A House for Him, a Divorce for Us

In the third year of our marriage, my wife’s ex-boyfriend of eight years suddenly posted a picture on social media showing off a multi-million-dollar wedding house. His caption read:

“Wow, got myself a huge villa, I’m the master of charming women!”

I stared in shock at the picture, which showed my wife swiping her card at a sales office, and left a single comment: "?"

A second later, my wife called to scold me.

“I was just fulfilling a promise I made to him back when we were dating, buying him a house. Why are you getting mad at him?”

“What? Are you really going to be so vicious as to force me to break my word?”

That evening, her ex showed off another lavish post, this time flaunting a renovation bill worth hundreds of thousands. I knew it was a gift from my wife to please him.

But by then, I no longer cared.

When my wife, Lily Devon, got home, I was taking Paroxetine, medication for depression.

Ever since John Clapton reappeared, this suffocating marriage had pushed me from a healthy state into moderate depression.

Lily came over, grabbed my pills, and threw them in the trash. "Why do you start taking your meds the second I come home? Stop acting pitiful around me, will you?" she said, tossing a bouquet in front of me. "This is from John."

"I asked him what it'd take for him to forgive you, and he was kind enough to say you just need to apologize, and he'll let it go."

I looked at the half-wilted flowers on the table. When I smelled them closely, I could sense the foul odor of rotting stems. Three days ago, John had posted this bouquet, captioning it with, [Ah, flowers and a beautiful woman, what a happy afternoon.]

The painful memories came rushing back. I picked up a fruit knife to peel an apple, trying to distract myself.

"I don't want anything from him. It's dirty."

Lily frowned and said, annoyed, "Why are you acting so high and mighty? He gave you a gift, and you can't even apologize to him? Will it kill you?"

I did not move.

"Don't be so ungrateful. You were the one in the wrong first, and John has been generous enough to make peace!" she said, kicking the dining table in frustration.

Her kick was so strong that it knocked the table over, and I fell to the ground with it.

Unfortunately, the fruit knife went right into my palm. Blood gushed out, quickly staining my white t-shirt as I trembled with pain.

Lily panicked. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

I did not resist and followed her to the basement. Once inside the car, I noticed the front passenger seat had been changed.

This was a brand-new, customized black leather seat with a biker style. Originally, Lily's car interior had been all pink. Clearly, someone had made this change not too long ago.

"You know I dated him