My Broken Marriage

Finally, I was promoted.

After years of hard work, I became the department head today.

The tedious tasks wouldn't be my responsibility anymore.

I would have more time to watch Ethan grow and share the burden of managing our household.

After handing over my old duties, I could leave work early for once.

A content smile appeared on my face as I thought of Sarah alone at home with our son.

On my way home, I stopped by the florist to buy her favorite roses, eager to share the good news.

When I arrived, I found Sarah asleep by Ethan's crib, showing signs of fatigue.

Our son sat quietly in his stroller, playing with a toy truck.

I placed the flowers aside and tiptoed over, about to lift her when her iPhone screen suddenly lit up with a notification.

I knew her passcode, but we had always trusted each other and never checked each other's phones.

Yet somehow, I found myself tapping the screen. The message read: "Sarah, what's our son doing now?"

I froze, briefly wondering if I had sent it and her phone was just slow to receive it.

But the unfamiliar profile picture, contact name, and screen full of intimate chats shattered that foolish hope.

Sarah and I met at university.

After five years of dating, we married soon after graduation.

I was an orphan, but Sarah said she didn't care about my background or wealth, marrying me despite her family's objections.

Feeling indebted, I vowed to work hard and give her a better life.

That first year, I was consumed with work and neglected Sarah, resulting in the loss of our first child – a girl.

It took three years before we welcomed Ethan.

Knowing how difficult the pregnancy was on Sarah, I threw myself even deeper into work.

I completed every task without complaint, covered for colleagues, skipped meals, and worked overtime.

Due to overworking, I was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer multiple times, all for the sake of hefty bonuses.

My physical appearance suffered from years of overtime work and unhealthy eating habits, far from my days as a "best-looking college heartthrob." Now, I resembled more of a paunchy, middle-aged man.

Looking at my sleeping wife, I forced myself to stay calm.

With trembling hands, I scrolled through her phone and made a startling discovery. There was an unfamiliar messaging app on her device, and it had only one contact labeled as "Dear Hubby."

How ironic.

Throughout our eight years together, she had always referred to me as "Damien." The times she called me "hubby" were few and far between, but they held significant value for me.