One Cat Pic, One Divorce

On our tenth anniversary, Madison Seidel didn't come home.

I sat alone at the table, staring at all the food gone cold, and cut the first slice of cake.

The sugary smell of frosting hung in the empty dining room.

Like the universe was laughing at me.

Then my phone lit up.

Not Madison calling.

Ryan Foster is posting.

Her shiny new secretary.

A photo of Madison holding a snow-white ragdoll cat.

Her head was lowered, her smile soft. Real.

A smile I hadn't seen in forever.

The cat was curled in her arms, blue eyes half-shut, one paw parked on her suit jacket like it owned the place.

Ryan's caption was all bright and sweet, like always:

[My boss is working so hard! Good thing Marshmallow is here with its healing magic.]

My finger stayed on the photo.

Long enough for the screen to dim by itself.

My stomach twisted.

A sharp pain ripped through me, ten years late and finally breaking free from the scar tissue wrapped around my heart.

Slowly, I slid the platinum ring off my left hand.

The one engraved with our initials.

One painful turn at a time.

The beep of the door code cut through the silence.

Madison was home.

She smelled faintly of alcohol.

And cologne that wasn't mine.

Her eyes landed on me at the dining table, then on the untouched food. Her brows pulled together instantly.

"Why are you still up? I told you I had an important business dinner tonight. I told you not to wait for me."

I didn't answer.

I just set the ring in front of her.

Her gaze dropped to it.

The irritation on her face vanished, replaced by confusion.

"Lugh Landon." She used my full name. Never a good sign. "What childish stunt are you pulling now?"

I looked up and met her eyes.

"Madison Seidel, let's get divorced."

The air seemed to disappear from the room.

She stared at me for a long moment.

Then she laughed and reached for my hand.

"Have you lost it? Just because I missed our anniversary? I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Pick whatever car you want."

I pulled my hand away.

"What is this really about? There has to be a reason."

I picked up my phone, opened the photo, and slid it across the table.

She glanced at it, looking even more confused.

"This? A picture of me and a cat? Ryan felt bad leaving it home alone, so he brought it to the office. Are you seriously upset over this?"

"I am."

My voice sounded hollow.

Was it just a photo?

No.

It was a knife.

A knife was buried deep in the oldest wound I had.

The wound was named Stella.

"Madison." I looked her straight in the eye. "You're severely allergic to cat fur.

"You told me the doctor said another exposure could send you into shock. That it could be life-threatening.

"So Stella had to go. The cat I'd raised for seven years. Because you said, 'If you love me, you'll care about my health.'"

Madison's expression tightened.

Stella was just an orange-and-white cat.

Nothing special.

I'd found it during my junior year of college, curled up under a bike shelter on a snowy day.

It was small enough to fit in my palm, shaking from the cold.

I used money from my living expenses to buy milk and raise it.

It stayed with me through my last two years of college.

It kept me company through papers, all-nighters, graduation, and those rough first days after I started working.

In that unfamiliar city, it was the closest thing I had to family.