Petals Wither

It was near dark. Clouds flamed on the western horizon, lit by the setting sun. I hurried home, eager to be reunited with my husband. Tom had been away on a business trip for nearly a month; the twenty-four days had felt like an eternity. None of his previous trips had lasted this long.

The compound was strangely quiet. I saw no one in sight — perhaps the maid was busy in the kitchen and the steward in the cowshed. At the parking lot I spotted two cars, a clear testament to Tom’s presence. I quickened my pace, unaware that an old promise was about to expire.

I came to the open door and peeked inside. Tom sat on the sofa across the room. “Hi, honey,” I said, my voice elated. “Finally you’re home. You have no idea how much I missed you.”

He didn’t look up. He didn’t match my enthusiasm. He looked at me with different eyes — cold.

I dropped my handbag on the sofa and spread my arms. He stayed seated. I leaned forward, crouched to his level, and wrapped my arms around him. Tom made no effort to return it; he only leaned forward awkwardly, pulled by my weight.

“How was your trip?” I asked, disentangling myself but pretending not to notice his dullness.

“What is it with you?” I said, unable to ignore it any longer.

Tom reached for the stack of papers on the table and slid them toward me. I took them reluctantly. “Sign them,” he said before I’d had a proper look.

My eyes snapped back to his face. “It’s time we divorce,” he said.

Those were the first words he’d spoken since I came in. They landed like ice. The lips that had once kissed me gently had formed them.

My hands trembled around the papers. I backed away and sank onto a couch near the door. The room tightened into a thick silence.

“I’m leaving everything with you,” he added. “Including the house in Nyali. All I need is your signature.”

The casualness of it burned. “You’re joking,” I said, throwing him a look I hoped would cut. “Don’t prank me about our marriage.”

“I’m serious,” he said, flat. “I’m no longer your husband.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. “You’re out of your mind.” I searched his face, trying to find when this had begun to feel right in his head. How long had he been thinking it?

“I’ve thought it through. It’s best we go our separate ways.”

“But why?” I asked, searching his face for a reason.

He shrugged, as if that answered everything. “Just like that.”

The refusal to explain stung worse than the words. I stood and walked closer until I was inches from him. “Tell me,” I said. “This can’t be ‘just like that.’”

He looked at me and said simply, “I want to be happy.”

Those five words cut clean. In three years of our childless marriage I had bent my life toward him. To hear him say he’d rather be without me felt like betrayal.

“You've not been happy and never bothered to let me know?” I asked, feeling the color drain from my face.

"There was no need. It was going to end anyway."

"I don't understand!"

“Be sensible. Sign the papers. That will set you free. Maybe your true love is out there — find him.” He stood and moved toward the door. “My mind is made up. It is over between us. We have a week to finalize everything.”

He pushed past me with his shoulder and headed for one of the cars.

“Wait! wait!” I cried, running to block him. “Please, I don’t want to be alone. I love you. I can’t lose you. Tell me what I did wrong — give me a chance to fix it.”

He looked at me long and hard. “You are not the problem,” he said.

“What is the problem?” My voice came out small.

“So you have completely forgotten?” he asked.

“Forgotten what?”

“The agreement.”

“What agreement?” The words fell out of me like a thin, panicked paper.

“It’s been three years since we married. We signed an agreement — this marriage would only last that long.”

It dawned on me. Suddenly everything trembled.

He shoved me aside with his shoulder and reached for the car door. With a practiced calm he opened it, slid in, and started the engine. He drove himself — something he rarely did. As the taillights disappeared into the night, I stood in the silent yard of a house that no longer felt like home.

I trudged back inside and sank onto the couch where he had just been. The papers lay on the table. I picked them up, taking stock of what he meant when he said he was leaving everything: the other car, the house in Nyali, the money in the bank account I controlled. It wasn’t much, but enough to start with.

My eyes drifted to the framed photographs on the wall. One held me in its grip — our wedding picture. I studied my radiant smile, the sweep of my gown, Tom’s sharp gray suit and bold red tie. His arms were wrapped around my waist.

A hot surge of anger rose. I wanted to rip the photo down and smash it on the concrete floor, watch the glass explode into a million pieces. For some reason I didn’t move. Instead I stared until the image blurred and the smile belonged to someone I once knew.