When She Returned, I Let Her Go

“Is it final then?”

As I walked out of the courthouse, my father, Matthew Bennett, stepped toward me with slow, unsteady steps.

“Are you divorced?

“Did she show up?”

“No.”

“Does she even know?”

I shook my head. “The court issued a public summons for sixty days, but no one could reach her. I don’t think she had the time to check it anyway.”

My father’s brows furrowed into a deep, heavy frown. “Because of Austin?”

“Yeah. He was undergoing surgery at the time. It was a matter of life and death.”

Dad’s mouth tightened into a rigid, straight line. “Is he getting better now?”

“Maybe.”

“Nicholas... don’t you still love her?”

“We were married for three years, and she made every single one of his meals without missing a day. Dad, she might have a place for me in her heart, but she has a place for him, too.”

My father’s expression grew even more solemn, but he didn’t say another word.

Eight years ago, we met in a hospital.

Back then, Amelia was already the most renowned cardiothoracic surgeon in the state. I was merely one of her patients.

Every morning at eight o’clock, she would lead her team of doctors on their rounds. Her gaze never lingered on me, yet every single time, she would leave a piece of candy on my bedside table.

She told me that medicine was bitter, and a piece of candy made it a little easier to swallow.

On the day I was discharged, Amelia came to do rounds alone.

She told me that I was fully recovered and wouldn’t need to come back anymore.

I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my eyes, but I still mustered up the courage to ask if I could court her.

A bright, brilliant smile bloomed across her face.

“I’ve been waiting for so long,” she said. “You finally said it.”

Back then, everyone in the hospital knew Dr. Whitmore was fond of me. During my month-long stay, she swapped every shift she could just to catch an extra glimpse of me.

There were times when she worked back-to-back night and day shifts, all just to ask me one simple question: “How are you feeling today?”

Ding!

The elevator doors slid open, snapping me back from my memories.

When I arrived back home, my phone screen lit up. To my surprise, it was a message from Amelia.

It was an image—a flight ticket from Seabrook to Harborcrest, scheduled for tomorrow.

A second later, another message popped up.

“Hubby, I’ll be home soon!”

I stood in the doorway, staring at those words for a very, very long time.

Last year, I suffered a bout of acute appendicitis. When I was rushed to the emergency room, I had sent her a similar message.

The only difference was that mine was a desperate question.

“Honey, can you come back?”

That day, my phone remained dead silent for twenty-four hours.

Later, I saw her in one of Austin’s vlogs.

She looked anxious and worried. As the camera zoomed out, I saw her carefully squeezing whipped cream onto a cake.

Written across the top of the cake in neat icing were the words: Wishing Austin good health and a peaceful life.

It had been three years. On the exact day I decided to let her go, she suddenly told me she was coming home.

I opened the door, bent down to change my shoes, and surveyed the apartment.

Every corner bore only the marks of my solitary life.

The unworn women’s slippers sitting in the shoe cabinet had remained untouched for three whole years.

The clothes drying on the balcony were exclusively mine.

There were very few items that belonged to her, and items that belonged to us simply did not exist.

I opened Austin’s pinned video—the one with the highest number of likes.

It was filmed at their home in Seabrook.

Underneath the shoe cabinet sat two pairs of house slippers, neatly aligned.

One was pink; the other was blue.

The soles of the pink pair were noticeably worn down.

On their balcony hung their laundry, side by side, looking just like any ordinary married couple’s.

Then the camera panned downward, revealing a vibrant array of colorful flowers.

Austin appeared in front of the lens. Though he feigned annoyance, a wide, joyful smile lit up his face as he introduced every single plant one by one: roses, daisies, sunflowers, and bougainvillea.

Amelia had planted and tended to all of them for him—for no other reason than to make him happy.

During our second year living together, I had planted some flowers on our balcony, too.

Yet she would always forget to water them.

When I asked her, “Amelia, can’t you put a little heart into this?”

She had replied nonchalantly, “They’re just flowers.”

Just flowers.

Two simple words. But in truth, she simply didn’t care enough when it came to me.