The Wife He Left Behind

My eyes stared into space trying to control the way I breathe. Panic was beginning to settle in my chest as my eyes widened by the minute. Today was supposed to be our anniversary, but where was Caleb? I looked around me vigorously, but there was no sign of him coming up to me with a smile on his face. I had made a reservation at 8 p.m at Melo's—the Italian place where Caleb had proposed to me on a rainy Thursday, his knee on a damp sidewalk because we could not afford the restaurant that night. Back then, he was mine—he would not have missed this day for anything. I sat at that table, alone, for over forty minutes—the candle burned low. The waiter stopped looking at me with sympathy and started looking at me with pity. I ordered wine I did not want and drank it anyway. I looked at my screen, and there was no call or even a message from him. When I finally got home, I wasn't even angry; I felt light—empty. I changed out of the red dress I had bought specifically for tonight, hung it on the back of the door, and sat on the edge of our bed in the silence. I had news for him. Big news. News I had been carrying around for three days, terrified and thrilled and waiting for the right moment. I had planned it carefully — the dinner, the candles, the small white box on the table when dessert arrived—it has a gift inside. I was hoping to get a warm smile from him when I gave this to him, but he didn't even show up. I needed to tell him that I was pregnant, on this happy day, that I was carrying his baby. But he was somewhere across the city throwing a party for his ex-girlfriend. I found out through i********:, of all places. Someone tagged Caleb at a rooftop bar — the kind we used to go to together when he still wanted to be seen with me. Ivy Carter was standing beside him, her arm through his, her head tilted back in laughter. He looked relaxed and happy. Like a man with nothing to apologize for. My phone buzzed at 11:47 p.m. It was Caleb. I bit on my lower lip. Anger I've been trying to avoid, built up in my chest. "I'm heading home. Sorry about tonight." He said, and that was it. Just seven words. No explanation, no call. Just a text like I was a colleague he had blown off for drinks. I did not reply. He walked in just past midnight, his jacket loose, the faint smell of bourbon on him. He did not look guilty—that was the part that broke me the most. He did not in any way look remorseful. "Lyra." He said my name, his voice nonchalant. "It's our anniversary," I said, my voice cold. "I know. I'm sorry, something came up." He said again, his voice flat and dry, devoid of any guilt. "Something," I repeated the word back to him slowly. "You threw a party for Ivy." He set his keys down on the counter. His jaw tightened, just slightly. "She's back in the city. She called and asked if I'd come through. It was not a big deal, Lyra." "She called, and you went." "We're friends." "Tonight," I said, standing now, my voice calm and steady, "was our fifth anniversary. I was at the restaurant for forty minutes. Alone." "I said I was sorry." He said as if I was bugging him, then made to go toward the bedroom. I stepped into his path. He looked at me and I confirmed it. Not a single guilt. All I saw was Impatience, ready to leave my presence. It was almost as if my sight now disgusted him. "I'm tired, Lyra.” He muttered, his voice, annoyed. I stared at him, my face expressionless while thinking about the little soul growing inside my stomach now. I was not going to tell him tonight. Not like this. Not when he looked at me like I was an inconvenience he had to get through before sleep. I sat on the couch for a long time after the bedroom light went out—alone, in the dark. I sighed deeply as my chest constricted with pain and uncertainty. Five good years of loving a man, to get this in return. I tried to control the pain, but I couldn’t lie to myself. My heart was shattered. Caleb had broken me beyond repair. Tears I knew from nowhere brimmed in my eyes. A few minutes later, I fell asleep on the couch. In the morning, Caleb was already gone. And on the kitchen counter, he had left absolutely nothing, not even a note or breakfast to show he still thinks about me.