I turned and walked out of the room without looking back.
In the hallway, my steps felt lighter, as if a weight had lifted off my chest. For the first time in years, I realized I wasn’t responsible for cleaning up his messes.
It was over. Whatever happened next was up to him.
A few days later, I received a call from the hospital.
It wasn’t the doctor. It was Oliver.
“Jen, please,” he begged. His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
“She didn’t come. I’m alone here. I need you.”
I said nothing, gripping the phone tightly as his words sank in.
The “real wife” wasn’t so real after all. She hadn’t shown up, not for the surgery, not for anything. She’d disappeared the moment she realized he wasn’t the man he pretended to be.
“Jen?” he whispered.
“You made your choice, Oliver,” I said, my tone steady.
“Now you can deal with the consequences.”
I hung up and blocked his number.
In the weeks that followed, I heard through mutual friends that Oliver’s career was falling apart. Word of his affair spread at work. The woman he’d paraded at the party was no longer seen with him, and his charm didn’t seem to fool anyone anymore.
But I didn’t feel sorry for him.
I felt free.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t carrying the weight of his lies. Instead of worrying about his needs, I focused on myself.
I signed up for a pottery class—a silly dream I’d put off for years. I spent weekends hiking trails I’d always wanted to explore.
I started painting again, filling my apartment with canvases splashed with color.
For years, I, Jennifer, had been the dutiful wife. But now, Jen was stepping into her own life.
