The Day I Stopped Loving You

I wasn’t surprised that Vincent had bailed on Lucy and me again—because of Alessandra, of course. His ex, the one who had always come first.

But I never thought he’d do this to his own mother.

Even now, I bet he still believed I had used Lucy—his own mother—to manipulate him into one last trip. He probably convinced himself that I was the villain in this story, the scheming wife who preyed on Lucy’s sympathy to get my way.

But this trip was never about me. It had been Lucy’s wish all along.

I had always known.

To him, I was the cold, calculating one—the woman who had gone to any length to marry him. Meanwhile, Alessandra was everything I wasn’t: warm, gentle, lovable. The kind of woman he wanted to hold close.

But I no longer cared how Vincent saw me.

I had done my best to give Lucy even a sliver of happiness in her final hours. I had done more for her than her own son ever did.

I owed Vincent nothing.

After burying Lucy’s ashes, I returned to the hospital to gather her things.

As I stepped into her room, I broke down.

Lucy had been nothing but kind to me. She had been warm where Vincent had been cold. And yet, I had failed her. I hadn’t been able to convince her son to come on that final trip.

Vincent never even visited her here. He probably thought I was exaggerating her condition—another ploy to get him to come to me.

The room still smelled like her, as if time had frozen the moment she left it.

I cried harder than I ever had before. But I didn’t let myself drown in sorrow. Instead, I packed up every trace of her, erasing her presence from the space she had spent her final days in.

Before leaving, I turned back one last time. The room was spotless, empty. As if no one had ever lived here.

"Goodbye," I whispered.

As I carried Lucy’s belongings toward the first floor, I collided with someone—someone tall, solid.

Vincent.

And in his arms, nestled against his chest like a delicate princess, was Alessandra.

He didn’t even look at me as he walked past.

But then Vincent’s gaze flicked down to the bag in my hand, and he finally stopped.

His voice was devoid of concern, laced only with impatience. “What are you doing here, Giovanna? Shouldn’t you be with my mom, taking care of her?”

Alessandra smiled at me, her grip tightening around his arm like she was staking her claim. “Hey, Giovanna, you don’t mind Vincent coming home late, do you? I had the worst stomach cramp, and Vincent said this hospital was the closest, so he brought me here.”

A stomach cramp. Really?

I watched as Vincent gently set her down, his touch careful, his attention unwavering. He stopped a nurse, asked where they could go, his voice warm with concern.

As if she were something precious.

Something fragile.

Something worth cherishing.

And that was when it hit me.

I remembered the time I had suffered from acute gastroenteritis. The pain had been unbearable, twisting my insides, leaving me weak and fevered. I had called Vincent, hoping he would come.

His response? “Sounds like you just need a pill and some rest. Don’t call me unless you’re actually dying, okay? I’m busy.”

At the time, I had told myself he was just being a man, just… bad at handling emotions.

Turns out, he could be caring. Just not for me.

A strange sense of rage washed over me, sharper than the grief, more potent than the heartbreak.

Before I knew it, the words slipped past my lips.

"Vincent, as you wish, I’m divorcing—" I hesitated, then let out a bitter laugh. “I’m breaking up with you.”

I almost said divorcing, but what a joke. Vincent and I had never even been officially married.

No papers. No legal ties. Just a meaningless, cheesy wedding on a beach, no pastor, no vows that mattered.

Vincent barely reacted. He barely even heard me. He probably thought I was just playing the jealous wife again.

“Don’t pull that crap with me,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

I inhaled sharply, gripping the bag in my hands, my nails digging into the fabric.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t even know.

Lucy had been diagnosed with a heart condition and early-onset Alzheimer’s two years ago. Her heart, fragile from age, was a ticking time bomb—one we couldn’t defuse, only hope would never go off.

She had once asked me, her voice trembling with longing, “Giovanna, baby girl. Where is my son? I want to see Vincent. Where is he?”

She called him. No answer.

She called again. Still no answer.

Vincent probably thought those calls were my doing. That I had manipulated her into dialing his number. He had a way of twisting everything—every word, every plea, every truth—until it fit the narrative he wanted to believe. And that narrative always cast me as the villain.

I wiped away the last of my tears. My voice was steady when I finally spoke.

"I’m leaving."

I grabbed Lucy’s things and made my way to the door. But before I could take another step, Alessandra’s saccharine voice stopped me.

"Are you mad at me, Giovanna?" she asked, her tone dripping with faux innocence. "You don’t have to act so hurt when Vincent and I did nothing wrong."

“Don’t listen to her,” Vincent scoffed. "She always puts on a face when she doesn’t get what she wants. Right, Giovanna?"

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even look at them. Their arrogance, their smugness, the way they spoke like I was some bitter, jealous wife throwing a tantrum—it was suffocating.

Just as I reached the door, Vincent’s hand shot out and grabbed mine.

"Can you just stop with the act?"

I turned to face him. There was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe even concern—but I didn’t know if it was real or just another illusion I had once mistaken for love.

"Don't lie to me anymore." His tone was sharp, irritated.

When I didn’t react, his patience snapped. "Alessandra told me Lucy was doing just fine. So drop the act already. We had all the time in the world to go to that damn Hawaii."

He exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair as if this entire conversation was exhausting him.

"I’ll clear my schedule next week," he said. "Then we’ll take my mom to Hawaii, okay?"

For the first time, it almost sounded like he was trying. Like he was offering some kind of olive branch.

The audacity of his words ignited my fury. With a cold sneer, I shot back, "Then you're just gonna have to die. meet Lucy in heaven, beg for her forgiveness, and then see if she still wants to go to Hawaii?"