The Kindest Goodbye

A couple next to me held each other tight, their tears flowing freely. The girl was a survivor, just like me.

In the lounge the airport had set up, everyone was busy calling their loved ones to let them know they were okay. I watched them, one by one, quickly getting through, and I could not help but smirk bitterly at myself.

I had barely caught my breath after we landed safely when I had frantically dialed Lucas Hoffman's number. It rang for a mere second before the call was dropped.

I told myself Lucas was probably just waiting for me at the exit, all worried.

However, when I went to text him, I saw that he had posted on his social media a few minutes before. There he was in a selfie with Yvonne Emerson, his childhood best friend.

They were cheek to cheek, shoulders touching, grinning on some mountaintop. The caption hit me hard.

[Hope we're still living it up like this at 60.]

The fear I had felt for him while I was plummeting from the sky, the thought that he would be devastated if I died, all seemed like a cruel joke then. He was busy making wishes to keep the good times rolling with someone else, not me.

It did not take long for the news of our flight's mishap to explode across social media. The cockpit windshield had shattered, and the pilot had to land the plane manually, battling the cold and the loss of cabin pressure.

My parents had seen the news and called me right away, and my friends all checked in too. However, Lucas, whom I always kept at the top of my chat list, had not sent even one message.

Our last conversation was still about the flight details I had sent him four hours ago. No reply from him.

There I was, foolishly thinking he would be at the airport to pick me up, worried sick like the boyfriend next to me, his eyes red from crying for his girl.

However, as I sat there, my heart, which had been racing with terror as we fell from the sky, finally began to settle.

I typed out the message with a heavy heart. [I think we should get a divorce.]

Within a minute, my phone buzzed. It was Lucas.

"What's gotten into you, Harriet? Why are you freaking out now?" he snapped.

I bit back the hurt and managed to ask, "Where are you?"

He went quiet for a few seconds, probably rereading the message and catching the flight details I had sent.

However, his tone was still laced with annoyance when he spoke again. "So I forgot to pick you up from the airport. Big deal. You can take a cab home, can't you?"

He paused, then added, "You're always going on about divorce. Doesn't it get old?"

Then, out of nowhere, a woman's voice chimed in on his end, "Lucas, dinner's ready."

"Be right there," he replied, his voice suddenly warm and cheerful—a stark contrast to the distance he had shown me.

I felt a wave of indifference wash over me.

"Lucas, I mean it," I said, and before he could respond, I ended the call.

I sent him one last message with the news, then demoted him from his VIP spot in my messages.

In a single breath, I deleted and blocked his number. In all our five years of marriage, through every argument, I had never once deleted Lucas.

He was a pro at it, though. Anytime I upset him, he would block me and wait for me to beg for his forgiveness.

When I thought about it, the one who should have been asking for forgiveness was always him.

I used to put up with it because I loved Lucas. I would let things slide, hoping to keep our fragile marriage intact.

After all the times I had seen Yvonne pop up in his life, relegating me to the background, after all the arguments and the countless times I had swallowed my pride, I was done.

This time, I was truly exhausted.