My own wife said, “I wish I never met you. I never loved you.” I stood tall and said, “Consider me as if I never existed. Live your lives as though there was never a husband named Rick.” They went silent. The whole party froze.

 My name’s Rick Dalton, and I used to believe marriage was a partnership, like a two-player video game where you take turns dodging bills and folding laundry while occasionally high-fiving over small victories like remembering to buy milk. Turns out my wife Maya had been playing single player mode the whole damn time. And I was just some NPC.

 She kept around to pay the electric bill and pretend to laugh at her mother’s stories about her book club drama. That particular night started like any other exercise and social torture. Maya’s 30th birthday party was happening at our apartment, which she’d insisted on decorating herself because apparently my taste was aggressively mediocre. The place looked like Pinterest had a baby with a bougie magazine spread, fairy lights everywhere, those weird geometric centerpieces that serve no actual purpose, and enough shakuderie boards to bankrupt a small nation. I’m talking

pursuto that cost more per pound than my college textbooks, cheeses I couldn’t pronounce, and crackers so artisal they probably had their own origin story. The guest list was exclusively her people. her college friends who still acted like sorority life never ended.

 Her co-workers from the marketing firm who spoke entirely in buzzwords and treated every conversation like a TED talk audition. And of course, her parents, Richard and Patricia, who looked at me the way you’d look at a stain on an expensive rug. You know it’s there. You’re mildly annoyed about it, but you’re too polite to say anything at dinner parties.

 I’d spent the entire evening playing the role of supportive husband, refilling drinks, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, and nodding enthusiastically when her friend Stephanie talked about her wellness journey for the 47th consecutive minute. My face hurt from fake smiling. I’m pretty sure I pulled a muscle in my cheek that medical science hasn’t even discovered yet. The cake arrived around 9:00.

 A three- tiered monstrosity covered in edible gold leaf and fresh flowers that probably cost more than my car’s monthly payment. Someone, I think it was her cousin Derek, the guy who works in cryptocurrency but somehow still lives with his parents, started that god-awful birthday song. You know the one, the slow, awkward version that makes everyone sound like they’re summoning a demon rather than celebrating someone’s birth.

 Ma stood there in her designer dress, the one she bought specifically for this night and modeled for me three times, asking if it made her look powerful yet approachable. The candle light hit her face just right. And for a second, I remembered why I’d fallen for her in the first place. She had this smile that could light up a room. This laugh that made you want to be funnier, smarter, better. Then she picked up her champagne glass.

I should have known something was coming. There was this look in her eye, the same one she got right before she told me she’d accidentally scratched my car or that her mother would be staying with us for just a few days that somehow turned into 3 weeks.

 But I was tired, buzzed on cheap champagne that tasted like regret and carbonated apologies and honestly just counting down the minutes until I could change out of this button-down shirt that was slowly strangling me. “I just want to say something,” Maya announced and the room went quiet. 30some people turned to look at her like she was about to deliver the Gettysburg address. Her friend Jessica pulled out her phone.

 Of course she did because if it’s not documented on social media, did it even happen? Thank you all for being here tonight. Maya continued, her voice steady and clear. You’re the people who matter most to me. The ones who’ve supported me, believed in me, and helped me become who I am today.

 I smiled, waiting for the part where she’d say something generically sweet about us as a couple. Maybe throw in a joke about my terrible cooking or how I hog the blankets. Standard birthday speech stuff. Instead, she looked directly at me. Not the loving look. Not even the annoyed look I’d grown accustomed to. This was something else entirely cold, calculated, and rehearsed.

 “I wish I never met you, Rick,” she said. And the words hung in the air like a cartoon anvil right before it drops on someone’s head. I never loved you. Silence. Complete absolute suffocating silence. You could have heard a pin drop, a mouse fart, the sound of my self-respect packing its bags and calling an Uber.

 30 faces stared at us like we were the season finale of their favorite trash TV show. Someone’s fork froze halfway to their mouth, loaded with brie. Patricia’s hand flew to her chest like she was auditioning for a Victorian fainting scene. Richard’s face turned the color of the overpriced Cabernet he’d been nursing all night.

 My brain did that thing where time slows down and speeds up simultaneously. I felt every eye in the room on me, waiting for my reaction. Would I yell, cry, storm out dramatically, throw the cake? Part of me wanted to do all of those things.

 Part of me wanted to laugh because the absurdity of the moment was almost beautiful in its cruelty. Who gets publicly dumped at their own wife’s birthday party? That’s not just a breakup. That’s performance art. But then something clicked. Maybe it was survival instinct. Maybe it was the three glasses of champagne.

 Maybe it was just exhaustion from years of trying to be enough for someone who’ apparently decided I never was. Whatever it was, I felt this strange calm wash over me. I smiled. Not a sad smile, not an angry smile, just a smile. “Consider me as if I never existed,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Live your lives as though there was never a husband named Rick.” The room somehow got quieter.

 “I didn’t know that was possible, but apparently it is when you respond to emotional annihilation with the energy of a philosophy professor delivering a Zen coon.” People’s faces went from shock to confusion to what I can only describe as secondhand embarrassment. Maya’s mouth opened slightly, like she wanted to say something but forgot her lines.

 Her cousin Derek dropped his phone and the clatter echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. Jessica’s phone was definitely still recording and I made a mental note that this would absolutely be on someone’s Instagram story within the hour, probably with a poll asking whose side people were on. I straightened my tie, took one last sip of that terrible champagne because at this point, why not, and walked toward the door. Each step felt surreal, like I was watching myself in a movie.

 The crowd parted like the Red Sea, nobody quite knowing what to say or do. Someone muttered, “Dude,” under their breath, “I think it was Derek,” showing his signature eloquence. I grabbed my jacket from the coat rack, the one Maya had always hated because it was too casual for a grown man, and opened the door. Just before I left, I turned back one last time. Everyone was still frozen.

This bizarre tableau of a party gone catastrophically wrong. Maya stood there holding her champagne glass. Her perfect party in ruins. Her perfect image shattered. Great cake, by the way, I said. Really worth the investment. And then I walked out like the ending of a dramatic movie.

 except with worse lighting, no soundtrack, and the knowledge that I’d have to come back for my stuff eventually because my toothbrush was still in the bathroom and my favorite coffee mug was in the kitchen sink. But in that moment, walking out into the cool night air, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Freedom.

 I woke up the next morning to the sound of absolutely nothing, which was weird because usually I’d be jolted awake by Maya’s alarm. some go doful meditation chime that sounded like wind chimes having an anxiety attack followed by her immediate complaints about how tired she was despite going to bed at 9:30 but that morning silence pure uninterrupted silence that felt almost illegal like I was getting away with something I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling half expecting the events of last night to have been some kind of stress induced fever dream maybe I’d imagine the whole thing maybe I’d wake

up and Maya would be in the kitchen, making her green smoothie that smelled like lawn clippings and broken promises, telling me we needed to talk about my energy or whatever her latest therapy podcast had convinced her was wrong with me. But nope, the bed was empty.

 Her side was still made, untouched, like a hotel bed in a room nobody checked into. The air felt different, too. Lighter somehow, like the apartment itself was exhaling after holding its breath for years. No passive aggressive sticky notes on the bathroom mirror about leaving the toilet seat up. No lineup of her 17 different face creams cluttering the counter.

 No hair straightener still plugged in because she might need it later. I sat up and just listened. The refrigerator hummed. A car honked outside. Someone’s dog barked three floors down. Normal sounds, life sounds. Sounds that weren’t lectures about my career trajectory or critiques of how I loaded the dishwasher wrong.

 Even though there’s literally no wrong way to put plates in a machine designed to clean plates, I shuffled to the kitchen, my feet cold against the hardwood floors Maya had insisted we install because carpets were so 2010. The morning light came through the windows at that perfect angle that made everything look almost cinematic, like I was the main character in an indie film about mild depression and new beginnings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The coffee maker sat there like an old friend, ready to do the one thing it was designed to do without complaining about it. I filled it with water, dumped in some grounds, and pressed the button. No one appeared to tell me I was using too much coffee or that I should try her oat milk creamer because dairy was inflammatory.

 Just me, the machine, and the beautiful sound of brewing coffee. I decided to make eggs. real eggs scrambled with cheese and way too much butter because there was nobody around to monitor my cholesterol or mention that article she’d read about saturated fats.

 I cracked three eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a fork, and actually took my time. When you’re not rushing to avoid someone’s morning mood, cooking becomes almost meditative. The eggs sizzled in the pan and I added shredded cheddar. The good stuff, not the pre-shredded nonsense that Maya bought because it was more convenient despite tasting like rubber.

 I made toast, buttered it, put the eggs on a plate like I was plating food for a cooking show, except my only judge was me, and I was feeling pretty generous with the scoring. I sat down at our kitchen table. Well, my kitchen table now, I guess, and just looked at my plate. One plate, one fork, one mug of coffee. No one sitting across from me, scrolling through their phone, occasionally looking up to tell me about some influencers drama that I was supposed to care about. No commentary on my eating speed or the way I held my fork. Peace. But here’s the thing about

peace. When you’ve been living in chaos, it’s unnerving as hell. It’s like when a loud noise suddenly stops and your ears are ringing from the absence of sound. I kept waiting for something bad to happen. For Maya to walk through the door, for the universe to correct this glitch in the Matrix, but nothing happened. I just ate my eggs.

 They were delicious. Probably the best eggs I’d made in months. And I don’t think the eggs themselves were any different. I think I just actually tasted them this time. Then my phone started buzzing. At first, I ignored it. I was having a moment with my breakfast and I’d learned from experience that phones during meals only brought bad news or people trying to sell me extended car warranties. But it kept buzzing and buzzing like a mosquito that wouldn’t die.

 I picked it up and immediately regretted it. Seven texts from Maya for from her mother Patricia, two from her friend Jessica, one from Derek that just said bro with three crying laughing emojis which honestly was the most communication I’d ever gotten from him. That wasn’t about Bitcoin. Maya’s messages were a journey through the five stages of grief.

 Except she’d skipped straight to anger and bargaining. You embarrassed me last night. Everyone thinks you’re insane. My mother is devastated. You could have just left quietly. You owe me an explanation. You’re being childish. We need to talk. I almost laughed. We need to talk. the audacity, the absolute nerve of someone who’d just publicly announced she never loved me in front of 30 people while cutting into a cake that cost more than my car payment. Patricia’s messages were somehow worse because they had that tone. You know the

one, the disappointed mother-in-law tone that suggests you failed not just her daughter, but society, Western civilization, and possibly God himself. You owe Maya an apology. What you did was unforgivable. She’s devastated. Call me immediately. Sure, Patricia. Let me apologize for not enjoying being publicly divorced in front of 30 strangers, holding shrimp cocktails, and making uncomfortable eye contact with each other.

 Let me say sorry for not crying or begging or making an even bigger scene. My bad. I should have known the proper etiquette for being emotionally demolished at a birthday party. I looked at my eggs, now halfeaten and getting cold. I looked at my coffee, steam still rising from the mug. I looked at my phone, buzzing again with what was probably another message about my failures as a human being.

 And I did something I’d never done before. I took a picture of my breakfast. Perfectly plated eggs, golden toast, coffee in my favorite mug, the one with the faded logo from that brewery Maya and I had visited on our second date back when she still laughed at my jokes. And I still thought I knew what love looked like.

 I sent it to the group chat that Maya had somehow created with me, her, and her mother. Just the picture with a caption, “Still alive, still delicious.” Then I muted the conversation and went back to my eggs. I wasn’t angry yet. Anger would come later, probably in waves when I least expected it, in the shower, at the grocery store, during some random Tuesday at 3:00 in the afternoon.

 But right then, I was just exhausted, bone tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with running an emotional marathon I never signed up for. I finished my breakfast slowly, savoring every bite, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket. My phone kept buzzing on the table, but I didn’t look at it.

 Whatever fires Maya and Patricia wanted me to put out could wait. For the first time in years, I was putting myself first. And damn, those eggs were really good. I guess it didn’t start that night at the party. The signs were there all along, plastered everywhere like those annoying billboards you drive past every day until one morning you actually read one and realize it’s been advertising divorce lawyers the whole time. And maybe the universe was trying to tell you something.

 Sitting there in my quiet apartment, fork scraping the last bits of egg off my plate, my brain decided it was the perfect time to take a highlight reel tour through Rick and Maya’s greatest missed red flags. Thanks, brain. Really appreciate the timing. The missed dinners should have been clue number one. At first, it was understandable.

 She’d gotten that promotion at the marketing firm, the one she’d been gunning for since before we got married. I was proud of her genuinely. I tell anyone who’d listened that my wife was climbing the corporate ladder while I was stuck in middle management at a tech company that sold software nobody actually needed, but everyone bought anyway because their competitors had it.

 “Babe, I’m so sorry, but Jeremy needs me to stay late for this campaign pitch,” she’d text usually around 6:30 when I’d already started cooking dinner for two. Jeremy, her boss, a guy who looked like he ironed his face every morning and probably had motivational quotes tattooed on his rib cage.

 I’d met him once at a company holiday party and he’d given me the weakest handshake I’d ever experienced while talking about synergistic opportunities and leveraging cross-platform engagement. I wanted to ask if he’d ever had a conversation that didn’t sound like a LinkedIn post, but Maya had squeezed my hand in that way that meant please don’t embarrass me. One missed dinner became two. Two became weekly. Weekly became the norm.

 I’d sit at our dining table, the one we’d picked out together at that overpriced furniture store where everything looked uncomfortable but was supposedly Scandinavian minimalist eating pasta for one. Texting her no worries, even though there were definitely worries. Watching Netflix shows she’d never watch with me because she was too busy.

 Then came the work trips. Oh, the work trips. They started innocently enough. a conference in Chicago, a client meeting in Boston, a team building retreat in San Diego that apparently required 4 days at a beachfront resort. I’m not saying I’m a genius, but even a golden retriever would have started getting suspicious.

 It’s just work, Rick, she’d say, throwing clothes into her suitcase like she was auditioning for a speed packing competition. You know how important this account is. Besides, you trust me, right? And I did. That was the stupid part. I trusted her because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you marry someone. You’re supposed to take them at their word. Believe in them.

 Give them the benefit of the doubt even when the doubt is basically screaming in your face with a megaphone. I used to joke that she had more bosses than a video game. Jeremy. And then there was Chenise from the creative department and Todd from client relations. And apparently every single person in her office had the authority to demand her presence at odd hours and on weekends.

 Looking back, I’m pretty sure the only boss she was answering to was her own desire to not be home with me. The phone calls were probably the biggest red flag, the kind that came with flashing lights and a siren. She’d be sitting on the couch next to me. We’d be watching some show neither of us cared about, and her phone would buzz.

 She’d glance at it, and her whole body language would change, straighten up, suddenly alert, like a mircat spotting a predator. I need to take this, she’d say, already walking toward the bedroom or out onto the balcony, closing doors behind her like she was entering a classified government facility. Who is it? I’d ask because apparently I enjoyed torturing myself.

 Just my boss, she’d say every single time. It’s just Jeremy. Work stuff. You know how it is. Except I didn’t know how it was because my boss never called me at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday to discuss anything that couldn’t wait until Monday. My boss barely called me during work hours. Most of our communication happened through passive aggressive emails with too many exclamation points and the phrase per my last email, which is corporate speak for are you stupid or just pretending to be.

 When Maya would come back from these mysterious phone calls, she’d be different, distracted, distant, like her body was there on the couch next to me, but her mind was somewhere else entirely, probably running through fields with Jeremy and his perfectly ironed face. Everything okay? I’d ask. Fine, she’d say, which is what people say when everything is absolutely not fine, but they don’t want to explain why.

 But the real kicker, the moment that should have sent me running for the hills, was when her family decided to weigh in on my inadequacy. Maya’s parents, Richard and Patricia, who I secretly called Dick and Trish in my head because I’m mature like that, had never exactly welcomed me with open arms.

 More like they tolerated my existence the way you tolerate a distant relative who shows up to Thanksgiving and talks too much about their cryptocurrency investments. We were at their house for Sunday brunch, which was this weekly torture session disguised as family bonding. Their house looked like it had been decorated by someone who’d watched too much HGTV and had an unlimited budget.

 All white furniture that you were afraid to sit on, abstract art that looked like someone had sneezed paint onto a canvas, and those throw pillows that served no purpose except to be constantly rearranged. Patricia was holding cord at the head of the table, cutting into her egg white omelette with surgical precision when she decided it was time to share her thoughts on my life choices. “Maya,” she said, not even looking at me. “You work so hard.

 You deserve a man who can match your ambition.” The table went quiet. Richard stopped chewing his whole grain toast. Mia’s younger sister, Amanda, who usually spent these brunches scrolling through her phone, actually looked up. Even the family dog, some designer breed that probably cost more than my college education, seemed to sense the tension.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting to see how I’d respond. Maya just sat there sipping her mimosa, not defending me, not saying anything, just letting her mother’s words hang in the air like a fart nobody wanted to acknowledge. I smiled, plastered on that good-natured, nothing bothers me expression I’d perfected over years of these brunches.

 Good news, I said, reaching for my orange juice. She’s free to start the search whenever she wants. Patricia’s fork stopped midair. Richard made this weird choking sound. Amanda’s eyes went wide, and I’m pretty sure she was trying not to laugh. Excuse me, Patricia said, her voice dropping to that dangerous octave that meant I’d crossed some invisible line.

 I’m just saying, I continued, because apparently I had a death wish. If I’m not ambitious enough, Maya should absolutely upgrade. I hear Jeremy from her office is very ambitious. Calls her all the time to discuss his ambitions. Maya kicked me under the table hard. The kind of kick that would leave a bruise and a message.

Shut up, Rick. But I didn’t shut up. I just smiled wider. Patricia didn’t laugh. Nobody laughed. Guess sarcasm is not hereditary in the Carter family. just passive aggression and the ability to make you feel like you’re always somehow failing at life. We left early that day. Maya didn’t talk to me the entire drive home.

 I’d violated some unspoken rule about not calling out her family’s about not making waves, about just sitting there and taking whatever comments they wanted to throw at me about my job, my ambition, my worthiness to be married to their precious daughter.

 Looking back now, sitting in my quiet apartment with my empty plate and cold coffee, I realized something that should have been obvious years ago, every red flag could have wrapped the entire city. But I ignored them all because love makes you stupid. And I was basically a genius of stupidity, earning advanced degrees in denial and minoring in willful blindness.

 I packed my things the next day, which sounds more dramatic than it actually was. Turns out when you’ve been living in someone else’s vision of the perfect life, you don’t accumulate much that’s actually yours. Most of the apartment was Maya. Her aesthetic, her choices, her stuff that I just kind of existed around like a ghost who paid half the rent.

 I started in the bedroom pulling my clothes out of the closet that was about 7030 in her favor. My section looked pathetic compared to her colorcoordinated dresses and designer shoes lined up like soldiers. I had some jeans, a few button-downs for work, my collection of band t-shirts that Maya hated because apparently grown men aren’t supposed to advertise their music taste on their chests, and that leather jacket I’d bought in college that still fit if I didn’t breathe too deeply.

Everything went into two large duffel bags I’d bought for a camping trip we never took because Maya decided she was more of a hotel person 3 hours before we were supposed to leave. I’d been annoyed then. Now I was grateful for the bags. The bathroom was easier. My stuff took up exactly one shelf.

 Deodorant, toothbrush, basic shampoo that came in a single bottle instead of Maya’s elaborate system of cleanse condition treatment mask serum that looked like a chemistry experiment. I grabbed my razor, the cheap drugstore moisturizer I used, and called it a day. Meanwhile, Maya’s side of the bathroom looked like Sephora had exploded.

 17 different products for her face alone. each one promising to do something specific that I’m convinced was just marketing. In the kitchen, I faced my first real dilemma. The air fryer. I’d bought it six months ago during a late night infomercial moment of weakness, and it had become my favorite possession.

 That thing could make chicken wings that rivaled any sports bar, and I’d be damned if I was leaving it behind for Maya, who’d used it exactly zero times because she was on some perpetual clean eating kick that involved a lot of quinoa and sadness. I unplugged it, wrapped the cord around it like I was handling a religious artifact, and placed it gently in a box. No one takes my wings away.

 That’s where I draw the line. You can destroy my marriage, publicly humiliate me, make me feel like I’m not good enough. But the air fryer comes with me. My laptop went into my backpack along with the charger, my noiseancelling headphones that had gotten me through countless nights of Maya’s phone calls with her boss and a flash drive containing all my important files and possibly some embarrassing poetry I’d written in college that nobody needed to see ever.

 The coffee mug was non-negotiable. It was from this little brewery Maya and I had visited on our second date back when she still laughed at my jokes and didn’t check her phone every 30 seconds. The logo was faded. The handle had a tiny chip. And it was the perfect size for my morning coffee. It was coming with me, memory baggage and all.

 I looked around at everything else. The furniture we’d bought together, the dishes from our wedding registry that her aunt had spent too much money on, the decorative throw pillows that served no purpose except to be in the way and realized I didn’t want any of it. It all felt like props from a play I was no longer starring in.

 My buddy Jake showed up around noon with his pickup truck and a 12-pack of beer, which seemed optimistic given it was barely afternoon on a Tuesday. “Dude,” he said, looking at my two duffel bags, one box, and the air fryer sitting by the door. “That’s it. You lived here for 3 years. Apparently, I traveled light,” I said. “Or I never really lived here at all.” Hard to say.

 Jake, bless him, didn’t push it. He’d been my friend since college, had been at the wedding, and had probably seen this coming long before I did. He was one of those guys who said exactly what he was thinking, which is why Maya had never liked having him around. He didn’t play the polite games her friends played.

 Where we headed? He asked, grabbing the box while I got the bags. Downtown. Found a place on Craigslist. One bedroom, decent price, available immediately. You looked at it in person, right? Because I’ve seen horror stories, Jake. I looked at it. It’s fine. It’s not a murder basement. It has windows. That’s a low bar, man. It’s been a low bar kind of week.

 We loaded everything into his truck in one trip, which really emphasized how little I was taking with me. The air fryer got buckled into the front seat because I wasn’t taking any chances. Jake sideed it, but didn’t comment, which is the sign of true friendship.

 The drive downtown took 20 minutes through traffic that made me question every life choice that had led me to this city. We passed coffee shops I’d never tried because Maya didn’t like coffee that wasn’t from her specific place, restaurants I’d suggested and been vetoed on, parks I’d wanted to visit but never did because there was always something else more important on her schedule.

 My new apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that had probably been nice in the ‘9s and was now just holding on. The landlord, a guy named Hector who looked like he’d seen everything and was tired of all of it, met us in the lobby. “You, Rick?” he asked, looking at his clipboard. “That’s me.” “First month, last month, security deposit.

 Cash or check?” I handed him a check I’d written that morning, watching 3 months of my savings disappear in one transaction. “Totally worth it. Elevator’s broken,” Hector said, pocketing the check without looking at it. should be fixed by Thursday, maybe Friday. Here’s your keys. Trash goes out on Tuesdays. Don’t smoke inside.

 No loud parties after 10:00. Not really the partying type, I said. Yeah, you look like you’ve had enough parties, Hector said, which was weirdly perceptive for a landlord I’d met 30 seconds ago. Jake and I hauled everything up four flights of stairs, which was its own kind of therapy. Physical exhaustion to match the emotional kind.

 By the time we reached my door, we were both breathing hard, and Jake was questioning his friendship loyalty. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was small, really small. The living room and kitchen were basically the same space, separated by a counter that was trying its best.

 One bedroom, barely big enough for a bed, a bathroom with a shower that had seen better decades. Windows that looked out onto other buildings, and a sliver of sky if you stood at the right angle. It was quiet, simple, clean, and it didn’t smell like disappointment or Maya’s expensive perfume that she bought because an influencer told her it was empowering. “It’s perfect,” I said.

 Jake looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Dude, it’s like 400 square ft. It’s mine,” I said. “That’s what makes it perfect.” We set everything down. The air fryer went on the kitchen counter, claiming its rightful place as the centerpiece of my new life. My laptop went on the small desk in the corner.

 My clothes stayed in the duffel bags because I hadn’t bought a dresser yet and honestly wasn’t in a rush. Jake cracked open two beers from his 12-pack, handed me one, and we stood there in my empty apartment drinking in silence. So, what now? He finally asked. Now, I took a sip of beer. Now I figure out who the hell Rick Dalton is when he’s not apologizing for existing.

 Deep man, shut up, Jake. He grinned. You’re going to be fine. Better than fine. That woman was slowly killing your soul. Anyway, he wasn’t wrong. Standing there in my tiny apartment with my air fryer and my dignity, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Possibility. For the first time in forever, I didn’t know anyone explanations.

 No one cared what time I came home or what I ate for dinner or whether I spent Saturday watching football instead of going to some farmers market to buy overpriced vegetables. I just had peace. a sofa I still needed to buy and unlimited Wi-Fi. The three pillars of modern happiness. Turns out divorce or whatever you call getting publicly dumped at your wife’s birthday party does wonders for your work ethic.

 Who knew that channeling your existential crisis into spreadsheets and project management could actually be productive. I showed up to work that Monday morning like a man possessed. Not in a scary way, more like in a I’ve got nothing else to do. So, might as well care about this job kind of way. I got there at 7:30, which was unheard of for me.

 My usual arrival time was somewhere between technically not late. And please don’t check the clock too closely. My boss, Jordan Shun, noticed immediately. Jordan was one of those rare managers who actually gave a damn about people. Mid-40s, always wore cardigans like he was auditioning for a cozy mystery novel, and had this uncanny ability to know when something was up with his team.

 He ran our division at Techflow Solutions, a company that made project management software for other companies who already had project management software, but wanted different project management software because that’s how corporate America works. He stopped by my desk around 9 with his standard issue coffee mug that said world’s okayest boss, which he bought himself because he thought it was funny.

 Rick, he said, looking at my monitor where I had about 17 tabs open and was actually working in all of them. What’s gotten into you? I leaned back in my chair, which squeaked because every office chair squeaks, and it’s apparently impossible to invent one that doesn’t. Freedom, I said, and fewer arguments about curtain colors.

 Jordan’s eyebrows shot up. He’d met Maya exactly once at the company holiday party 2 years ago, where she’d spent the entire time networking with people three levels above me and barely acknowledged my existence. He’d pulled me aside later and said your wife is very ambitious which was polite person speak for your wife scares me a little.

 Ah he said in that way people do when they suddenly understand everything. How are you holding up? Currently avoiding my feelings by becoming the employee of the month. How’s that for a coping mechanism? He laughed which was good because some managers get weird when you acknowledge that you’re a human being with problems instead of a productivity robot.

 Well, if you’re looking for a distraction, I’ve got something that might interest you. That’s how I ended up leading the software rollout project I’ve been begging to head for the past year and a half. It was this massive overhaul of our client interface, something that would actually matter instead of the usual busy work of tweaking features nobody asked for.

 Maya had always dismissed it when I’d talk about it at home, usually while scrolling through her phone. That’s nice, honey, she’d say, which is what you say when you’re not listening but want to pretend you are. But now, now I could throw myself into it completely.

 No one was waiting for me at home, wondering why I was late or accusing me of prioritizing work over us time, which was code for sitting silently on the couch while she texted other people. I stayed late that first week, not because Jordan asked me to, not because there was some deadline threatening to obliterate us all, but because I wanted to. The office after 6:00 p.m. had this weird energy.

 The fluorescent lights seemed less aggressive. The constant buzz of workplace chatter died down to nothing, and you could actually think without someone microwaving fish in the break room. My cubicle neighbor, Denise, who’d worked at Techflow since the dinosaurs roamed and had a collection of ceramic frogs on her desk that she claimed brought good luck, noticed my new schedule. “You living here now, Dalton?” she asked one Thursday evening, poking her head over the divider.

“Denise was like the office mom.” “Always had snacks, knew everyone’s business, and gave surprisingly good advice when you needed it. Just getting into a groove,” I said. Uh-huh. And this sudden groove wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you came in Monday looking like someone had run over your dog, would it? I should mention that our office was a gossip mill that would make TMZ jealous. Nothing stayed secret.

Someone probably knew about Maya’s party announcement before I’d even made it home that night. The internet moves fast, but office rumors move at quantum speed. No dog was harmed in the making of my current life crisis, I said. Denise came around the divider and sat on the edge of my desk, moving my coffee mug to a safer location. Marriage.

Former marriage, maybe. I don’t know. Does it count as a marriage if your wife announces to 30 people that she never loved you? Jesus, Rick. Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too, except with more stunned silence. She shook her head. You need to eat something that isn’t vending machine pretzels. Come on.

There’s a group of us going to Hanigans for drinks and wings. You’re coming. I started to protest, but Denise had already grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. You didn’t argue with Denise. It was like arguing with gravity. Technically possible, but ultimately pointless.

 Henigans was this dive bar three blocks from the office that somehow survived despite serving food that violated several health codes and having a jukebox stuck in 1987. Our group consisted of Denise, her husband Marcus, who worked in accounting, a guy named Tyler from IT who’d never met a conspiracy theory he didn’t like, and Sarah from HR who was way too nice to work in HR.

 We grabbed a booth in the back, the kind with duct tape holding the seats together, and ordered enough wings to feed a small army. The beer was cheap, the music was loud, and nobody asked me about my feelings, which was perfect. So Rick’s single now? Denise announced to the table like she was introducing the main event at a boxing match. Denise, I protested.

 What? They were going to find out anyway. Tyler probably already knew from hacking your social media or whatever it is you it weirdos do. I don’t hack, Tyler said, looking offended. I observe publicly available information. There’s a difference. Is there though? Marcus asked. We spent the next two hours eating wings, talking about everything except my imploding personal life.

 Tyler’s theory that pigeons were government surveillance drones. Sarah’s nightmare tenant in her rental property who’d somehow flooded the bathroom by watering plants indoors. Marcus’ ongoing war with his homeowners association over lawn gnomes. It was normal. Aggressively normal. And for the first time in weeks, I laughed. Really laughed.

 Not the polite chuckle you give when your wife’s friend tells a story that isn’t funny, but actual laughing that made my stomach hurt and my eyes water. “You good, man?” Marcus asked during a lull in the conversation. “Yeah,” I said and meant it. “Yeah, I think I might actually be good. My evenings developed a rhythm after that.

 I’d come home to my tiny apartment, still mostly unfernished, because I was living like a college student, speedrunning minimalism. I’d order takeout, Chinese on Mondays, pizza on Wednesdays, whatever looked good on Fridays. No one was there to judge my sodium intake or suggest we try that new vegan place that served food that looked like punishment for sins in a past life.

 I’d eat straight from the container because why dirty a plate when I’m the only one who’d have to wash it? I’d put on music, classic rock that Maya hated because it was dad music. Even though half the bands were cooler than anything on her curated Spotify playlists. Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mack, Tom Petty telling me I was free falling, which felt appropriate.

 Some nights I’d watch movies I’d wanted to see but never could because Maya didn’t like subtitles or black and white films or anything that wasn’t a romantic comedy where everyone learns valuable lessons about communication. I watched were movies, sci-fi, weird indie films that made no sense but looked cool.

 Other nights I’d just sit on my secondhand couch that Jake had helped me pick up from a guy selling it on Facebook Marketplace. Had to haul it up four flights of stairs again, which Jake still hasn’t forgiven me for, and do absolutely nothing. Just exist. No one telling me I was wasting time or that I should be more productive or asking what I was thinking about in that accusatory way that meant I should be thinking about her. The weirdest thing, I started laughing at random moments.

 Sometimes alone, sometimes at the absurdity of how small my old world had been. I’d spent years walking on eggshells, measuring every word, trying to be the person Maya wanted me to be. Ambitious enough, but not too ambitious that I’d threaten her career. Interesting enough, but not so interesting that I’d overshadow her stories at parties.

 Present enough, but not so present that I’d be clingy. Now I could just be Rick. regular, mediocre, makes dad jokes at inappropriate times, Rick. And turns out that guy wasn’t so bad. 3 months of bliss later, I’d almost forgotten what anxiety felt like. Almost. I’d settled into my new life like a cat, finding the perfect sunbeam.

Comfortable, content, and deeply committed to not moving unless absolutely necessary. My apartment had gone from recently divorced guy’s sad cave to actually kind of cozy if you squinted and didn’t judge too hard. I’d bought a decent couch from IKEA, assembled it myself without having a mental breakdown, which felt like a personal victory.

 Got some plants because the lady at Home Depot convinced me that a grown man should have at least one living thing to keep alive besides himself. I named them. The succulent was Kevin. The snake plant was Beyonce because it was a survivor. Don’t judge me. We all cope differently. Work was going insanely well. The software rollout project was ahead of schedule, which in the corporate world is like finding a unicorn that also does your taxes.

 Jordan had started CCNG me on emails to the executives, which meant either I was doing great or he was setting me up to take the fall for something. I chose to believe the former because optimism was my new thing. I’d even started going to the gym, not religiously, more like agnostically, showing up when the mood struck and spending half the time people watching.

 There was this regular, a guy everyone called Gruntmaster 3000 because he made sounds like he was exercising demons every time he lifted anything heavier than a water bottle. Entertainment value alone made the membership worth it. My Fridays have become sacred. Take out whatever I wanted. No negotiations.

 classic rock on the speakers Jake had helped me set up, which had involved more swearing than I’d heard since my construction job in college. My phone on silent, pure, uninterrupted peace. That particular Friday, I’d ordered Thai food from this place two blocks over that made pad thai so good it should have been illegal.

 I was three episodes deep into a documentary series about cult leaders because apparently my idea of relaxation was watching people make terrible life decisions. when someone knocked on my door. I paused the TV. Nobody knocked on my door. Jake texted before coming over. My neighbor, Mrs.

 Rodriguez, only knocked when she needed help with her Wi-Fi, and I just fixed it last week. Delivery drivers left stuff in the lobby because Hector still hadn’t fixed the intercom system. Another knock, more insistent this time. I got up, still holding my takeout container because I wasn’t about to let good pad tie get cold for whoever was interrupting my Friday night vibe.

 I looked through the peepphole, which was so scratched up it was basically decorative, and saw a figure that made my stomach drop like I just gone over the hill on a roller coaster I didn’t remember boarding. Maya, for a second, I thought maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe that documentary had messed with my head. Maybe someone had slipped something into my Thai food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 But no, that was definitely my maybe still technically wife standing in my hallway and she dressed for the occasion. She was wearing heels, the expensive ones she’d bought for some event and complained about for 3 days after because apparently beauty is pain and also costs $400. Sunglasses even though it was 8:00 p.m.

 and we were indoors because nothing says I’m going through something like unnecessary eyewear and perfume. I could smell it through the door. That designer stuff she wore that came in a bottle shaped like a geometric nightmare and cost more per ounce than gold. regret disguised as perfume. That’s what it was. I stood there for a moment, pad tie in hand, debating my options.

 I could pretend I wasn’t home, but she’d probably seen my lights on. I could open the door and immediately close it, which would be satisfying, but immature. Or I could open it and see what fresh hell the universe was delivering to my doorstep. Curiosity one, it always does.

 I opened the door and leaned against the door frame, taking a bite of noodles while maintaining eye contact. Power move. Maybe petty. Definitely worth it. Absolutely. Rick, she said, and her voice had that quality. The one she used when she wanted something but was trying to pretend she didn’t. I’d heard it a thousand times. We need to talk. I chewed slowly, swallowed, then smiled. Sure, you start.

 Just remember, last time you spoke in public, you canceled our marriage. So maybe think about your word choice this time. She flinched. Actually flinched. Good. I’d spent 3 months processing what she’d done, and she was going to spend at least 5 minutes being uncomfortable in my hallway. Can I come in? She asked, trying to look past me into the apartment. That’s a hard no.

 Whatever you need to say, you can say it from there. Mrs. Rodriguez loves drama anyway. She’s probably got her ear pressed to the door right now. From apartment 4C, I heard a definite shuffling sound and what might have been a muffled, “I’m not listening.” Mrs. Rodriguez was 73 and had zero shame about her nosiness. I respected that about her. Maya took off her sunglasses and I immediately wish she hadn’t.

 She looked tired. Not that I stayed up too late binge watching Netflix tired. The life has been systematically destroying me tired. Her eyes were red rimmed. Her makeup couldn’t quite cover the dark circles, and her hair, always perfectly styled, looked like she’d done it in a hurry.

 Part of me wanted to feel bad for her. That part was immediately overruled by the larger part that remembered standing in front of 30 people while she announced she’d never loved me. Things are, she started, then stopped, took a breath, tried again. Things are complicated. Complicated, I repeated, taking another bite of pad thai. That’s a word. Want to try a few more? Maybe build toward a sentence.

 I lost my job, she said, and the words came out fast, like she was ripping off a band-aid. Jeremy, my boss, the whole campaign I was working on fell through. The client pulled out. They had to make cuts. I was She swallowed hard. I was one of them. Jeremy, I said, letting the name hang in the air between us. The one who called you at 9:00 p.m. on Saturdays.

 That Jeremy. She had the decency to look away and I prompted because you didn’t come here to tell me about your employment status out of the goodness of your heart. You block my number. I might lose the apartment. She said quietly. Our apartment. I can’t make rent on my own and my parents. She stopped again. Let me guess.

 I said Dick and Trish aren’t as supportive now that their perfect daughter isn’t climbing the corporate ladder anymore. Don’t call them that. I’ll call them whatever I want. They’re not my in-laws anymore. Remember, you made sure of that very publicly. Maya’s jaw tightened. There she was, the version of her I knew better than the vulnerable one trying to get sympathy.

 I came here because I thought maybe you’d understand. I thought maybe. You thought maybe I’d help you. I finished. That’s what this is. You need money. The silence that followed was so thick you could have cut it with a knife, served it on a plate, and charged 20 bucks for it at one of those restaurants Maya used to drag me to.

 I’m not asking for a handout, she said, but her voice said otherwise. I just need temporarily until I find something else. I smiled. Not a happy smile. The kind of smile you give when life has just confirmed exactly what you suspected. That’s rough, I said, and I kept my voice polite, almost cheerful. I recommend budgeting or maybe wishing for a husband again. I hear that works.

 Her jaw dropped, literally dropped. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, then closed, then opened again. She looked like a fish trying to understand calculus. You, she started. Me, I agreed. Still here. Still not your bank account. Still not interested in bailing out someone who told 30 people she never loved me.

 I was angry, she said. And now there was desperation creeping into her voice. I was going through things. You don’t understand. You’re right. I don’t understand. And you know what? I don’t need to. That’s the beautiful part about not being married anymore. Your problems aren’t my problems. Rick, please. Nope.

No. Please. No begging. You made a choice at that party. You chose publicly humiliating me over literally any other option. You chose your pride, your image, whatever was going on in your head that made you think that was acceptable behavior. So now I’m choosing me.

 I took another bite of my pad tie, which was getting cold, but was still the best thing that had happened to me all week. Have a good night, Maya. I hope things work out for you. I genuinely do, but they’re not going to work out with my help. I almost felt bad. Almost. That word was doing a lot of heavy lifting in my vocabulary lately. Then I thought about that party.

 The silence, the stairs, her mother’s messages, the three months I’d spent rebuilding myself from scratch. And I didn’t feel bad anymore. I stepped back into my apartment, tie food in hand, and closed the door. Not a slam. That would have been too emotional. Just a gentle, firm click that said, “This conversation is over.

” Through the door, I heard nothing for a moment, then footsteps. Hesitant at first, then faster. The sound of expensive heels clicking down the hallway toward the stairs. Out of my life. Mrs. Rodriguez’s door cracked open. “That was cold, Mojo. Joe,” she said, but she was grinning. “Sometimes cold is necessary.” I said she had it coming. I heard about that party. My niece’s friend was there.

 Sent me the video. “There’s a video?” “Oh, honey, there’s always a video.” I went back inside, reheated my pad tie, and pressed play on my documentary. Best Friday night I’d had in months. I won’t lie. After Maya showed up at my door begging for help, I got petty.

 Not serial killer petty or slasher tires petty, but the kind of petty that felt justified and honestly pretty therapeutic. A little revenge cardio never hurt anyone, right? Plus, it was way healthier than my previous coping mechanism of eating my feelings and pretending everything was fine. The first domino fell on a Tuesday morning when I got a text from my bank.

One of those automated messages that usually means someone’s trying to steal your identity or you’ve been charged for a subscription you forgot you had. But this one was different. Join account closure complete. Funds transferred to primary account holder. Primary account holder.

 That would be me since I’d opened the account back when Maya and I first got serious and she’d just been added later. The account we’d used for shared expenses, rent, utilities, that pasta maker she insisted we needed and used. exactly once before it became a very expensive kitchen decoration. I closed it 3 weeks ago right after she showed up at my door, transferred my half to my personal account, and let the bank know I was done with join Anything.

 The process had taken forever because apparently banks move at the speed of continental drift, but it was finally done. My phone buzzed 30 seconds later. Maya, what did you do? I smiled at my screen, sipping my coffee. Good coffee. the expensive beans I’d been buying since I realized I didn’t have to justify purchases anymore. I didn’t respond. Just let her simmer in it.

 Sometimes silence is the most eloquent response. She called. I sent it to voicemail. She called again. Voicemail. On the third call, I finally answered. “Yes, I said like I just answered a customer service line. You closed our account,” she said. and her voice had that sharp edge that used to make me immediately start apologizing for things I hadn’t done.

 Our account, I repeated, I closed my account that you happen to have access to. Past tense, emphasis on past. Rick, that’s not fair. I have bills. You know what else isn’t fair? Telling someone you never love them in front of their entire social circle. But here we are living in an unfair world.

 Wild, right? I hung up before she could respond. It felt good. really good, like finally scratching an itch that had been bothering you for three years. The Netflix incident happened the same week. I’d been the one paying for the account. The premium plan because Maya insisted we needed four simultaneous streams even though we only ever used one.

 Old habits die hard. So, I kept paying for it even after I moved out, mostly because I hadn’t thought about it. But then I got my credit card statement and saw that charge and something in me just snapped. Not in an angry way, more like a why am I still subsidizing someone else’s binge watching habits kind of way.

 I logged in, changed the password to something Maya would never guess. Take out NP 2025, and removed all her devices, every single one. Her laptop, her tablet, that smart TV in the living room that cost more than my first car. The text came through about an hour later, right when I was in the middle of a meeting about database optimization, which is exactly as boring as it sounds. Netflix isn’t working. I waited until my lunch break to respond.

 Have you tried turning it off and on again? Rick, oh, sorry. Is this about my Netflix account? The one I pay for? Yeah, I figured I didn’t need to share it anymore. You know, since we’re not sharing a life or anything, you’re being immature. I prefer financially responsible. But hey, tomato, tomato. She called me immature seven more times over the next two weeks via text because I stopped answering her calls.

 Each message was a variation on the same theme. I was petty. I was childish. I was punishing her. I needed to grow up. But here’s the thing. I wasn’t punishing her. I was just done being the guy who paid for everything and got nothing but criticism in return. I was done being convenient.

 done being the backup plan, the safety net, the guy who’d always be there no matter how badly I got treated. Her messages started shifting after about a week. Your immature became, “Can we please talk like adults?” which became, “I’m sorry about how things ended,” which eventually became, “Please, can we talk?” I didn’t reply to any of them. I was too busy thriving, which sounds like something you’d see on an inspirational poster with a picture of a mountain, but it was actually true.

 I joined a gym, a real gym, not the overpriced boutique place Maya had memberships to where they called workouts things like Soul Cycle and Core Fusion and charged you 60 bucks to sweat in a dark room with strangers. This was a no frrills, heavy metal playing, definitely some rust on the equipment kind of place called Bruno’s Fitness.

 Bruno himself, a 60-year-old former boxer who looked like he could still go three rounds with anyone stupid enough to challenge him, ran the front desk. You knew? he asked. When I walked in that first day, “Yeah, looking to channel some aggression into something productive.” Bruno looked at me, really looked at me with the kind of eyes that had seen everything. Divorce.

 How’d you know? You got the look. Don’t worry, we get a lot of guys like you. Work it out on the weights, not on people. You’ll be better for it. He wasn’t wrong. There’s something incredibly satisfying about lifting heavy things and putting them down repeatedly. It’s simple, clear. You put in the work, you see results.

 No mind games, no passive aggression, no one telling you you’re doing it wrong while refusing to explain how to do it right. I started going three times a week, then four. Made friends with a regular named Dave, who was going through his own divorce.

 His wife had left him for their marriage counselor, which is so absurd it almost loops back around to being impressive. We’d spot each other on bench press and complain about our exes in between sets. It was therapeutic in a very stereotypically masculine way. And I wasn’t even mad about it. I started cooking, too. Real cooking, not just heating up frozen pizzas or making sad sandwiches.

 I bought a cookbook, an actual physical book, not some recipe blog with 40 paragraphs about the author’s childhood before they tell you how to make chicken and worked my way through it. Turns out I wasn’t a bad cook. I just never had the chance to figure that out because Maya had very specific ideas about meals and my contributions were usually dismissed as too heavy or not Instagram worthy. My chicken picata became legendary among my friends. Jake started inviting himself over for dinner.

 Even Denise from work asked for the recipe after I brought leftovers one day. “You made this?” she asked, genuinely shocked. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a man of many hidden talents.” Apparently. What else have you been hiding? A crippling addiction to home improvement shows.

 I watched four hours of people renovating bathrooms last night. Living your best life, Dalton. And then came Turbo. I wasn’t planning on getting a cat. Cats were not on my post divorce recovery checklist. But I was at the grocery store, the good one, not the cheap one I used to go to because Maya said we needed to budget better while simultaneously buying $300 candles. When I saw a flyer for a local animal shelter having an adoption event, something made me go.

 Maybe curiosity, maybe loneliness, maybe the universe decided I needed a chaotic little creature in my life to keep things interesting. The shelter was packed with people and animals. This beautiful chaos of barking and meowing and volunteers trying to explain why you should adopt a three-legged dog named Captain.

 And there in a cage in the corner was this scrawny orange tabby cat just staring at me with these huge green eyes that said, “Yeah, I’m judging you. What are you going to do about it?” “That’s Turbo,” the volunteer said. A college-aged girl with purple hair and about 15 visible piercings. “He’s a runner. Gets scared of commitment and bolts whenever someone tries to get too close.” I looked at this cat. This cat looked at me.

 We had an understanding. “How much?” I asked. $50 adoption fee includes shots and neutering. I’ll take him. The volunteer looked surprised. Don’t you want to like meet him first? See if you’re compatible. We’re compatible, I said. Trust me. Turbo lived up to his name immediately.

 The second I got him home and opened the carrier, he shot out like he’d been launched from a cannon, did two laps around the apartment, knocked over Kevin the succulent. He was fine, just traumatized and then hid under my bed for 6 hours. I get it, buddy. I said to the darkness under the bed. New places are scary. Take your time. He eventually came out when he heard me opening a can of cat food. We bonded over dinner.

 Him eating from his bowl, me eating leftover chicken picata straight from the container. Two bachelors living their best life. Mrs. Rodriguez loved him immediately. She’d come over with homemade empanadas. She decided I needed mothering and I wasn’t going to argue with free empanadas and Turbo actually let her pet him. He likes you.

 I said genuinely shocked since Turbo treated most people like they were potentially trying to kidnap him. Cat’s no good energy, she said sagely. He knows you’re finally in a good place. Each day without Maya felt like deleting spam from my soul. That’s the best way I can describe it.

 Like I’d been getting junk mail for years, ads for things I didn’t need, offers for services I never asked for, reminders about problems that weren’t actually my problems, and suddenly my inbox was clear, clean, mine. My phone buzzed with another message from Maya. This is ridiculous. We need to talk. I looked at Turbo, who was sprawled across my lap, purring like a small engine.

 I looked at my apartment, messy in the way that felt lived in rather than chaotic. I looked at my life. finally feeling like it belonged to me and I deleted the message without responding. Some spam doesn’t even deserve a reply. At work, things exploded in a good way. The kind of explosion that doesn’t require evacuation procedures or apologetic emails from HR.

 More like a fireworks display where everything actually goes according to plan and nobody loses a finger. The software roll out I’d been leading went off without a hitch, which in the tech world is basically equivalent to discovering Bigfoot riding a unicorn. These things never go smoothly. There’s always some bug that crawls out of the woodwork at 3:00 a.m.

or some client who suddenly decides they want everything to work completely differently than what they’d approved 6 months earlier. But not this time. This time, everything clicked. The interface was clean, the backend was solid, and our biggest client, a financial services company that handled more money than I could comprehend without my brain shortcircuiting, loved it.

 Like, actually sent an email using the word delighted, which corporate people only use when they’re genuinely impressed or being passive aggressive. This was the former. Jordan called me into his office on a Wednesday morning, which normally would have triggered my fightor-flight response because nothing good ever happens in boss offices on Wednesdays. Mondays are for meetings.

 Fridays are for casual check-ins, but Wednesdays, Wednesdays are for we need to talk about your performance conversations. But Jordan was grinning when I walked in, which was unusual because his default expression was pleasantly concerned dad. Sit down, Rick,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. His office was exactly what you’d expect: organized chaos, motivational posters that were either sincere or ironic, I could never tell, and a plant that was somehow still alive despite Jordan’s admission that he forgot plants needed water. I sat trying to read the situation. Was this good news masked as casual conversation? Bad news delivered

with a smile. a surprise drug test because Tyler from it had been too enthusiastic about his herbal supplements. The executive team reviewed the roll out,” Jordan said, leaning back in his chair. “Specifically, they reviewed your leadership on the roll out. And I said, because suspense was killing me, and I’d already cycled through 17 different scenarios in my head, three of which involved me being fired for reasons I couldn’t fathom, and they want to promote you to operations director.” I blinked. I’m sorry. What?

Operations director. New title. Significant raise. Your own office, though it’s smaller than mine. Don’t get excited. And you’d be overseeing the entire project management division. My brain did that thing where it stops working and just plays elevator music while it tries to process information. Operations director.

 That was the job I’d fantasized about while sitting in my cubicle. the one Maya had dismissed as unrealistic when I’d mentioned wanting to work toward it. Rick, you still with me? Yeah, sorry. I’m just That’s a big jump.

 Are they sure? Did they check my file? Because I’ve definitely sent some emails with typos to companywide distributions. Jordan laughed. They’re sure. You’ve earned this. The roll out was flawless. Your team loves working with you, and honestly, you’ve been on fire these past few months. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. getting divorced apparently. I said before I could stop myself. That’s what I’m doing. Jordan’s eyebrows went up.

 Well, I can’t exactly recommend that in the employee handbook, but if it works for you. We spent the next 20 minutes going over details salary enough that I could afford to shop at the fancy grocery store without feeling guilty. Start date immediately because corporate America doesn’t believe in transition periods and responsibilities.

 a lot, but the good kind of a lot. When I walked out of Jordan’s office, Denise was waiting by the coffee machine, pretending to fix a jam that definitely didn’t exist. So, she asked, not even trying to hide that she’d been eavesdropping. Operations director, I said, still not quite believing it.

 She screamed, actually screamed. in the office. At 10:30 on a Wednesday morning, several people looked over, including Tyler, who immediately assumed something was either on fire or there was free food in the break room. I knew it. Denise grabbed me in a hug that would have cracked ribs if she’d squeezed any harder.

 I knew they were going to promote you. Marcus owes me 20 bucks. You bet on my promotion, honey. Half the office had a pool going. Sarah from HR put 50 on you getting director by end of quarter. She’s going to be insufferable now.

 The news spread through the office faster than that time someone microwaved fish and everyone had opinions about it. By lunch, I’d received approximately 40 congratulations emails, three gift cards to coffee shops from people I barely knew, and an invitation to give a speech at the quarterly company meeting. That last one made me nervous.

 Public speaking ranked somewhere between getting a root canal and assembling IKEA furniture without instructions on my list of favorite activities. But I couldn’t exactly say no to the executives who just promoted me. The quarterly meeting happened 2 weeks later in the conference center we rented because our office wasn’t big enough to hold all 200 employees at once. The room was set up like a weird corporate theater.

 rows of chairs facing a small stage, a podium with a microphone that definitely worked, but everyone would test anyway, and a projector screen showing our company logo on loop, like a hypnotic suggestion. I sat in the front row wearing a new suit I’d bought specifically for this occasion, navy blue, actually fit properly because I’d let the tailor do their job instead of insisting I knew my measurements better than they did. My hands were sweating. My heart was doing that thing where it tries to escape through your rib cage.

Turbo had tried to attack my tie that morning, which I chose to interpret as moral support in its own chaotic way. Jordan introduced me using words like innovative and dedicated and instrumental, which made me sound way more impressive than I felt. Then it was my turn. I walked up to that podium, looked out at 200 faces.

 Some I knew well, some I’d never spoken to, some who were definitely just there for the free lunch afterward, and had a moment of pure panic where I forgot literally everything I’d planned to say. Then I remembered something Mrs. Rodriguez had told me while we shared empanadas and wine the night before. Just tell them the truth, M. Joe.

 People respect truth more than perfection. So, I did. I want to talk about failure. I started and I saw a few confused looks because this was supposed to be a celebration. specifically the beauty of failure because about 6 months ago I failed spectacularly at the most important relationship in my life.

 My marriage ended in the most public humiliating way possible at a birthday party in front of 30 people with cake, some nervous laughter. I could see Jordan in the front row looking mildly concerned, probably wondering if I was having a breakdown in real time. But here’s what I learned from that failure. I continued, “When you fail at something, you get two choices. You can let it destroy you or you can let it teach you.” I chose the latter.

 I threw myself into work, not to hide from my problems, but because I finally had the energy to care about something again. I stopped trying to be perfect and started trying to be present. I stopped worrying about what everyone thought and started focusing on what actually mattered. I paused, took a breath.

 My marriage trained me for management better than any MBA program could. I learned how to deal with unpredictable emotions, both mine and other people’s. I learned that sometimes the best solution isn’t the one everyone agrees on, but the one that actually works. I learned that you can’t make everyone happy, but you can be honest, and that counts for a lot.

 The room was silent. I couldn’t tell if it was the good kind of silent or the someone please get the HR representative kind of silent. So, thank you, I said, looking directly at Jordan, then at the executives in the second row.

 Thank you for seeing past the divorced guy eating lunch alone in his cubicle and recognizing someone who was ready to do great work. I promised to screw up occasionally, learn from it quickly, and never take success for granted. I stepped away from the podium. For a second, nothing happened. Then, someone started clapping, then someone else.

 Then the whole room erupted into applause and I swear I saw a few people wiping their eyes. Sarah from HR was definitely crying, but Sarah cried at most company announcements, so that wasn’t saying much. People came up to me afterward shaking my hand, telling me their own failure stories. Dave from accounting told me about his startup that crashed and burned in 2019.

 Linda from sales talked about a divorce from 15 years ago that led her to the career she loved. Even Tyler shared something surprisingly vulnerable about dropping out of college and thinking he’d never amount to anything. It was weird and beautiful and exactly what I needed. This reminder that everyone’s fighting their own battles, failing at their own things, trying to figure it out as they go.

 The really wild part came 3 days later when Techflow’s marketing team published an article about the software rollout on our company blog. It was one of those self- congratulatory pieces that companies love to write. Innovation in action. How tech flow revolutionized client project management or some equally buzzword heavy title. But my name was front and center, not buried in a paragraph not mentioned in passing, featured with a photo they’ taken without telling me where I looked surprisingly competent and not at all like someone who’d spent the previous evening teaching his cat not to attack his ankles. The article got picked up by a tech industry newsletter, then

another. Suddenly, my LinkedIn was exploding with connection requests from people I didn’t know, recruiters sliding into my messages, and most surreal of all, an email from Patricia, Maya’s mother, Dick’s wife, the woman who’d spent 3 years treating me like a participation trophy her daughter had won at a mediocre event. The email was short. We saw your article.

 We’re proud of you, Rick, Patricia, and Richard. I read it three times, looking for hidden meaning, sarcasm, some kind of trap, but it seemed sincere. Almost framed it under comedy of the year, but decided that was too petty even for me. Instead, I forwarded it to Jake with the message, “Hell has frozen over.” His response, “Buy a lottery ticket.

 Also, you’re buying drinks Friday, Mr. Operations Director.” I looked at that email one more time, then archived it. not deleted, archived, because somewhere in my petty little heart, I knew I might want to look at it again someday and remember this moment. The moment when the people who thought I’d never be enough realized they were wrong.

 My circle changed in ways I didn’t expect. It wasn’t some dramatic friend purge or a conscious decision to rebuild my social life from scratch. It just sort of happened organically, the way good things usually do when you stop forcing them.

 friends who used to mysteriously disappear whenever Maya and I had drama which was basically always started showing up again. It was like I’d been living in this weird social quarantine and suddenly the allclear signal had been given. People felt safe around me again. Or maybe I felt safe around people. Hard to say which came first. Jake obviously had been there the whole time hauling furniture upstairs and providing commentary on my life choices.

But now there were others. college friends I’d lost touch with because Maya thought they were immature. Code for they make jokes and have fun and don’t treat every conversation like a networking opportunity. High school buddies who’d reached out after hearing through the grapevine that I was single and apparently not dead inside anymore.

My apartment became this weird hub of activity. Dinners happened spontaneously because I had a kitchen and people had discovered I could cook. Game nights materialized because someone brought over cards against humanity and we all remembered that laughing until you couldn’t breathe was actually a valid way to spend a Friday night.

 Dave from the gym started coming over to watch football. Actual football, not the pretentious soccer matches Maya insisted were more sophisticated. We’d order wings from this place that definitely violated health codes but made the best Buffalo sauce in the city, and we’d yell at the TV like the players could hear us. It was stupid and perfect. Mrs.

Rodriguez adopted me as her unofficial grandson, which meant I got regular deliveries of homemade food and unsolicited advice about my love life. You need a good woman, she’d say. Usually, while Turbo tried to steal empanadas off my plate, “Not like that last one. A good woman who laughs. I’m working on it, Mrs. R. Work faster. You’re not getting younger, Mij.

” Even Denise and Marcus became regulars, hosting dinner parties at their place. and actually inviting me instead of doing that thing where they’d mention it after the fact with a casual, “Oh, you should have come.” That really meant we didn’t think you’d want to come because Maya would have made it weird. Life felt full in a way it hadn’t in years.

 Not busy full where you’re constantly running but never satisfied. Full like a good meal where you’re content and grateful and not looking for something else to fill the void. And then there was Sophie. I met her on a random Tuesday afternoon during a client meeting that I almost didn’t attend.

 Our marketing team had scheduled a session with a design firm to discuss visual branding for the new software interface. And normally, I’d have sent one of my team members because I have the artistic sensibility of a potato. But Jordan specifically asked me to be there since I was the new operations director, and apparently that meant attending meetings about things I didn’t understand.

 The conference room was the usual corporate nightmare. too cold, too bright, with a table that seated 12, but somehow made everyone feel cramped. The design team filed in with their laptops and portfolios, all wearing that specific brand of creative, professional clothing that cost a fortune, but looked deliberately casual.

 And then Sophie walked in. She wasn’t what I expected, which I realize is a cliche thing to say, but it’s true. She had this presence that was hard to describe. confident without being aggressive, professional without being stuffy. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that looked intentional, glasses that were definitely a fashion choice, and a smile that seemed genuinely amused by something, like she was in on a joke the rest of us hadn’t heard yet.

 She was carrying a laptop covered in stickers, bands I recognized, places I’d been, a random sticker that just said panic in bold letters, which felt relatable. The meeting itself was fine. They showed mock-ups. We gave feedback. Everyone nodded seriously at the word synergy, even though it means nothing. I contributed where I could, mostly by pointing out which designs would be impossible to implement without rebuilding the entire back end, which made me very popular with the design team. Sophie was the lead designer, and

she took my technical limitations in stride. So, what you’re saying is this beautiful design I spent 40 hours on is functionally impossible. In the nicest way possible, yes. Can you give me a percentage? Like, how impossible? 85% impossible. There’s a 15% chance we could make it work if we had unlimited time and budget. We have neither.

 Then it’s 95% impossible. She laughed. Not a polite corporate laugh, but a real one that made her glasses slide down her nose a little. I appreciate the honesty. Most people would have just said, “We’ll look into it.” And then ghosted us for 6 months. I’m trying this new thing where I tell the truth.

 It’s been surprisingly effective. After the meeting wrapped up and everyone was packing their stuff, Sophie approached me while I was trying to untangle my phone charger from my laptop cord. A daily battle I consistently lost. “Hey, Rick, right?” she said. “That’s me. Professional dream crusher and cord tangler.

 You want to grab coffee? I have some ideas for simpler designs that might actually be possible, but I’d rather discuss them somewhere that doesn’t smell like industrial air freshener and broken dreams. I looked at her, trying to figure out if this was a work thing or a not work thing. Her expression gave nothing away.

 Only if you promised not to throw it at me during an argument, I said because apparently my brain decided this was the perfect time to make a divorce joke to a stranger. She laughed again. That same genuine laugh. That’s a weirdly specific concern, but sure. I promise to keep all beverages in their designated containers and away from your face. Then, yeah, coffee sounds great.

We ended up at this place two blocks from the office, one of those aggressively hipster spots where the baristas had opinions about water temperature, and the menu was written entirely in chalk on a wall. I ordered a regular coffee and felt judged for not knowing what a cordidoo was.

 Sophie got something complicated with oat milk and three shots of espresso. I’m operating on 4 hours of sleep and spite,” she explained. “This is medicinal. Spite is an underrated motivator,” I said. “I’ve been running on it for months.” “Recent divorce?” she asked. And I must have looked surprised because she added, “Sorry, that was forward.

 You just have that energy. I recognize it because I had it about a year ago. That obvious little bit. It’s the combination of I’m doing great and I’m one minor inconvenience away from a breakdown. Very specific vibe. We talked for two hours. It was supposed to be about work, the design project, timeline, technical limitations, but it turned into one of those conversations that covers everything and nothing.

 Her divorce story, husband cheated with a coworker. Cliche, but devastating. My party story. She actually gasped and said she didn’t. When I got to the never loved you part, our shared love of bad action movies. Her cat named Professor Whiskers, who had a PhD in knocking things off counters.

 My cat Turbo, who sprinted away whenever commitment was mentioned. They should meet, Sophie said. The cats are us. I asked before I could stop myself. Both maybe. She smiled and I knew I was in trouble. The good kind. We started texting after that. Nothing heavy, just funny observations about our days. memes that barely made sense.

Pictures of our cats doing stupid things. She’d send me design ideas at weird hours. Thoughts on this color scheme? And by thoughts, I mean, tell me if it’s terrible, and I’d respond with technical feedback mixed with terrible jokes. 3 weeks later, we went to dinner.

 A real dinner, not a coffee meeting disguised as professional networking, an Italian place that didn’t try too hard, where the pasta was homemade, and the waiter called everyone Han, regardless of age or gender. Sophie showed up in jeans and a sweater, her hair down this time, still wearing those glasses that I decided were unfairly attractive.

 “This isn’t weird, right?” she asked as we sat down. “Having dinner with someone you met through work. If it is, I don’t care,” I said. “I’ve decided I’m done worrying about what’s weird or proper or whatever. Life’s too short. Good policy.” We talked through dinner. 2 hours that felt like 20 minutes.

 She told me about her design process, how she’d gotten into it after dropping out of law school because she realized she hated arguing for a living. I told her about the promotion, the speech, how strange it felt to finally be succeeding at something. You deserve it, she said simply. From what I’ve seen, you’re good at what you do and you’re honest, which is rare. I’m average at what I do.

 I correct it. But I show up and try, which apparently puts me ahead of a lot of people. That’s not average. That’s consistent. Consistency is underrated. For the first time in my adult life, love or whatever this was didn’t feel like walking on eggshells, constantly monitoring my words and actions to avoid triggering some invisible trip wire. It felt like standing barefoot on grass, real, grounded, alive.

 We left the restaurant and walked around downtown for another hour. The conversation never stopping, never getting awkward. She made jokes about the terrible public art installations. I pointed out which buildings I’d worked in and which ones I’d avoided because their elevators were terrifying. At her car, she turned to me. I had a really good time. Me, too.

Want to do it again? Absolutely. Fair warning, though. I’m a disaster at mini golf and will get unnecessarily competitive. That’s perfect because I’m terrible at mini golf and will find your competitiveness hilarious. She kissed me on the cheek, got in her car, and drove away. I stood there in the parking lot like an idiot, smiling at nothing.

 My phone buzzed. Sophie, your face when you tried to explain what a core to do was equals priceless. See you soon. Me? I still don’t know what it is. Sophie, I’ll teach you. Among other things. Yeah, I was definitely in trouble. The best kind of trouble. A year later, I threw a small gathering in my new house.

 And yes, I said house because apparently when you stop spending all your money trying to impress people who don’t care, you can actually save for a down payment. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a three-bedroom ranch in a neighborhood where people actually waved at each other, and the HOA wasn’t run by power- hungry retirees with nothing better to do than measure your grass with rulers.

The living room was packed with people I actually liked, which was a novel concept. Jake was arguing with Dave about whether the Cowboys had any chance this season. They didn’t, but the argument was entertaining. Denise and Marcus had claimed the couch, working their way through the shuderie board that I’d assembled myself because I’d learned that arranging cheese and crackers was actually therapeutic. Sophie was in the kitchen helping Mrs.

Rodriguez, who’d insisted on bringing enough empanadas to feed a small army, because apparently that’s what you do when you adopt someone as your honorary grandson. Turbo was holding cord on the back of the armchair, judging everyone with those green eyes while simultaneously accepting pets like the hypocrite he was.

 Professor Whiskers, Sophie’s cat, had claimed the fireplace mantle as his kingdom and was surveying his domain with appropriate gravitas. The house smelled like good food, cheap beer, and contentment. Not the fake contentment you perform for social media, but the real kind that settles in your bones and makes you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sarah from HR, who’d become a genuine friend after bonding over our mutual love of true crime podcasts, raised her glass around 10 p.m. when the conversation had reached that perfect level of comfortable chaos. Rick, she said loud enough to get everyone’s attention. Serious question.

 If Maya showed up today, right now, what would you say to her? The room went quiet. Not uncomfortable quiet, more like everyone wants to hear this quiet. Even Turbo stopped grooming himself to listen, which was unprecedented. I raised my glass, looked around at these people who’d become my chosen family, and smiled. “Nothing,” I said, “because ghosts don’t talk back.” The room exploded into laughter. Jake nearly spit out his beer. Mrs.

 Rodriguez cackled like I just delivered the punchline of the century. Sophie squeezed my hand, grinning in that way that made me remember why I’d been stupid enough to fall in love again. But seriously, I continued, because apparently I was on a roll. What would I even say? Thanks for the trauma that led to personal growth.

Sorry your life imploded, but I’m doing great. There’s nothing to say because she’s not part of my story anymore. She’s just this weird prologue I had to get through to get to the good chapters. Denise raised her glass to good chapters. To good chapters, everyone echoed and we drank to that. To new beginnings, to chosen family, to the beautiful disaster of figuring your life out one day at a time.

 As the night wound down and people started heading home, hugs at the door, promises to do this again soon. Mrs. Rodriguez insisting I take home the leftover empanadas. I found myself standing on the back porch with Sophie looking at the skyline in the distance, glass of wine in hand. “You good?” she asked, leaning into me.

 “Yeah,” I said, a minute completely. “Better than good.” Maya had once said she wished she’d never met me, standing there at her birthday party with her expensive cake and her perfect life that was apparently ruined by my existence. At the time, those words had felt like a knife.

 Now, now they felt like the best wish she’d ever made because the man standing here now, the one with the house and the cat and the job he actually cared about, the one with friends who showed up and a woman who laughed at his terrible jokes, he finally existed, whole, free, and completely unbothered.

 Turns out sometimes the worst thing that happens to you is actually the best thing that could have happened. You just have to survive long enough to see it. And I had.