On my fiftieth birthday, I came across my husband's phone and noticed his search history: "How to prolong intimate moments?" After more than twenty years of marriage, our relationship had been purely platonic since the birth of our child. Seeing page after page of these searches made my hand tremble uncontrollably. Reflecting on all those years spent tirelessly supporting my family seemed like a cruel joke. In the end, I understood that both my husband and son had others they cared for more deeply. So, I calmly requested a divorce, determined to start living for myself from that day forward.

When my husband, Wade, called, I was buying shrimp at the seafood market. I grew up by the coast and always loved seafood before I married. But Wade and my son, Imran, are allergic, so seafood vanished from our menu. Today, I suddenly didn’t feel like making compromises anymore. I decided to buy whatever I fancied. On the phone, Wade's voice was assertive, "Bring some papers to the law firm for me. And pick up a couple of boxes of those gingerbread cookies from the well-known bakery downtown—they're a hit with my colleagues. Make sure they're gluten-free."

Our house is in the northern part of town, which meant at least a two-hour round trip to the bakery. Wade’s law firm is mostly filled with men who aren't particularly fond of sweets. The name almost slipping from his lips was Claire, his first love. She's a partner at the firm, and those gingerbread cookies are her favorite. This time, I didn’t rush to agree as usual. Instead, I replied coolly, "I'm busy right now. You can ask Marcelo, your assistant, to handle it."

Wade seemed caught off guard by my straightforward refusal, pausing before replying with a hint of irritation, "You're at home all day with nothing to do. How are you busy? I'll send Marcelo to get the papers; you just need to buy the cookies. No extra trip needed."

As always, he disregarded my words, completely ignoring my feelings. I don't know why, but a wave of resentment surged inside me, and I couldn't help but shout into the phone, "I said I'm busy, Wade! Do you not understand? I won't deliver the documents, nor will I buy those cookies! Whoever wants them can get them!"

Wade seemed surprised by my sudden outburst and uncharacteristically softened his tone, "Are you having a bad day? Fine, if you don't want to buy them, I'll ask Marcelo. No need to make a fuss."

I didn’t respond, focusing on calming myself with deep breaths. Just as I was about to ask when he’d be home, I realized he had already hung up. Half an hour later, as I returned home with groceries, Marcelo arrived to pick up the documents. He dropped off a box of spiced honey cake, mentioning that Wade and Imran would be working late tonight. I nodded, long used to such news.

It wasn’t until I scrolled through Imran's Facebook updates that I saw him celebrating a courtroom victory for Claire's divorce case. In the photos, Claire, at fifty, looked remarkably well-preserved, not a wrinkle on her face. She linked arms with Wade, nestled comfortably between my husband and son, as if they were one perfect little family. Apparently, Wade and Imran had completely forgotten today was my birthday. Remembering their "working late" excuse, tears unexpectedly welled up. I suddenly felt how foolish all my efforts over the past two decades had been. I quickly wiped away the tears and continued enjoying my sumptuous seafood dinner. Memories of a life revolving around my husband and son flashed through my mind. But from now on, I would live for myself.

By the time Wade came home, it was nine in the evening, and I was flipping through travel guides for road trips across Europe. It was a dream I'd nurtured since my youth but had never realized because I didn't have a driver's license. Later, caring for Imran from kindergarten through college graduation consumed over twenty years of my life. The trip was postponed time and again, eventually fading from conversation, but now the opportunity had finally arrived.

When Wade entered, his demeanor lacked the warmth he reserved for Claire. His behavior was always particularly cool towards me; tonight, massaging his forehead, he requested, "Could you make some chicken soup? I've had a few drinks, and my stomach's acting up."

In the past, if he'd mentioned feeling unwell, I'd have rushed over immediately, full of concern. But now, without even looking up, I replied, "I'm busy. You can handle it yourself."

Wade's face grew stern. "What's gotten into you tonight? Busy with what exactly? We ate out; you didn't even have to cook dinner. And you can't manage to make a bowl of soup?"

I finally paused my scrolling and met Wade's gaze. Despite the gray in his hair, his dedication to fitness made it hard to spot his age—he was past fifty yet still fit. As a prominent lawyer, he was invariably polished and controlled. I always figured his aloofness was inherent, but reality struck hard. His extensive search history laid bare his disregard for me, leaving my heart aching.

Speaking with a strained voice, I said, "Let's divorce, Wade."

Time seemed to halt for a few moments, Wade stopped mid-shirt-removal, staring in shock, patience exhausted. "You're being ridiculous! We're too old for this divorce talk!"

In silence, I handed him the tablet from the coffee table, the search history exposed. More incriminating was the cart of intimate health products on Amazon, destined for Claire's address. Wade's eyes widened with anger; he raised his voice, lecturing me. "Julie, who do you think you are, snooping through my stuff? Don't you understand the importance of privacy?"

A moment later, seemingly aware he'd tipped his hand, he backtracked, "Don't start with this nonsense. Maybe Imran used my account..."

"We've been married for decades, and you've continually shown no trust in me!" At this, I unveiled his deceit further. "Imran bought these items, and they're being shipped to Claire's place? Wade, after all these years of marriage, you think you can con me like a fool?"

Flushed with anger, Wade stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Imran arrived home shortly after, his tone exasperated. "Mom, seriously? You're too old to be kicking Dad out of the house. We were just celebrating Aunt Claire's finalized divorce today. What's the big deal?"

He assumed I was irritated with his father over the celebration, but as his gaze dropped to the tablet, his expression shifted. Imran appeared uneasy and guilty, yet unsurprised. I realized he was in on it too, and disappointment washed over me.

"It's an occasion because I'm divorcing your dad as well."

"What… what?" Imran blinked in disbelief. "You're blowing this out of proportion. You're old enough to let things slide. Plus, I'm bringing my girlfriend home tomorrow. How am I supposed to handle this situation?"

Taking a moment, I truly viewed this son I had singlehandedly raised for the first time. "You'll manage as you would regardless. Your dad and I separating doesn't alter you bringing your girlfriend home."

To my surprise, Imran blurted out, "But of course it changes things! I don't want people saying I come from a broken home. Can't you just let it go, Mom?"

Like his father, he stormed out. I watched the uncanny temper displayed by both father and son, unconcerned about where they were heading. I finished my tasks and then retired for the night.