After My Golden Died, I Divorced Him

It was near midnight at the veterinary clinic, and I was just about to shrug off my scrubs. Suddenly, a frantic young woman rushed in, tears streaming down her face as she cradled a convulsing Golden Retriever. "Please, you have to save him! I don't care how much it costs!" she shouted. I immediately snapped into work mode and rushed the dog into the emergency room. During a brief lull in the resuscitation, the girl finally caught her breath. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink as she started babbling about her husband. "He gave me this dog as an engagement gift," she said, a shy smile playing on her lips. "He's a medical examiner, so he always looks so cold and serious. But the second I even frown, he'll literally drop his scalpel and run over to soothe me." I was just about to smile and joke about the stark contrast when her phone screen lit up on the counter. My smile froze, and a cold dread washed over me. On her lock screen was a photo of a man holding her tightly in his arms, flashing a sickeningly doting smile. It was my husband, who claimed he was pulling an all-nighter at work. I stared at the screen, my stomach clenching in a violent spasm. In the photo, Julian Hayes wasn't wearing his usual black button-down. Instead, he sported a bright, youthful white hoodie. He had his head bowed, the tip of his nose almost brushing against hers, his eyes overflowing with an affection I hadn't seen in years. Yet, just this morning, he had kissed my forehead in that very black button-down, rushing out the door. "Babe, I've got a dismemberment case report due tomorrow," he told me. "I'll be up all night piecing together the remains. Don't wait up." Before he left, our old Golden Retriever, Buster, hobbled over to nuzzle against his leg. At ten years old, Buster's fur wasn't as bright and golden as it used to be, and he suffered from a chronic heart condition. But he always loved Julian the most. Leaning down, Julian gave Buster a soft pat on the head. His voice held that familiar, gentle warmth. "Be a good boy. Keep Mom company. I will be home as soon as I'm done." Little did I know, his definition of "work" meant spending the night with another woman and another dog. His eyes remained so clear and honest while he lied, carrying a faint flicker of remorse that made the deception feel almost tender. Fighting the violent trembling in my fingers, I fished my phone out of my coat pocket and opened my messages. Nina: Still in the morgue? Less than ten seconds later, my screen lit up. Julian: Yeah. The decomp on this one is brutal. Total nightmare. Don't wait up, babe. Go to sleep. I stared at his text and then slowly looked up at the girl sitting on the bench outside the ER. Her name was Chloe Davis. I had seen it on the intake form. Right now, her thumbs were flying across her phone screen, a sickeningly sweet smile hovering on her lips. "Doctor, Lucky is going to pull through, right?" Chloe suddenly looked up at me. I took a deep breath, shoved my phone back into my pocket, and slipped into my most professional tone. "It's acute toxicity. We've already pumped his stomach, but he needs to be hospitalized for overnight observation." Chloe let out a long sigh of relief and patted her chest. "Oh, thank God. Julian would be heartbroken if anything happened. He pulled so many strings to get this purebred imported for me." Completely oblivious to the storm raging inside me, Chloe dialed a number and put it on speaker. "Julian, Lucky's stomach is pumped, but the doctor says he has to stay overnight," she whined, her voice dripping with helpless vulnerability. Through the speaker came a voice I knew better than my own. The voice that whispered goodnight to me every single evening. "Don't panic. I'm on my way," Julian said, his tone low and soothing. "Are you scared? Are you feeling any chest pain or discomfort?" Chloe replied, "I'm okay. I just feel so bad for Lucky. Please hurry." "Be a good girl. Give me ten minutes," Julian said. The call disconnected. Chloe looked up at me with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Vance. My husband is just a total worrywart when it comes to me. He'll be right here to cover the bill." I remained quiet. Turning away, I chucked the used syringes into the biohazard bin. The hollow plastic clatter echoed sharply in the quiet room. How I endured those ten minutes was a mystery to me. A million thoughts raced through my mind. I even visualized grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and splashing it right into Julian's face the second he walked through the door. But I didn't. I simply sat at my desk in silence, filing away Lucky's case file. ***** Exactly ten minutes later, the glass doors of the clinic were shoved open. Julian stormed in, bringing a gust of cold night air with him. He was out of breath, his eyes desperately sweeping the lobby. Then, he looked up. Our eyes locked. In that split second, I saw the violent tremor and sheer panic shatter his composure. His feet rooted to the floor, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Chloe cried out like a joyful songbird, throwing herself directly into his arms. "Julian!" Julian stiffened completely. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air. He couldn't bring himself to hug her, but he couldn't push her away either. His eyes remained deadlocked on mine, practically begging me to keep my mouth shut. I stayed in my seat without moving a muscle, fixing my icy gaze on the lovely pair holding each other. Julian finally choked out, but his voice was hoarse. "Dr. Vance, thank you for your hard work tonight." He called me "Dr. Vance". For the first time in seven years, my husband addressed me like a complete stranger.