The Wedding Gift

Eight years ago, Ethan, my husband, had proposed to me at this very corner table. Today, I had reserved the same table and ordered the same steak he loved so much for our final goodbye. On paper, we were about to stop being husband and wife, but this dinner was the last ritual to sever any remaining emotional ties.

He arrived fifteen minutes late. The white shirt he wore was the same one I had impeccably ironed for him the week before I moved my things out of our apartment. Ethan pulled out the chair and sat down without an apology, without even looking at me. His eyes were glued to his phone, his fingers swiping frantically across the screen. Occasionally, a sly smile would appear on that face I once loved madly.

I knew exactly who he was texting. Ashley, his very young secretary, the one who had inserted herself into our marriage.

The waiter brought the plates. Ethan’s steak sizzled on its cast iron plate, releasing a fragrant steam. He picked up his knife and fork and cut a piece, chewing mechanically.

“I ordered what you like,” I said, breaking the oppressive silence.

“Yeah,” he replied curtly, not looking up from his phone.

I looked at the man in front of me. His coldness no longer hurt me. It only brought me an immense sense of relief. The glass of red wine on the table trembled slightly. I took a sip. Its bitterness helped to calm me.

“Once all the paperwork is done, I’ve already bought my ticket,” I said in a monotone voice. “I’m moving to Oregon as soon as everything is finished.”

This time his fingers stopped. He looked up. A fleeting surprise crossed his face before being replaced by his usual indifference.

“Oregon. And what are you going to do there?”

“My grandmother left me a small house in Willow Creek, a town near the coast. I’m going to settle there.”

I thought he would ask something more. Perhaps a faint attempt to keep me, or at least a clumsy wish for good luck. But no. Ethan just shrugged as if I had just told him the weather forecast.

“Whatever you want, it’s for the best,” he said, and the smile returned. “Ashley and I are also planning the wedding. She deserves a grand ceremony. Ashley’s not like you. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to make me happy.”

I almost laughed. He was right. I wasn’t like Ashley. I didn’t know how to feign weakness. I didn’t know how to use tears to demand things. And I certainly didn’t know how to sleep with another woman’s husband. But I didn’t say it. I just nodded.

“Well, congratulations to you both.”

The dinner ended quickly, in silence. He didn’t even look at me as he got up to pay. He left in a hurry, probably rushing to his secretary, who would be waiting for him.

I was left alone, staring at my almost untouched plate of steak. I called the waiter and asked for a to-go container. Not out of pity, but because I didn’t want to waste the last dinner of a marriage. As bland and cold as it had been, it had come to an end.

Packing Eight Years

I went back to our apartment, the one that was once our home. The silence was deafening. Eight years ago, Ethan and I had invested all our savings to buy this apartment in downtown Manhattan. I still remembered the day we got the keys. We cried with happiness. We painted the walls ourselves. We chose every piece of furniture together.

I thought we would grow old here.

I stopped in the middle of the living room. The cream-colored sofa we had argued so much about choosing was now covered with a white sheet. The wall, once filled with our wedding photos, was bare, showing only the nail marks. Everything was still there, but its soul was gone.

I started packing eight years of memories now reduced to a few cardboard boxes. I opened the closet, my clothes on the left, his on the right. I carefully folded my dresses and blouses. A couple of his shirts were still mixed in with my clothes. I picked them up. The familiar scent of fabric softener still permeated the fabric. That scent used to be synonymous with peace. Now I put them all in a separate bag for their new owner.

I opened the bottom drawer of the closet where I kept our keepsakes. A small wooden box contained old photos. The first one we took together in college, our smiles still innocent. The photo from our wedding day. Me radiant in my white dress. Him looking at me with infinite tenderness.

Eight years. Where had that look gone?

I didn’t cry. My tears had dried up the day I discovered his texts. I just felt a deep exhaustion. I placed the wooden box at the bottom of my suitcase. I wouldn’t throw it away, but I would never open it again. It belonged to a chapter of yesterday, a chapter that had died with our marriage.

I spent the whole afternoon cleaning. When the apartment was almost empty, with only his belongings left, I took out my phone and sent him a message.

I’ve packed my things. Keep whatever you want of the rest. I’m not taking anything but my clothes and personal items. The shared memories are in the desk drawer. Do what you want with them.

A minute later, his reply came, as brief and cruel as ever.

Okay, thanks.

I looked at the apartment one last time.

Goodbye. Goodbye to eight years of my youth.

I left the key on the oak coffee table right next to the TV remote. A dry click echoed in the empty room. I dragged my suitcase to the door and slammed it shut behind me without looking back once.