At six in the morning, Claire Hastings came home after working overtime.

She looked exhausted, but she hadn’t forgotten to bring me a bouquet of flowers.

She gently laid the roses on my pillow.

As always, she leaned in to kiss my forehead.

But this time, I quietly turned away and filed for divorce.

Claire stared at me in shock.

“Why? Because I worked too late?”

I shook my head.

“Because you sent me a message at five in the morning.”

——

It was short—just one line.

“Honey, I love you.”

The timestamp read 5:37 AM.

The location: Claire’s office.

At first, that message filled me with joy.

I was about to reply when something I once read online suddenly flashed through my mind.

“People leaving cat cafés will bring a treat home for their own cat—out of guilt.”

“Even cheaters will text ‘I love you’ to their partner after an affair.”

I wanted to believe Claire would never cheat.

She loved me—enough to shield me with her own body if I were hurt.

She worked tirelessly, often skipping meals, barely resting.

Someone like that couldn’t possibly have time for an affair.

That’s what I told myself.

Still, I checked her social media accounts.

Instagram, Facebook Messenger, even Amazon, and Microsoft Teams.

Nothing seemed unusual.

Until six that morning.

That’s when I saw someone new on her follow list.

Ethan Cross, a fresh intern at her firm.

Claire had mentioned him more than once.

She called him clumsy, slow, and useless at work.

At five AM, Ethan posted a status:

“The most romantic thing is watching the sunrise with your love after an intense workout.”

In the photo, morning sunlight lit up his young, handsome face.

A fair, delicate hand was wrapped around his waist.

If that hand wasn’t wearing the wedding ring that belonged to Claire and me,

I might have simply thought, Youth really is beautiful.

But at that moment, I already knew the truth.

Still, eight years together made me cling to denial.

I searched frantically for something—anything—to prove I was wrong.

People in love turn into detectives.

Using her Venmo records, Instagram step counts, and fuel consumption logs, I retraced her night.

At 7 PM, Claire told me she had to work late and was driving to meet a client.

At 8 PM, the deal fell through, and she returned to the office to revise her proposal.

By 3 AM, she took Ethan to a five-star hotel near the office.

By 5 AM, their passionate night had ended.

Ethan, glowing with satisfaction, greeted the rising sun.

And Claire, consumed by guilt, sent me that text.

Just like the saying goes—

The owner who leaves a cat café brings home canned food out of guilt.

And the cheater, slipping out after an affair, sends a text that says, “I love you.”

The flowers she brought me?

That was cat food.

When I uncovered all this,

I was shattered—furious, heartbroken, lost.

For a moment, I considered looking the other way, pretending I didn’t know.

We’d been together eight years. We had two beautiful children.

But the moment she opened the door,

and I caught the strong, unfamiliar scent of her cologne…

I understood immediately.

I couldn’t stomach this half-baked relationship.

And I couldn’t stay with a woman who might cheat at any moment. So, the word “divorce” came out of my mouth.

Without hesitation, without regret.

Claire, still unaware, frowned and glanced over at me.

She rubbed her temples and slumped lazily onto the sofa.

“Stop being so dramatic, will you?”

“I’ve been swamped all day. I’m exhausted.”

I didn’t give her a shoulder or leg massage, nor did I prepare her breakfast like usual.

Instead, I quietly pulled up Ethan’s profile and held my phone in front of her.

More than twenty videos featured Claire.

There were clips of them walking together under the setting sun.

Photos of them holding hands in a hot spring.

Though her face wasn’t clearly shown, our years together

made her identity unmistakable.

Besides, there were countless shots of flowers and luxury gifts.

The most recent post was just ten minutes earlier.

Ethan stood in a sea of blooms, flashing a V sign. The limited-edition Richard watch gleamed under the sun.

The caption read: “Who says boys can’t receive flowers?”

“Since meeting my bossy girlfriend, I’ve been spoiled with gifts and blossoms.”

Seeing that, I lost control.

I hurled the wilted, yellowing bouquet at Claire’s face.

“You think I’d be touched by flowers someone else rejected?”

“You think I wouldn’t recognize you just because your face isn’t visible?”

“Claire, I’m not blind—and I don’t need your hand-me-down trash!”

The stem scratched her cheek, drawing a faint line of blood.

The sting on her skin and panic in her eyes quickly turned to rage.

She glared at me for a moment, then grabbed my wrist.

She ripped off the watch she once gave me, still in its gift box, and shoved it in front of me.

“What’s that look supposed to mean?”

“Take a good look! Everything you eat, wear, and use—I paid for it! Without me, could you even dream of owning a watch like this?”

“I’m under insane pressure at work. What’s so wrong with blowing off steam once in a while? It’s not like I’m leaving you for good!”

“If you’re going to be this self-righteous, then get out of this house—with nothing!”

The sharp edge scraped my wrist.

Droplets of blood stained the carpet, bright and red.

As I stood there, stunned, everything began to feel surreal.

This was the wedding gift Claire had once given me.

I could still recall that moment—she kissed the back of my hand gently and smiled.

“Hubby, thank you for staying by my side.”

“I promised you—someday, I’d give you the best of everything. That day is here.”

Back then, I thought I was the luckiest man alive.

But now I see it clearly.

I’m just like that kitten from the story.

Eating leftovers from someone else, wearing a watch that no one else wanted. And all the while, I thought I was deeply loved.

Rage welled up until it spilled out as tears.

But my pride wouldn’t let me fall to my knees.

I lunged forward, slapped Claire across the face, and shoved her out the door.

I yelled, “Who are you to kick me out? This house was mine before the marriage. You’re the one who should leave!”

“If it weren’t for me, would you even have this family wealth now?”

“And now you want to throw me away to make space for your boy toy? Keep dreaming!”

In the chaos, Claire’s shirt tore open by accident.

Those vague red marks, like a heavy axe, split us completely in two.

Panicked and ashamed, Claire hurried to button up her shirt.

She opened her mouth to explain—but suddenly went silent.

Her eyes landed on the family portrait of the four of us. She shoved me away and sneered,

"What right do you have to ask for a divorce?"

"Who else but me would want a piece of trash like you—the man who killed his own son?"

Her words struck like lightning.

That unspoken, festering wound tore open again.

It bled.

I stood frozen, too stunned and hurt to reply.

A cruel, satisfied smile curled on Claire’s lips.

I called her a bitch as she slammed the door and walked out.

And I collapsed, sobbing on the floor.

Until a small voice snapped me out of my daze.

My daughter, Lily Grant, held her little rabbit, staring at me with frightened eyes.

“Daddy, did you and Mommy fight?”

“Will you separate? Will Mommy come back?”

Seeing the fear on her face, my heart twisted in pain.

I gently pulled Lily into a hug. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Go back to sleep now. I’ll take you to school in the morning.”

But Lily shook her head, her eyes fixed nervously on my phone.

After hesitating, she tugged softly at my sleeve.

“Daddy, I’ve seen that uncle before. A long time ago… on the day my brother died…”

“What did you say?”

My breath caught. My eyes widened in shock.

“Lily, do you know something? Tell Daddy what happened that day!”

Lily stepped back, her small eyes full of fear.

Then she burst into tears and rushed into my arms, crying,

“That day, Mommy brought that uncle home.”

“She said she wanted to play a game with him and told us not to disturb them. He gave us chocolate—those with alcohol inside—and locked us in the room.”

“After my brother ate it, he started crying and suddenly fell down and didn’t move anymore.”

“I got scared and banged on the door, yelling for Mommy. But she was busy playing with him and wouldn’t come, no matter how I cried.”

“Then… my brother was gone. Mommy said it was our secret and I must never tell. If I told, she’d lose me too…”

“Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m not a bad kid, I’m just scared…”

I stood there frozen, unsure how to move or breathe.

It felt like a blade twisting deep inside me.

Grace Grant’s death was the kind of pain that never fades—not for me, nor our two families.

Two years ago, I was rushed into an urgent client meeting.

To help secure a crucial deal for the company, I had no choice but to leave Grace with the nanny and drive off.

When I came back, the nanny was gone.

Only Lily remained, crying endlessly—and Grace, already stiff and cold.

The doctor said it was an allergic reaction to the alcohol in chocolate.

If she had been brought ten minutes earlier, she might have lived.

My mother collapsed from shock and died of a heart attack.

My mother-in-law turned all her fury on me.

She strangled and slapped me again and again.

She screamed in my face, calling me a murderer.

“You bastard! You left two little kids alone! Are you even human?”