The Chicago sky was the color of slate, weeping a gentle drizzle. Chloe, eight months pregnant, pulled her coat collar tighter and drove alone to the supermarket. Her husband, Mark, had told her he had an urgent early-morning conference call. She didn’t think much of it, just felt a familiar ache of loneliness as she had to buy every diaper, every bottle for their coming child, all by herself.
The weekend supermarket was jammed. After choosing a few items, she heard a voice. A painfully familiar voice. It was Mark’s. Through a gap in the throng of shoppers, Chloe froze. Mark was holding hands with a young woman, laughing. The smile he gave her was one Chloe hadn’t seen in years—unguarded and brilliant.
“What are you in the mood for? I’ll buy you whatever you want,” the other woman cooed. “No, if I eat too much, I’ll get fat.” “I’ll love you even if you’re fat.”
Chloe stood as if carved from stone. She didn’t cry. She didn’t approach. She just watched the man she shared a bed with tenderly care for another woman, while his heavily pregnant wife navigated the crowded aisles alone. Tears didn’t fall. It wasn’t sadness. It was a cold, sharp shock.
She simply pulled out her phone. Her thumbs moved over the screen with a calm, chilling precision, and she sent her husband a text: “I see you. Looks like your ‘meeting’ is going well. I’m tired, so I’m heading home. You… just keep playing your part.”
After sending it, she turned off her phone. She didn’t need a reply.
Mark was laughing when his phone vibrated. His face went pale as he read the message. He let go of the girl’s hand and looked around frantically. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Mark didn’t answer, muttering, “Chloe… Chloe is here…” as he ran out of the supermarket. But Chloe was already gone.
When she got home, she didn’t go to their bedroom. She went straight to the kitchen. She placed everything she had bought for the baby on the table: a light blue onesie, woolen socks, diapers, a milk bottle. She lined them up, each tiny item a testament to a future that had just been stolen from her. She remembered the nights she’d spent pregnant and alone while he claimed to work late. She remembered the prenatal appointments she’d attended by herself. In the end, it wasn’t her imagination… it was someone else.
An hour later, Mark returned, his face broken. Seeing her sitting with her back to him, he said in a shattered voice: “Chloe… I’m so sorry…”
“Sorry for what?” she asked without turning around. “For your meeting?”
“I was wrong. She meant nothing. I never wanted to leave you. I didn’t think you’d see me…”
“And if I hadn’t seen you, how much longer would you have hidden it?” Chloe stood and faced him, her eyes frighteningly calm. “I don’t need you to leave her. I don’t need you to choose. I’ve already chosen for both of us.”
She placed a prepared folder on the table. Divorce papers.
“Sign them. I’m not asking for anything but the baby. And peace.”
Mark slumped into a chair, his head in his hands. He never imagined Chloe, his gentle wife, could be so resolute. He thought she would cry, beg, and forgive. But no: her eyes were as cold as iron.
“Do you still love me?” Mark asked desperately.
“A part of me will probably always love the man I thought you were,” she said, her voice even. “But the moment I saw you smile and hold her hand in that supermarket… I knew that love died.”
That sentence was the final verdict on their marriage. Months later, Chloe gave birth to a healthy son. The smile returned to her lips, a calm smile, free of ties. As for Mark, he would sometimes still appear at her door with gifts and eyes full of regret. But that door never opened for him again.