Five years ago, I went to the bridal boutique early, wanting to surprise my fianc.
Instead, I watched him dress my best friend in *my* wedding gown.
I fled the boutique, only to be hit by a car, leaving me with paralyzed legs.
Everyone praised him for his unwavering devotion, for caring for me steadfastly for five years.
But only I knew
It wasn’t love. It was atonement.
And I never planned to forgive him.
Liam would lift me out of bed every morning, help with my physical therapy, and massage my legs before I slept.
He became increasingly cautious around me, almost embarrassingly eager to please.
I didn’t resist, didn’t respond. I was so stingy, I wouldn’t even grant him a glance.
One day, he finally snapped:
“Tell me, what more do I have to do? It’s been five years, Audrey are we really going to live like this forever?”
I slowly lowered my gaze, a cold, bitter smile twisting my lips.
“Liam, don’t you get it? Between you and me, only death can end this.”
Liam looked as if hed been struck by lightning.
He gripped me fiercely, his strength so immense it felt like my bones would shatter. His voice was choked with tears:
“You can yell at me! Hit me! Hate me! Just stop being a doll! Can’t we start over?”
Start over? I let him hold me, finding it utterly laughable.
After the accident five years ago, Liam had poured everything into caring for me, never giving up.
From physical therapy massages to late-night vigils.
Everyone lauded his profound devotion.
Even my parents, who had always doted on me, chastised me for being too harsh:
“Stop tormenting him, just try to live a good life.”
But they would never know the truth of that car accident.
That afternoon, five years ago, I had finished work early, giddy with anticipation, rushing to the bridal boutique.
I wanted him to be the first to see me in my wedding dress.
Instead, outside the changing room, I heard Chloe’s syrupy voice, my best friends voice:
“If I wasn’t her best friend, would you break up with her and be with me?”
Through the crack in the door, I saw her wearing the wedding dress that was meant for me.
Liam’s hand gently caressed her waist.
“Yes.”
He answered without a moment’s hesitation.
A lingering kiss landed on the corner of her lips.
In that instant, my world shattered.
I stumbled out of the bridal boutique, reeling.
Driving away in a daze.
Then, at the next intersection, I collided with an out-of-control truck.
Liam’s hot tears streamed down my neck.
But all I felt was a bone-deep cold.
He knew, of course.
From the first moment I opened my eyes and looked at him, he understood.
I knew everything.
For five years, he lived with me, burdened by guilt, trapped in a repetitive existence.
Everyone thought it was devotion.
Only we both understood it was a mutual, unspoken punishment.
“That day at the bridal boutique”
His voice was hoarse.
“I saw you in the mirror.”
My fingertips trembled.
This was the first time in five years hed mentioned that day.
“When I chased after you, your car had already sped off.”
He knelt before my wheelchair, his shoulders shaking.
“Every day for these past five years, I’ve thought, what if I hadn’t been so foolish? What if I hadn’t answered her that one word out of a moment of weakness?”
“But Audrey, Chloe and I were over long ago.”
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot.
“You’re the one I love.”
I watched his agony, and suddenly, it felt so absurd.
He thought I still cared about his betrayal with Chloe.
Cared whether he still loved me.
But when I witnessed that scene in the bridal boutique, my love for him ended right then.
Every time he massaged my atrophied legs, all I could think of was that same hand caressing Chloes waist.
When he pushed me to the hospital for check-ups, my mind replayed the moment he so readily agreed.
If I hadn’t been paralyzed.
They probably would have overcome all obstacles and been together by now.
So, “only death can end this”
That was my curse to him.
Liam fell into a heavy sleep on the couch after his outburst.
His phone vibrated persistently on the carpet, the screen flickering on and off.
On a sudden impulse, I maneuvered my wheelchair over and picked it up.
The string of numbers flashing on the screen, even without a saved contact, I knew by heartChloe.
“Liam! Why aren’t you answering your phone! Is she the only one on your mind?! Your son is dying”
Chloe’s frantic, tearful voice on the other end pierced my eardrums, almost shattering them.
Son.
Those two words were like a poisoned icicle, stabbing fiercely into my heart.
Freezing all my blood instantly.
I clutched the phone, my fingertips icy. A metallic taste flooded my throat.
“Then let him die.”
I heard my own venomous voice, devoid of any inflection.
The line fell silent.
Then, Chloe seemed to find her outlet for all her pent-up rage.
My once closest friend spewed the most vile insults, cursing frantically:
“Audrey! It’s you! Why are you still clinging to Liam! Why don’t you let everyone be happy! Why don’t you just die! Why didn’t you die in that car accident five years ago! You’ll get your comeuppance! You’ll burn in hell!”
Comeuppance?
I listened to her curses, looking down, my other hand unconsciously covering my cold, flat, numb abdomen.
I remembered the doctors regretful, yet brutal, announcement when I woke up five years ago:
“Ms. Audrey, the car crash caused a uterine rupture and severe hemorrhage. We did our best. You won’t be able to have children in the future.”
At that time, what I lost was more than just my legs.
It was also a child, newly conceived, who never got to see the world.
And the right to be a mother.
I smiled softly into the phone.
My voice was as ethereal as smoke:
“Chloe, my comeuppance already arrived.”
The moment you wore my wedding dress and heard him say ‘yes.’
The moment I lost my child and was forever broken.
This hell, I’m already in it.
I’m not afraid to drag you all down with me.
The next morning, after waking up, Liam reverted to his role as the perfect husband.
Gentle, patient.
He meticulously concealed all his pain and regret.
The distraught, vulnerable man from last night had vanished, evaporated like dew in the morning sun.
Over these five years, his career had soared. Our home was staffed with professional nannies and caregivers.
Yet, anything concerning me, he insisted on doing himself whenever he was home.
Right now, he was kneeling on one knee before my wheelchair, gently wiping my fingers with a warm towel.
Every crevice, every cuticle, perfectly cared for.
The sunlight outlined his downcast profile, creating an illusion of profound devotion.
Breakfast was the porridge hed personally cooked.
He scooped a spoonful, naturally bringing it to my lips:
“The weather’s beautiful today. Shall I take you for a stroll by the lake later?”
I didn’t respond; he was long used to it.
He talked to himself about the new flowers by the lake, and which tree had sprouted fresh buds.
Just as he was about to push me out, his assistant rushed in, whispering that he couldn’t reach Liam on his phone, then pulled him aside for a private conversation.
Liam’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then he turned back with an apologetic expression:
“Something urgent came up at the office. I need to go.”
He didnt even have time to change out of his light grey casual wear before he hurried out with his assistant.
I watched him disappear. I knew exactly what was going on.
It certainly wasn’t about the office.
I knew very well that for these past five years, he was never short of other women.
I could sometimes detect the scent of perfume, not mine, on his suits.
I remembered the faint, yet unmistakable, scratch on his neck when he returned from a “business trip.”
I’d also glimpsed the continuous notifications on his phone screen, quickly dismissed when he placed it face down.
He believed he was hiding it perfectly, playing the role of devoted and repentant husband for me.
Little did he know, Id lost even the curiosity to expose him.
How many affairs he had outside meant no more to me than the clouds drifting by or the wind blowing past the window.
But a child was different.
I remembered the faint sound of a childs voice accidentally leaking from his phone.
Hatred, like a venomous vine, choked me, tightening its grip until I could barely breathe.
Almost instinctively, I wheeled myself to the study and logged into my social media account, untouched for five years.
Chloe’s Ins account wasn’t private.
With ease, I found the child.
The boy in the photos looked under two years old.
Chloe held him close in an amusement park.
Another photo showed Liam in casual clothes, bending down to wipe sweat from the boy’s forehead.
His profile showed a genuine, relaxed tenderness I hadnt seen in a long time.
Countless fragments pieced together their happy family life: parent-child restaurants, park picnics, birthday parties at home
I scrolled through them, one by one, my face devoid of expression.
Only my hand, gripping the mouse, was slightly white from the excessive pressure.
The fortress Id built over five years with cold indifference, meant to keep out all pain,
Was now violently ripped open, leaving a bloody gash.
Why?
Why was it that while I had lost my child, forever stripped of the right to be a mother,
They could have a healthy, living child who cried and laughed, who called him ‘Daddy’?
The thought of a child, born of his and Chloe’s blood, growing up day by day, softly calling them “Mommy” and “Daddy,”
Receiving all their love and care
This image made me sick to my stomach.
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