For years, I dreamed of that moment—a positive pregnancy test in my hands. I couldn’t wait to tell Clay, imagining his joy. But instead of celebrating, I found a Kinder Surprise at the door. Inside wasn’t a toy, but a note that shattered my world: “I’m divorcing you.”
I had dreamed of this moment for years. Every second of waiting for the test result felt like a lifetime. I paced around the bathroom, clutching the stick, my palms damp with sweat.
What if it’s negative again? What if I’m only imagining symptoms?
Tears blurred my vision as joy overwhelmed me. I whispered to myself, “Finally. It’s real. It’s happening.”
My hands trembled so badly that I almost dropped the test. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at it, letting the realization sink in. After years of trying, after countless heartbreaks—that was my moment.
“Clay is going to be so happy,” I said aloud.
I quickly grabbed my phone, snapped a photo of the test, and sent it to him. I hesitated before hitting send.
Maybe I should wait to tell him in person? Make it special?
But the excitement was too much to contain.
My message read:
“I have the best news. Call me when you can!”
Hours passed. No reply. I checked my phone obsessively.
Maybe he’s in a meeting.
By the time the evening came, I called his phone. Nobody answered. I sent more texts, all unanswered.
I tried to stay calm, convincing myself that he was just busy. Still, the loneliness in our empty house felt unbearable as I went to bed without him.
***
The next morning, I woke from a faint rustling sound at the door. I opened it to find a Kinder Surprise egg. A smile broke across my face.
He’s making up for last night.
I cracked it open eagerly, expecting a sweet note or small gift. Instead, a single piece of paper unfolded in my hands.
“I’m divorcing you.”
The words stared back at me, stark and cruel. My legs gave way as I sank to the floor.
How could he? Why now?
***
My MIL, Margaret, had been staying with us for some time. Ever since her health started to decline, Clay insisted she move in. It hadn’t been easy sharing a space with her. Margaret had a way of making her presence felt in every corner of the house.
That morning, as she shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers scuffing softly against the floor, I barely looked up. I was sitting at the table, clutching the note, my knuckles white with tension.
“Emma,” she began, her voice unusually soft, “what’s wrong? You look pale.”
Her concern caught me off guard. Margaret was rarely gentle with me, but for a fleeting moment, I thought maybe she could offer some comfort.
“It’s Clay,” I said, my voice trembling. “He… he left me.”