Cruel Husband, I Don’t Want It Anymore!

On a typhoon day, my husband rang our son at school out of the blue, craving oranges, and told him to grab some.

Our boy battled the gale and downpour to fetch the oranges, but got nailed by a falling tree on route.

By the time I got wind of it and dashed to the hospital, he was gasping his final breaths.

"Dad craved oranges, but I messed up. Sorry..."

He couldn't get the words out before he slipped away, still clutching the shattered oranges.

Tears streaming, I blew up my husband's phone till he finally answered. His first words? "Which part of your body is super sensitive?"

With laughter echoing from his end, I was shaking with rage. I blurted out, "Alexander, you loathe oranges! Why'd you send our son?"

His old flame's tearful voice cracked through. "Claire, don't rag on Alex. I flunked a dare, and he had your boy run the errand to save my hide. Blame me, okay?"

Drying my eyes, I shot back frostily, "Tell your boy he’d better come home and sign these divorce papers."

Alexander was all sweet nothings to Vivian, then snapped at me, "Divorce’s fine, but I’m keeping the kid."

Like a zombie, I dragged myself around, sorting the funeral solo.

For three whole days, Alexander might as well have been off-planet, not a peep from him.

Wrapped up in Vivian, he’d totally spaced on us.

"This dump’s a pigsty! Clean it up, will you?" He barked as he stormed back in after three days.

Swapping his shoes, he casually swiped a finger over the table, scowling at the dust.

Muttering his orders, he strutted off to the shower.

With his germ phobia, Alexander’s pad was off-limits to outsiders. To keep him cozy, I’d been the queen of clean for a decade—no days off.

But his nagging now? I tuned it out, numb.

Stepping out of the shower, he found me on the sofa, stone-faced.

He studied my puffy, red eyes and frowned, "Still stewing over that silly game? It’s peanuts, isn’t it?"

Fuming, I fired back, "Peanuts? You think sending our kid into a storm for your least favorite snack is peanuts?"

Those peanuts got him killed!

My heart tore up, thinking how our boy blamed himself for those smashed oranges right till the end.

Catching my sudden outburst, Alexander looked taken aback and offered, "He mad? No biggie. I’ll smooth things over next holiday. He’s always been a daddy’s boy—he’ll come around."

He chucked a fancy gift box at me.

"Check this out, see if it’s your style."

Casting a glance at the box, I was certain that Inside was a necklace.

"Picked it out just for you," he claimed.

But the box had been tampered with.

If my memory served right, this necklace had made a cameo in Vivian’s socials two days back.

Her post read: "He said only the finest for me," as she flaunted it."

She smiled in the selfie, mirroring the diamond necklace reflecting bright sunshine.

But there it was in her trash in the background—a rejected gift.

The same necklace Alexander gave to me.

What a joke.

He was palming off Vivian’s castoffs on me.

I barely glanced at it and calmly asked, "So, when’s this divorce happening?"

Alexander’s mood soured, "Claire, enough already!"

"Fine, but the kid’s mine. You'll have to hash it out with him yourself!"

He stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door.

That’s Alexander all over—every fight ends with a bang and the silent treatment, no matter who's winning.

I’d always groveled, mending fences. Not this time.

But not this time.

I whipped out the prepped divorce papers from the drawer, signed off briskly, and marched out with my suitcase.