2
That night, Luke didn’t come home.
It was just like always.
I didn’t call him. Instead, I drove to his office, parking outside.
I waited for hours.
The lights in the building eventually went out one by one. The security guard locked the doors, and the street fell into darkness.
The cold night air seeped into my skin, leaving me numb. My mind was blank.
I glanced at my phone. The last message from Luke was still sitting there, unread.
“I’m working late tonight. Don’t wait up.”
The same excuse, over and over again.
I didn’t want to think about where he was or who he was with.
But I couldn’t stop remembering the way my daughter used to wait for him at night, her little face lighting up every time the door opened.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the cold, clinical texts he used to send, and the way his voice had sounded earlier that day when he spoke to that other child.
The memories played on a loop in my mind until they blurred into one clear image: Luke, smiling as he held someone else’s child.
My phone was in my hand before I even realized it. I called him.
He answered after a few rings, his voice muffled by background noise.
“Are you still at work?” I asked quietly, staring up at the dark office building.
There was a pause, then silence.
M
9:15 AM
<
In the background, I heard it: a child’s voice, calling him “Dad.”
The sound was like a knife to my chest, sharp and unforgiving.
“Faye…” he began, but his voice trailed off.
The empty street was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
And in that silence, memories came flooding back–memories I had tried so hard to suppress.
I thought of the college years, when Luke had barely spoken to anyone, and I had foolishly chased after him, thinking I could warm his cold
heart.
I thought of our wedding day, when I cried tears of joy while he remained silent, distant.
I’d told myself he was just reserved, that he didn’t know how to express his feelings.
But now, the truth was impossible to ignore.
Luke had never loved me.
And he had never loved our daughter.
He had been indifferent all along, taking everything for granted while I clung to my delusions.
I’d turned myself into the heroine of some tragic love story, ignoring every red flag, every warning from friends.
“Faye, are you still there?”
His voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
“How old is he?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The line went silent.
When Luke finally answered, his voice was low, hesitant.
“Five,” he said.
Five. A year younger than my daughter.
My throat tightened, the cold air stinging my lungs as I struggled to breathe.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers. But instead, I forced myself to speak calmly, my voice steady despite the tears streaming down my face.
“Come home tomorrow,” I said. “We need to finalize the divorce.”
There was a long pause.
“Faye-”
“I’m letting you go, Luke,” I interrupted, my voice breaking.
And then I hung up.
