The Price of Separation

For five years, I thought our marriage was solid. Then, my husband, Lionel Franco’s first love, Sandra Howard, posted a photo of a property deed on her social media.

The caption read: [Thank you, Lionel, for transferring the house to me.]

I stared in disbelief and left a single comment: [WTF?]

Lionel called within minutes.

“She’s a struggling single mother. Transferring the house to her makes it easier for her son to get into school. It doesn’t affect where we live,” he snapped.

“How can you be so lacking in compassion?”

In the background, I heard her muffled sobs.

Half an hour later, she tagged me in another post. 

This time, she flaunted her Mercedes worth over a million dollars, with the caption: [Paid in full. As the saying goes, ‘Where a man spends his money, that's where his heart is’.]

I knew he bought it to soothe her temper.

But this time, I had enough. I decided to divorce him.

When Lionel Franco returned home, I swallowed a mifepristone tablet—the medication I was supposed to take for the abortion—with a bite of cake.

It was my birthday. I had bought the cake earlier, planning to celebrate with Lionel and tell him I was pregnant.

I waited until 7 p.m. but he ignored my calls and didn’t reply to my messages.

Then I saw Sandra Howard’s Instagram post flaunting a property deed.

I couldn’t help myself so I left a comment.

Within seconds, Lionel called back—not to explain, but to lash out at me.

Before I could explain, he hung up and blocked me.

I was so furious that I nearly suffered a miscarriage.

When he finally arrived home, he glanced at the cake and the medication on the table.

He furrowed his brow.

“Whose birthday is it? Yours?”

I silently put away the pills and threw the cake in the trash.

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s a friend’s.”

He exhaled in relief.

“I thought so. Your birthday’s September 28th and today’s only the 8th.”

Five years of marriage, and Lionel had forgotten my birthday every single year.

The irony was that he always remembered hers.

Lionel sat down beside me and handed me a stuffed bear.

“Sandra asked me to give this to you. She was upset by your passive-aggressive comment earlier. Go apologize to her.”

I noticed that the bear wore a tiny Mercedes logo.

It was a promotional gift that came with the Mercedes. A greasy stain marked its surface.

“I don’t want it,” I said flatly.

Lionel frowned.

“What’s with the attitude? She was terrified and even took the initiative to make amends.

“Can’t you just apologize to her?”

When I didn’t respond, he grabbed my arm, determined to have me call Sandra.

His grip was forceful, and as he yanked me up, my injured leg hit the cold edge of the coffee table.

The injury was Lionel’s doing.

A week ago, he had walked out of the kitchen carrying a pot of boiling soup. He