3: The Best, Worst Choice

|| Rachel ||

It has been two days since Slade left for his business trip. He told me to stay behind because I’ve been feeling so exhausted and nauseous lately. He didn’t even want to go himself, but he had to, and he promised he would come back soon. He has no clue that it’s the pregnancy making me feel like I’ve been running a marathon.

"Are you sure we’re not going to the doctor?" he asked when he saw me vomiting in the morning before he left.

"I’m alright, it’s something I ate yesterday," I lied, forcing a smile.

"Rach, what you ate yesterday is something we always eat. Why would it upset your stomach?"

I shrugged and somehow managed to make him let it go, telling him to go and have a safe flight.

He was so caring. I knew he would’ve taken care of me like no one else could during the pregnancy, that he’d be a great father to our twins. I wondered how many children he wanted, but that’s a question for his fiancée, not me. We haven’t talked about her since I asked him, and he’s avoided the topic ever since. That’s Slade — I’ll talk endlessly, and he’ll listen to every word, but when it comes to his feelings, he keeps them locked away.

Still, it hurts sometimes—to give so much of yourself and never really know what’s in his heart. Maybe he just doesn’t feel the connection I do.

When he left, I sat in the quiet and thought about what to do. The decision I came to was the hardest one of my life, but also the kindest. It was the best for both of us. Slade is fiercely loyal to his family above all else. He never misses a single celebration, especially his mother’s annual gala. I know he’ll always honor their choices for him, even when they hurt.

I went to his office in our apartment and searched through his desk drawers for the divorce papers we drafted when we first got married. I sat in his chair, tears spilling down my cheeks as I stared at the pages.

I placed a hand on my stomach. This is for the best. For him. For us. For them. The worst and best decision I’ll ever make.

With trembling fingers, I took one of his pens from the holder and stared at it for a brief moment before signing my name. The sound of the pen scratching across the paper felt final—like something breaking quietly inside me. I placed the papers on his desk.

My gaze drifted to the bookshelves, where I’d spent hours reading the novels he’d brought home for me. He always made sure there was a new story waiting, as if he wanted me to believe in happy endings. I did, once. But real life doesn’t come with guarantees.

In the bedroom, my bags were already packed. Still, I went to the closet, reached for one of his shirts, and buried my face in it. His scent filled my lungs—warm, familiar, heartbreakingly safe. This is the smell I’ll have engraved in my memory. I’ll never forget how he smelled. I pressed the fabric to my chest and sank to the floor, dizzy from emotion more than exhaustion.

I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to stay. To be his wife. To raise our children together. To live the quiet life we built behind closed doors—the laughter, the dinners, the way his hand fit perfectly in mine.

But some dreams aren’t meant to last.

I drew in a shaky breath, stood up, and carefully folded the shirt before putting it back. My hands were shaking as I carried my bags to the car. I left the key under the flower pot by the door.

I stared down at the wedding ring on my finger. I should’ve left it for him—with the papers, like closure—but I couldn’t. I needed to take it with me, a small piece of a love I’d never forget.

In the driver’s seat, I picked up my phone and typed a short message:

'I’ve signed the divorce agreement and left it on your office desk.'

I placed the phone on my bag, started the car, and drove toward the airport.

Memories played through my mind like an old film: our quiet nights watching movies, his laughter echoing through the house, the way he looked at me across the dinner table, the warmth of his hand in mine as we cooked side by side. Every moment was a piece of a life I was leaving behind—but one I’d carry with me forever.

My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. I tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming. The phone rang. My heart leapt—Slade? But no. Just an unknown number.

I looked back at the road. A blinding light. A truck, too close. I jerked the wheel, but a deafening crash followed: twisting metal, shattering glass.

The world spun into a chaotic frenzy of noise and motion. I couldn’t see or feel anything but blackness. Then the sudden, agonizing coldness of silence descended—heavy and absolute, claiming everything.