The Men Who Walked Out

On the second day after my mother moved Julian Hardman into our home, she called my father and me together for a family meeting.

She placed a divorce agreement in front of my dad.

"Carter, Julian is going through a difficult time right now. You know we're really close, so I have to help him," she said calmly. "The three of us living under the same roof—it wouldn't sound good if word got out.

"I promise you, this divorce is just a formality. We'll divorce but not separate. It's only to silence outsiders. Don't overthink it."

I stared at her in shock and asked in disbelief, "Why should we? If he's in trouble, you can rent him a place—or even buy one. You can afford it. Why does he have to live with us?"

My father reached out and grabbed my arm, then shook his head at me.

Without hesitation, he picked up the pen and signed the agreement.

A smile instantly spread across my mother's face.

"Honey, believe me. You'll always be the one I love most in this lifetime. Once he gets through this rough patch, we'll remarry."

With that, she skipped out the door, divorce papers in hand.

Not long after, online media outlets released a statement: [Female entrepreneur Samantha officially announces her divorce.]

My father and I sat quietly in the living room, staring at the news on the screen, sorrow written all over our faces.

"Dad, why did you agree?" I asked. "And who exactly is Julian?"

He took a hard drag from his cigarette and spoke slowly.

"He's your mother's first love."

"What kind of trouble would make Mom help him like this?"

"They have a son," he said. "He's one year older than you. It doesn't surprise me that she would want to help him."

Everything I learned that day was enough to shatter the worldview I had built over twenty-four years.

So many people had once envied my parents, calling them a perfect, fairy-tale couple. I never imagined there was such a melodramatic past hiding beneath the surface.

"Dad… do you think Mom still loves him?"

My father stayed silent as he lit another cigarette.

"I don't know," he said at last. "But she probably doesn't love me anymore."

I nodded, a wave of sadness rising in my chest.

"Son," he said softly, "I'm leaving. If you can, you should move out too. This house won't carry our name for much longer."

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, my eyes burning red.

The next day, my father and I went to work at the research institute together.

When we arrived, Karla Jameson from HR greeted us warmly. She was my fiancée Sophie's mother.

"Karla," I asked casually, "I asked Sophie out for dinner last night, but she said she wasn't feeling well. How is she now? Is she better?"

Her expression stiffened slightly, and she hesitated before replying, "Oh, she's young and strong. It's nothing serious. She just needed a good night's sleep."