Chapter 4 Divorce
My hospital room was filled with colleagues and supervisors. It was my second time hospitalized in a single week.
One of my close coworkers asked me quietly, “Rosalie, what if you don’t adjust well after moving abroad? You used to be so attached to your husband and best friend.”
At the mention of Hugo and Sylvie, I silently clenched my fists.
“Don’t tell anyone about my going abroad,” I said. “As for Hugo and Sylvie, just pretend they’re dead.”
Hearing my firm tone, everyone fell silent.
I composed myself and sent the information I’d gathered to my lawyer, asking her to draft the divorce papers. Three days later, I would be leaving New York. I marked that day on my calendar with a bright red circle.
When Hugo walked in carrying a thermal lunchbox, my laptop was still open on the desk–I hadn’t had time to close it.
He noticed immediately and asked, “What are you doing now?”
I looked up at him, my eyes devoid of emotion. “Wrapping up a project. Writing the final report for my manager.”
Hugo didn’t pry. He carefully opened the thermos and poured a bowl of chicken soup, placing it in front of me. “My mom said you’re not doing well and asked me to take care of you.”
Throughout our marriage, his mother had always been kind to me. But even that couldn’t erase Hugo’s betrayal. His hands had been stained with Snowy’s blood. Just looking at them made me feel ill.
I snatched the bowl and smashed it hard on the floor, then asked with deliberate calm, “You got the kitten’s placenta. Is Sylvie cured now?”
I held my head high, but Hugo suddenly erupted in rage, glaring at me in the hospital bed, his face incredulous.
“So what? Sylvie or a stray cat, who’s more important? I married you thinking you were a sensible woman. But now, if all you’re going to do is curse Sylvie, then fine! Let’s just get divorced!”
Divorce? That was all I could have asked for.
***
Hugo stormed to the window, his whole body trembling with anger.
He had just seen the calendar by the bed, where Rosalie had circled their wedding anniversary. He was sure Rosalie had still been hoping for some kind of surprise–and now she was putting on this act?
Suppressing his inner turmoil, he reminded himself not to argue with someone who was ill. He was about to tell Rosalie that the divorce talk was just something he’d said in the heat of the moment, that he didn’t mean it.
But behind him, he heard a soft laugh. So light and quiet, yet it felt like a piece of his heart had broken off.
Unsettled, he ran a hand through his hair. Just as he composed himself and was about to suggest Rosalie come home to recover, she said calmly, “Sure. Divorce it is.”
In that instant, the house key he held slipped from his grasp, clattering on the floor. Hugo’s Adam’s apple visibly bobbed as he stared at Rosalie–pale, fragile, lying silently in the bed.
Wasn’t she the one who used to care for me above all else? How could she speak so calmly about divorce now? A sharp pain pierced his chest.
Panicked and uncertain, he turned to leave, but he couldn’t resist one last cruel remark. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh? Think divorcing me means you’ll never have to take care of Sylvie again?! Rosalie, I never thought you’d be this kind of woman!”
Hugo told himself Rosalie was likely just reacting to stress. She had always been gentle and reliant on him.
He reasoned to himself, “She must simply be tired of caring for Sylvie. If I could make it up to her on our anniversary… If I could end things with Sylvie… then maybe, just maybe, we could still have a future together.”
