After The Divorce: Ex-husband's Regret

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen counter in lazy stripes, catching on water droplets, turning them briefly into something almost beautiful. Ava stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, fingers pruned from the dishwasher, moving on instinct to the dishwasher. Plates. Cups. The quiet aftermath of breakfast.The house still smelled like them. Coffee and pancakes. Matthew ’s cologne lingered faintly in the air, stubborn, like it refused to leave because he had.She reached for another plate, stacking it carefully.Her mind drifted back to the way he’d kissed her goodbye. Slow and familiar. Like he had nowhere else to be.I’ll be home early.She smiled at the memory, shaking her head at herself. Always believing him. Always choosing to.The apartment was too quiet now. No footsteps, no humming from the bedroom. Just the soft sound of water running and her own breathing.Then—Her phone rang.The sound cut through the apartment sharply, too loud for a late morning that still smelled like co

Two weeks in a hospital can stretch a woman thin.By the fourteenth day, Ava felt like she was made of paper—creased, softened by tears she refused to let fall, held together by nothing but routine. Wake up. Shower in the staff bathroom. Sit by Matthew ’s bed. Smile when he looked at her with polite unfamiliarity. Answer the same questions. Pretend it didn’t hurt.She learned the sounds of the ward by heart. The rattle of medicine carts. The murmur of late-night nurses. Matthew ’s breathing when he slept—steady, calm, nothing like the storm it caused inside her.So when the doctor finally said, “You can take him home today,” Ava almost didn’t believe it.Home.The word landed strangely in her chest. Heavy, hopeful. and dangerous.She drove.Matthew sat in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly on his lap, staring out the window like everything was passing too fast. His parents followed behind in another car. Clara sat in the passenger seat with Ava, quiet, watchful, offering silent s

Matthew stood frozen in the middle of the living room, eyes darting between Ava and Isabella. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he might reach for something, anything, to ground himself. The air between them was thick, almost suffocating. Ava’s gaze was sharp, fierce, but her chest was tight with something deeper—shock, disbelief, betrayal, a hunger to just scream at him for standing there and letting this happen. Isabella, meanwhile, wore that same practiced, soft smile that made Ava want to punch her and cry at the same time. Matthew opened his mouth, closed it again. The silence stretched, heavy. He looked at Isabella, then back at Ava. “I… you can stay,” he said finally, voice hesitant, wavering. “Let’s… have breakfast together.” Ava’s hand shot out before she even thought. She grabbed Isabella’s wrist, squeezing tight enough to make her flinch. “No,” Ava said, her voice low, dangerous. “You are leaving now. Go, I don’t care what you came here for—you are lea

The first night, he sleeps on the edge of the bed. She thinks it’s an accident.The mattress dips differently. Not the familiar weight that used to pull her toward him in the dark, but a careful, measured indentation. As if he’s trying not to exist.Ava keeps her eyes closed.The room smells faintly of detergent and the rain that came through the open window earlier. She listens to him settle. The soft rustle of sheets. The quiet exhale through his nose.He used to reach for her without waking.Hand sliding over her waist. Fingers hook into the hem of her shirt. A sleepy, “Come here, Ava,” against the back of her neck.Tonight, there’s nothing, just distance.She shifts slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that her calf brushes the empty stretch of mattress between them.He stills for a second. She thinks he might move closer, but he doesn’t.Instead, she hears him inhale sharply, then roll—further away. The bedsprings creak in protest.Ava opens her eyes to the dark.“Matt?

Saturday mornings used to smell like cinnamon. Now it smells like coffee burning. Ava turns the knob down too late. The pot hisses, bitter and sharp. Sophie reaches over her shoulder and flicks the stove off. “Wow,” Sophie murmurs. “You trying to poison us?” Ava forces a small smile. “Multitasking.” “You’re stirring an empty bowl.” Ava looks down. The whisk scrapes against ceramic. Nothing inside. She sets it aside. Wipes her hands on a towel that’s already clean. From the living room, the low murmur of the news. Matthew’s voice was once, short, distracted. Then silence again. He hasn’t come into the kitchen. He used to hover. Steal strawberries off the cutting board. Slide his hands around her waist while she pretended to be annoyed. Sophie watches her watch the doorway. “Go talk to him,” Sophie says gently. “I’m fine.” “You’re not.” Ava reaches for the coffee mugs. Her hands are steady. That surprises her. The doorbell rings. Both of them freeze. Matthew’s voice ca