Saying My Final Farewell to Him

Lyra shoved the wedding ring that had fallen between the car seats at me, her face twisted with annoyance. "Finley, can you stop being so careless? If you can't even take care of a ring, how are you supposed to take care of our future child?" The metal glinted dully in her hand as I looked at it—a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. I felt a flicker of surprise, but I kept my expression neutral. "That's not mine," I said, my voice steady. I lifted my left hand, showing her my own wedding ring snugly on my finger. I looked at the ring in her hand—it was a men's wedding ring, identical to mine. Calmly, I replied, "That's not mine." As I spoke, I raised my hand and showed her the wedding ring on my own finger. For a split second, confusion clouded her eyes. Then, her face morphed into a forced smile as she shoved the ring hastily into her pocket. "Oh, right. A few days ago, I gave someone a ride. Must have slipped out of his pocket," she muttered, her words rushed. "I'll return it to him later." I watched her, an indifferent mask in place as I noticed the way her hands trembled slightly. She'd always been a poor liar. And yet, there she was, stumbling through an excuse, oblivious to the fact that I knew the truth. That ring was Jonah's. Our rings had been custom-made, a rare design that wasn't available off the shelf. To think, she had gone as far as replicating my wedding ring for him, as if he could wear it like a twisted mark of loyalty. I said nothing, picking up my suitcase and moving toward the building. Lyra scrambled after me, her heels clicking on the pavement, her irritation palpable as she reached for my bag again. "Let me carry it for you." I checked my watch, glancing at the time. "It's already the afternoon; I have time. Let's go to the hospital," I replied, my voice distant. If I was going to cancel, it was best to do it in person. Lyra's face twisted into a sneer. "Our IVF appointment isn't for another three days and you're eager already? Fine," she huffed. "Let's just get it over with. I have other things to do." The drive was silent, her grip tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white as she sped through the streets, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her annoyance was practically radiating off her, thickening the air inside the car. As we walked into the IVF clinic, she took one look at the line and groaned. "Finley, can you try a little harder this time?" she hissed, her tone as sharp as the cold, antiseptic smell of the clinic. I barely flinched, but the jab hit deeper than I cared to admit. For years, we'd been here, in one clinic after another, hoping for something that seemed to slip through our fingers every time. Her tone made it sound as though the failure was mine, as though the endless cycles were solely on me. She stood with her arms crossed, tapping her fingers impatiently, her face painted with impatience rather than empathy. "After all these rounds of IVF, maybe the problem isn't me," she continued, voice low, so only I could hear. "The doctor says you need to relax, you know? Your constant sulking isn't helping either of us." Her expression was firm, almost smug, as if she were passing down an indisputable truth. My gaze lingered on her, taking in the hard line of her jaw, the eyes that seemed to hold nothing but accusation. Lyra had always struggled with polycystic ovarian syndrome. For eight years, I'd tried, pushing myself through rounds of tests, endless injections, cycles of hope and disappointment. In the beginning, I had believed it would all be worth it—each sacrifice, each exhausting attempt to start a family. But now, with the gap between us widening, I felt the last thread of resolve slipping. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, her phone rang. She barely glanced at me before answering, her expression softening instantly. "Lyra," a smooth, familiar voice floated from the speaker, warm and teasing. "I bought too much cake again and I can't finish it all. Any chance my little princess could come over to help me out?" A small, secretive smile spread across her lips as she glanced at me, her eyes momentarily cold, before she turned away, as though the sight of me was suddenly unpleasant. She hung up, turning back with a hard, dismissive expression. "I have something urgent. Let's reschedule this," she said coolly, already fishing out her car keys as if the conversation was over. She didn't even look at me as she spoke, her tone implying it was a decision made without needing my input. The lack of any hesitation, any courtesy—it was as though she had forgotten I existed the moment Jonah's voice had called her back. I felt a flash of anger. "Lyra, it'll only take ten minutes. Just get it done and you can leave." Her face twisted with irritation as she stepped back, crossing her arms. "This was for three days from now. You insisted on coming early," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I don't have time to indulge you!" With that, she spun on her heel and left. I watched as she vanished through the clinic doors, never looking back. A bitter laugh escaped me. Canceling the IVF appointment? Fine. I could do that on my own. I approached the reception desk, feeling oddly calm. "Please cancel the IVF appointment scheduled for three days from now," I told the staff, my voice even. "And withdraw my file." The nurse's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Are you certain, sir? If we remove your file, all your previous IVF cycles and records will be terminated." I nodded, feeling an odd lightness in my chest. "Yes. I'm sure." After I left the clinic, I remembered I'd also reserved a maternity center for Lyra. That needed canceling, too. Once everything was taken care of, I stepped out into the early evening. The wind felt sharp and cleansing as I walked through the streets. I wandered off until I found a small hot pot restaurant. The warm, savory aroma of broth and spices drifted into the street, inviting in a way that felt almost comforting.

Sitting alone at the table, surrounded by the gentle hum of conversation and the rich aroma of simmering broth, I scrolled through the photos from my Colosseum trip. Each one was a memory preserved in soft hues of ancient stone and sunlight. Carefully, I arranged the shots into a nine-photo collage, each image a piece of a journey I'd taken without her—this time on my own terms. I added a simple caption beneath the post: [As hoped.] Within minutes, the notifications began. Friends and acquaintances liked and commented, but one name stood out—Jonah. I almost laughed as a fresh notification popped up: Jonah had posted something of his own. Curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on it. The photo showed Lyra, gazing intently at something out of frame, a serene smile on her lips. His caption read: [My little princess is such a foodie; she just loves the cake at my place. But as long as she's happy, I'll keep buying it for her until she's had enough!] The comments streamed in, fawning and flirtatious replies piling up. I pressed "like" without hesitation, feeling a strange satisfaction as I set my phone aside and refocused on my meal. Each bite of hot pot seemed to ground me, the spice and warmth filling a quiet void. Moments later, my phone buzzed violently. I glanced down, frowning when I saw Lyra's name flash on the screen. I ignored it, then a second call and a third. Finally, on the fourth ring, I sighed and answered, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Hello, Lyra." Her voice came through, sharp and indignant. "Finley, did you go to Rome alone?" In the background, I could hear the sound of running water, as though she were in the middle of something—or with someone. "Didn't we agree that we'd go together when I had time? What's the point of going by yourself?" I could almost see her pout through the phone, the familiar look of exasperation she wore whenever things didn't go her way. She continued, her tone shifting to a forced sweetness, "And don't forget, we agreed that when the baby arrives, we'd go there as a family to take a family portrait..." Her words hit a nerve and I felt a slow, simmering anger rise. For years, I'd suggested going to Rome, to fulfill my mother's dying wish. But each time, Lyra had pushed it aside with flimsy excuses, empty promises, until finally, she'd stopped pretending altogether. I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "Nothing special," I said flatly. "I just wanted to go, so I went." Silence hung between us, thick with her unspoken irritation and my quiet resentment. I could tell she wasn't used to hearing such indifference from me. "If there's nothing else, I'll hang up now," I finally said, my tone devoid of warmth. Before she could respond, I pressed the red button and ended the call. It was like releasing a weight I hadn't known I was carrying. Later that night, when I finally made it back to our apartment, I could hear voices before I even opened the door—a familiar, careless laugh mingling with Lyra's softer, teasing tone. When I stepped inside, the two figures on the couch froze, turning toward me. The room was filled with the smell of expensive cologne, the cushions indented where they had been leaning close. "Finley, you're home late," Lyra said, standing up quickly and crossing over to me, a faint edge of impatience under her smile as she took my coat. My eyes drifted to Jonah, who looked momentarily startled before his usual smug grin returned. He was relaxed, sprawled across the couch as though he owned the place, eyes darting between us with a mild curiosity. "Why did you bring him back here?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice even. Jonah looked down, his expression shifting to feigned guilt. "Sorry, Finley. I was in town for work and Lyra mentioned it'd be fine if I stayed over. You don't mind, do you?" I could feel Lyra's gaze on me, watching closely, gauging my reaction. "If you do mind, Finley, I'll have Jonah stay at a hotel," she added, crossing her arms, the challenge clear in her eyes. I looked between them, a calm, detached smile forming on my lips. "I don't mind," I said, feeling a strange satisfaction at the shock that flickered across their faces. I turned my gaze back to Jonah, keeping my voice steady. "You two have been childhood friends, inseparable since you were kids. Why would I mind?" Without a word, I turned and retreated to the study, closing the door firmly behind me. I sank into the leather chair, the faint scent of old books and cedar offering a small comfort. Turning on my laptop, I immersed myself in work. But the solitude was short-lived. A soft knock broke through my concentration and Lyra's voice filtered through the door, tentative and sweet. "Finley? Are you really not mad?" She hesitated, then knocked again. "Finley?" Every time before, when she tried to have Jonah stay at our place, we would end up in a huge fight.

I'd accuse her of lacking boundaries and she'd snap back, calling me insecure and petty. We'd argue until we were both worn out, parting in silence that clung like smoke after a fire. But tonight, as she glanced at me, expecting a familiar spark of resentment, I stayed calm. Her face fell, uncertain. "Are you angry?" she asked again, her voice holding a wary edge. I couldn't hold back a bitter laugh. "Lyra, I really don't mind. What's making you so anxious? Even if you both shared a bed, I wouldn't blink an eye." She squinted, searching my face for a trace of my old anger. When she found none, she exhaled, visibly relaxing. "Good, as long as you're not upset. He's only staying one night; he'll be gone by tomorrow." The sound of running water came from the bathroom and then Jonah's voice called out, "Lyra, can you grab me a towel?" "Coming," she replied, picking up a fresh towel and heading to the bathroom without hesitation. I watched as she went, her tone absurdly gentle as she reminded him, "Be careful, the floor is slippery." A memory of similar moments flashed in my mind, times when I'd needed a towel or a small favor. She'd always huff, barely masking her irritation, her words clipped: "Can't you handle that yourself? What would you do without me?" I thought bitterly, it wasn't the task that bothered her—it was me. At ten o'clock, Lyra knocked softly on the study door, her voice tentative. "When are you going to bed?" Without looking up from my laptop, I replied evenly, "You go ahead. I'll sleep in here tonight." Her footsteps receded and soon the apartment settled into an uneasy quiet. I wasn't sure when I fell asleep, but when I awoke, the digital clock on my desk read 3 a.m. I was parched, so I started to get up for a glass of water when I heard muted voices seeping through the wall from the bedroom. Jonah's low voice, slightly smug, cut through the silence. "Lyra, don't you think this is exciting?" I could hear Lyra's whisper, her tone full of a breathy, teasing scold. "Stop it. My husband is in the study. If he hears us, there'll be trouble." Jonah's voice turned sullen. I imagined Lyra coaxing him with that familiar softness. "Be patient. Tomorrow night, I'll say I have to work late and then I'll spend the whole night with you." The corner of my mouth curled into a smirk as I quietly closed my laptop. *** The next morning, I left for work early, slipping out while the apartment was still in shadows. By the time Lyra's calls began, I'd already submitted my resignation letter. My boss, looking bewildered, called me into his office. "Finley, you're at a crucial point here. Your career's just gaining traction. Are you sure about this? Is something going on that I can help with?" I shook my head, managing a polite smile. "Thank you, but I'm ready for a change. I want to start fresh, somewhere new." He sighed, eyeing me with concern before reluctantly approving my resignation. Lyra, still drowsy, finally got through to me as I was walking out of the building. "Honey, do you want breakfast? I'll make something when I get home," she offered, her voice smooth with an affectionate tone that felt oddly out of place. I kept my voice neutral. "I've already eaten." In the early years of our marriage, breakfast had been one of her small ways of showing care. She'd pack neat little sandwiches for me, cut fruit into shapes. But that had stopped after one morning when I'd absently reached for a sandwich she'd made and her face had turned cold as steel. "That's not for you," she'd snapped. "Are you that greedy? That's for a client!" Later, I'd learned the truth. The breakfast hadn't been for a client—it was for Jonah. I'd found out he'd once mentioned craving a sandwich on social media and Lyra had gone out of her way to make it happen. On the other end of the call, Lyra paused, then spoke, her voice softer. "Tonight… why don't you wait for me at home? I'll come back early and cook dinner for us." It didn't matter anymore. I knew what I needed to do. The decision was already made—our marriage was coming to an end.

"Alright," I agreed casually to Lyra's offer to cook dinner. She had no idea I'd printed the divorce papers that morning, neatly stacked in a folder on my desk, waiting for the right moment. When I returned home that evening, the kitchen was filled with warmth and the comforting aroma of her cooking—a rare scene in recent years. Lyra had prepared an impressive spread, plating each dish with care as if this was an apology, though she never said it out loud. At the table, she filled my bowl with rice, her tone almost sweet. "Honey, Jonah has been helping my company a lot recently. He doesn't ask for much—just a small 5% stake in my company. Do you think you could transfer a bit of your shares to him?" As she spoke, she served the last dish onto the table, a perfectly arranged meal that looked, smelled and even tasted perfect. Yet, the moment I heard her request, my appetite withered. I set my spoon down, studying her face with an odd calm. "Sure." Lyra blinked, visibly taken aback. The last time she'd tried to involve Jonah in anything related to my finances, I'd balked and we'd argued for hours. But now, I felt strangely numb. I left the dining room, heading to the study to draft the agreement. The share transfer was straightforward—my lawyer had already sent me a template in anticipation. I signed it quickly and brought it back to the table, placing it in front of her. She stared, looking incredulous. "Honey, you... agreed?" Her voice was hesitant, almost wary. "Yes," I said smoothly, "I signed it. You just need to add your signature here, here and here." She scanned the document, her expression a mix of disbelief and surprise. Without a second thought, she picked up the pen and signed her name, the ink still drying as she handed the contract back to me. Her face softened and she offered me a warm smile as she ladled some soup into my bowl. "Honey, you've been so… gentle lately." Her voice was coaxing, trying to gauge my mood. "When we have a child in the future, I'm sure we'll be so happy together. Don't you think?" I said nothing, stirring my soup absently, knowing there was no "future" for us. She seemed content with my silence, interpreting it as agreement and continued eating with a newfound ease. *** The next morning, I left early, watching as Lyra hurried to pack her things for her "business trip." I'd seen her schedule on her phone last night, noting the plans she'd made with Jonah to tour a few "prospective properties" for her company. She wouldn't be back for several days. Once she was gone, I wasted no time. I called a real estate agent and put our apartment on the market. It was my premarital asset, a place I'd bought after five years of saving and hard work. When Lyra had been struggling to afford rent, I'd let her move in. But as her business grew, she never mentioned moving or even contributing to the household costs, always brushing off the suggestion with a smile and a casual "We're too attached to this place to leave it." While she'd once given me her earnings to manage, that habit faded over time, until all that remained were her company dividends. When I discovered she'd bought Jonah a duplex in a high-end neighborhood—one that cost nearly ten times the value of our modest home—I'd felt the last strands of loyalty slipping away. Within three days, the apartment was sold, thanks to its prime location and excellent condition. I finalized the sale, sold off my remaining shares in Lyra's company and split half of our shared assets. By the time I stepped out of the bank, my bags were packed, my lease signed for a new apartment and my flight ticket purchased. I'd left the city without looking back. *** A week later, Lyra and Jonah strolled through a bustling mall, the vibrant hum of shoppers filling the air. They stopped at a high-end boutique, where Lyra's gaze lingered on an elegant silk tie in the display. Without a second thought, she pointed it out to the salesperson, who carefully wrapped it in a box. As she handed the box to Jonah, a playful smile spread across his face. "How did you know I've been wanting this one?" he asked, assuming the gift was meant for him. Lyra held the tie close to her chest, her expression softening as she met his eyes. "It's not for you," she said, her voice carrying a gentle, almost wistful tone. Jonah's smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face as he watched her. Lyra's gaze drifted off, her eyes softening as if she were speaking to someone else entirely. "It's for my husband," she murmured, almost to herself. "These days, he's been so... gentle, so accommodating. He never complains, always listens and agrees to everything I ask."

"This tie is something he's always wanted, just a little reward for him," Lyra said. She stood outside our apartment, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Her eyes bright with anticipation as she inserted the key into the lock, imagining the surprise on my face. But the door wouldn't budge. Frowning, she jiggled the key, twisting it again. Nothing. Her smile faded. "Finley?" she called, her voice uncertain as she knocked. After a moment, the door creaked open and Lyra straightened, still holding the carefully wrapped gift box. Her lips curved in a smile, ready to surprise me, but the scene before her stopped her cold. Inside, a burly man with a grizzled face and a rough appearance leaned casually against the door frame, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked her over with mild disinterest, taking a drag and blowing the smoke lazily. "Who are you?" he asked, his tone rough. Lyra's smile vanished, her face tightening as she looked around. "Who am I? Who are you? This is my home. Where's Finley?" Her heart pounded as she scanned the familiar walls, hoping to spot something, anything, that belonged to her. The man raised an eyebrow, chuckling darkly. "Hey, young lady, what are you doing trying to break into a private residence? This is my new apartment. You must be looking for the previous owner." He shook his head, his tone mocking. "He sold this place. Didn't you know?" The words hit her like a slap and she stumbled back. She looked at the man, her disbelief clear, then back at the apartment, at every familiar corner and shadow. Eight years she had lived here with me; they had painted these walls, picked out the furniture together. The very air felt like it should belong to her. "No," she said, her voice barely a whisper, shaking her head in stunned disbelief. "That's impossible! Just two weeks ago, I was living here. This is my home with my husband. We've been here for eight years!" She tried to step forward, desperate to prove this was still her home, but the man stepped in front of her, his body blocking her path. He gave her a hard shove, nearly knocking her off her feet. "Listen," he said with a scoff, "Look at you, all dressed up—don't you look like you could afford a place? The previous owner decided to leave and sold it. Since you say you're his wife, shouldn't you have known? Or are you here trying to scam us? Better leave quickly!" With a final sneer, he shut the door in her face, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. Lyra was left standing there, staring blankly at the closed door, her mind spinning. She clutched the gift box with the tie, her fingers shaking. "Finley," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What is going on?" Desperation clawed at her and she fumbled with her phone, trying to call me. The call went straight to voicemail. Her hands trembled as she opened her messaging app, typing out a quick message only for a red exclamation mark to flash on her screen, signaling that her message had been blocked. Her face drained of color, her voice rising in panic as she whispered to herself, "He blocked me? Finley, you promised we'd do one more round of IVF. What do you mean by blocking me out of nowhere?" She stood in the hallway, her breaths coming fast and shallow as she realized something was terribly wrong. She dialed my workplace, hoping for answers, pressing her phone to her ear as her heart thudded in her chest. "Hello?" she said, her voice tight. "This is Finley's wife. He's blocked me and I urgently need to reach him. Let me talk to him!" There was a pause before the voice on the other end responded, laced with a hint of sarcasm. "Finley quit last week. He took all his stuff with him. Didn't you know?"