Divorced Five Years, My Ex Still Spoils Me

When my husband Simon Reid returned from his business trip, he brought me a pair of high heels. Only minutes earlier, I had scrolled past an i********: photo of his ex-wife Megan Porter wearing the exact same pair of red-soled heels beneath the caption: Megan: Divorced for five years, and my ex-husband still hasn't broken the habit of bringing me gifts from his trips~ For once, I stayed silent, swallowing the questions and resentment that used to rise in my chest whenever he brought home another gift so obviously chosen with another woman in mind. After thanking him softly, I carried the shoes to the cabinet by the hallway, where six other pairs of heels already sat lined up in perfect order. Every single pair was size 6, even though I had always worn size 5. That was Megan's size. In the living room, Tessa sat on the rug eating the snacks Simon had picked up at the airport, while he lounged on the couch, smiling into a video call with the son he shared with his ex-wife. On the screen, Tommy Reid excitedly held up a limited-edition Transformers figure. "Thanks, Dad! You waited in line three hours just to get this for me? I love it!" Simon's eyes softened instantly, the warmth in his expression almost unfamiliar. "Then it was worth the wait," he said with a smile. "I'll get you another one next time." It was only after the room suddenly fell silent that unease twisted through my chest. I turned around so quickly my slippers nearly slipped off my feet and saw Tessa collapsed beside the coffee table, her tiny face flushed a frightening shade of red as she clawed weakly at her throat, struggling for air. "Daddy..." Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whimpered helplessly. "It hurts..." Yet Simon noticed nothing. Still sprawled on the couch with his attention fixed entirely on the phone screen, he laughed at something Tommy had said, completely oblivious as Tessa choked only a few feet away. Cold sweat instantly broke across my back. "Simon!" I screamed. "Call an ambulance!" He jolted violently, as though waking from a dream, before hurriedly ending the video call. By the time we arrived at the emergency room, everything had already descended into chaos. The doctor glanced at the test results, his face darkening immediately. "What kind of parents are you?" he demanded sharply. "Your daughter has a severe peanut allergy, and neither of you knew?" "And these symptoms had clearly been going on for at least ten minutes. How did neither of you notice?" Simon froze briefly before instinctively turning toward me. "Claire, come on," he said defensively. "You're her mother. How could you not know she's allergic to peanuts? You should have told me." I stared at him in disbelief, unable to find even the slightest trace of guilt on his face. The sheer absurdity of the accusation made my stomach churn. "Simon," I said quietly, "how dare you?" I pulled out my phone, opened our chat history, and shoved the screen directly in front of him. The words "peanut allergy" appeared throughout our messages because I had reminded him countless times over the years. His replies, however, were always painfully brief. Simon's expression stiffened awkwardly before he forced out an uncomfortable laugh. "Sorry," he muttered. "I forgot again. That's my fault." The word "forgot" almost made me laugh. Simon claimed his memory was terrible, yet he somehow remembered perfectly that Megan wore a size 6 and that Tommy wanted a limited-edition Transformers figure badly enough for him to stand in line three hours to buy it. What he could never seem to remember was that I wore size 5, that my days revolved around grocery stores and farmers' markets where delicate designer heels had no place, or that our daughter had a life-threatening peanut allergy. He also never seemed to remember the countless reminders and complaints I had repeated to him. So was his memory really that bad? I held Tessa's tiny hand as she slept quietly in the hospital bed, her face pale beneath the fluorescent lights. The IV needle in her hand felt like it was piercing my own flesh. Only then did I finally look up at him. "Simon," I said softly, "let's get a divorce."