences; he had simply pretended not to see them.

I thought he must have seen the ultrasound report I had left in his room.

He didn’t even ask how I had found out. Maybe he thought it didn’t matter.

Neither of us mentioned it, but we both knew.

The car pulled out of the neighborhood. In the morning traffic, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup.

That café was downstairs from my office.

It was not on the way.

He would have had to make a twenty-minute detour.

“Send me your flight number,” he said, looking straight ahead.

“I’ll pick you up when you come back.”

I didn’t answer.

“There’s a new movie out.” While we waited at a red light, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

“The one you said you wanted to see.”

I lowered my head and drank my coffee.

“Julian,” I said, looking at the city streets sliding past the window.

“Do you remember what flower I hate the most?”

He was silent for two seconds.

“Lilies.”

The air inside the car seemed to freeze.

The podcast was still playing, and the host laughed as he said, “In Iceland, goodbyes are supposed to be light.”

Yes.

Goodbyes could be very light.

I didn’t mention Serena.

That was the last bit of dignity I was leaving him.

I was tired, and I no longer wanted to pick apart his feelings or chase after the truth.

I only wanted to live my own life well.

When we reached the airport, I pushed open the car door, and cold wind rushed in.

“Julian.”

“Do you know what day Wednesday was?”

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Once again, he touched his nose.

Nervous, flushed, and unable to look at me.

The trunk opened automatically. I took out my suitcase and pulled up the handle.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving anyway.”

Before I left, I said without looking back, “Julian, you said you would never learn how to love someone.”

“But you learned how to lie.”

Goodbye, Julian.

Goodbye, seven years.

No. Goodbye for good.