Chapter 4

After I finished packing, I opened my phone and started deleting photos—every "us" picture, one by one.

Then I unfollowed our so-called "mutual friends."

Most of them were rising stars or heavy hitters in the research world.

Years ago, I'd forced myself—someone who hated networking—to buddy up with these people, just to help Graham build connections and secure funding.

Looking back now, every one of those performatively warm group photos felt like a mockery of all my wasted effort.

By the time I was done, only eighteen people remained on my follow list.

Those were my real friends. My real family. The people who actually understood me.

Just then, Linda—at the top of that list—called. Her voice was so furious it nearly shattered the phone.

"Tessa! Check Instagram right now! What the hell does Graham think he's doing?!"

"You two aren't even divorced, and he's posting this kind of stuff with someone else?!"

My heart clenched. I opened Graham's profile.

A notification showed he'd liked a post.

The post was from Vivian.

In the photo, she was wearing a hospital gown, cradling a mango mille crêpe with both hands, a fragile, blissful smile on her face.

The caption read: "Three years together. Thank you for never leaving. Being by your side all this time has been my greatest blessing. @Graham_Rutledge"

I recognized the cake instantly. Same packaging as the one Graham had brought home this morning.

Same shop.

And I remembered—Vivian had always loved mango.

Three years ago, just before our wedding, the first time I met her, she'd been in the hospital begging Graham to bring her mango, ignoring her doctor's orders.

And Graham could never say no to her.

With his usual attitude of "she's sick, don't make a fuss," he'd given in every time, disappearing down hospital corridors again and again.

It started with a piece of mango.

A month later, he wasn't coming home at all.

I'd told myself, over and over: She was his entire youth. She had a year to live at most. Trust him. Be generous. Give him space to say goodbye.

In the end, she beat the disease. She lived two more years.

But my marriage died—on the day it was supposed to begin.

A dull ache spread through my chest. I hated that I could still feel pain.

I scrolled further and saw Graham's comment:

"Happy third anniversary."

I stared for several seconds before it clicked—

Third anniversary?

Today?

Yes. Today.

Our wedding anniversary was today.

We had never celebrated it. Not once. I'd been too drained to even notice.

All these years, I'd told myself he was just too busy. His research was unpredictable.

Now I knew the truth: He wasn't against celebrating. He just didn't want to celebrate with me.

Because this day had never belonged to me.

I let out a long breath and told Linda:

"We don't need to get divorced. Three years ago, we never actually went through with the paperwork."

Linda went silent. "What do you mean? Haven't you been married for three years?"

Yes.

Three years ago, we did have a ceremony. We did file the paperwork.

But that same day, he had withdrawn our application with his own hand—and registered with someone else.

Yes. With his own hand.