I Gave Up Everything For Her

“How dare you even mention home?”

My mom, Maryam Cruise’s, voice came through the receiver. It was so hoarse I almost did not recognize it.

I opened my mouth, but the words got stuck in my throat.

“Your dad had a heart bypass last month and spent twenty days in the ICU.”

My head was buzzing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you? You said it yourself. You were determined to marry that Weiss girl and cut all ties with the family.”

“Mom, I…”

“Don’t call me Mom. You haven’t called me that in three years, so don’t start now.”

The call ended.

I called again, but the phone was turned off.

Crouching outside the International Trade Center banquet hall, I stared at the trending topic. The comments had already surpassed thousands.

Someone had screenshotted a post I shared on Stories three hours earlier with an attached caption.

[Today, too, I’ll wait for you.]

There was a comment below it that had the most likes.

[Too bad she wasn’t waiting for you.]

The banquet hall manager came running out, clutching the bill.

“Mr. Cruise, the final payment is $36,000. If you don’t settle it today, there will be a penalty fee.”

“Do you accept bank transfers?”

“Sure.”

I opened my mobile banking app. My balance was around $36,000.

I had saved that up over three years.

After making the transfer, my balance dropped to $2.4.

The manager glanced at me, probably wanting to say something comforting. But in the end, he just took the bill and walked away.

At the suit shop, the clerk took the suit with his head down.

“Did you get it dirty?”

“No.”

“Here’s your deposit back.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

When I took a cab back to my apartment, the smart lock’s screen lit up.

I scanned my fingerprint. Two words popped up.

[Not registered.]

I tried it three more times, but the result was the same.

I texted Layla.

[Can’t get in.]

She read it.

Eight minutes later, she sent me a six-digit code.

There was nothing more than that, not even a single word.

I entered the code and pushed the door open. The first thing I saw in the entryway was a pair of dark blue men’s slippers.

They were not my size.

On top of the shoe cabinet sat a bouquet of baby’s breath with a card.

[Alban, congratulations on your new home.]

[Signed: Layla.]

I had lived here for three years. She had never even bought a single bouquet, not even on moving day.

On the coffee table was a dark blue mug printed with “Mr. Alban.”

A dark gray cardigan was draped over the sofa. It was not mine.

The bedroom sheets had been changed to dark gray satin.

The all-cotton comforter I bought was tucked away at the very bottom of the closet.

My clothes were crammed into a corner. The extra space was filled with a few men’s jackets. The price tags were still on them. The cheapest one was $3,800.

I had not bought myself a single piece of clothing costing more than $300 in three years.

Stuck to the back of the bedroom door was a sticky note in Layla’s handwriting.

[Dylan, why don’t you sleep in the guest room for a few days? Alban just moved in and isn’t used to the place yet. It’ll help him adjust.]

I stared at those words and slowly peeled the sticky note off the door.

I called Layla. This time, she picked up.

The background was noisy. It sounded like a restaurant.

“Dylan, it’s not a good time right now.”

“Did you and Alban get married?”

She was silent for a moment.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Why were my fingerprints deleted from the system?”

“Alban had me reset them. We’ll re-register them tomorrow.”

Her tone was as casual as though she were talking about the weather.

“200 people watched me wait for three hours. You didn’t even call once.”

“Don’t get so worked up. It’s not what you think—”

Suddenly, a voice came from the background. It was deep and soft, with a playful, whiny inflection at the end.