“What kind of nonsense is that? Eleanor and I aren’t what you think. She wanted a child, and I simply donated sperm to help her.”

I wiped my swollen, burning eyes and let out a bitter laugh. “Oh? Since when did infidelity come with such a noble excuse?”

Just as I said it, I looked up, and there they were. Stephen and Eleanor strolled down the hospital corridor side by side. The moment he saw me, his face darkened. He marched over, waving his phone accusingly.

“What are you doing here? Are you following us?”

Leaning on my crutch, I replied calmly, “My foot hurts, and I was lightheaded from hunger. I came for a checkup.”

Eleanor snorted. “Come on, Victoria. You’ve always acted like nothing could bring you down. What’s with all these sudden little ailments?” Stephen’s anger faltered for a second. His eyes lingered on my pale lips and unsteady steps. His voice dropped, softer.

“What happened to your foot? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I looked at him in silence, a cold smirk tugging at my lips. Why did it hurt? Even now, he still believed the accident had been a performance. He had vanished for a full week to celebrate with his lover. When he returned and saw me limping on a crutch, he sneered and said I was getting better at faking pain just to earn his sympathy. He had locked me in the basement to “teach me a lesson” for her sake. I could already imagine the humiliation waiting on the other end. But since I was leaving anyway, there was nothing more to say.

I bit my lip, said nothing, and bore it in silence. Seeing me like that, something must have finally registered. His expression shifted with unease. He grabbed my hand, panic slipping into his voice.

“Eleanor and I only went through a medical procedure, I swear. She and the baby won’t affect our marriage. Tomorrow’s our 30th anniversary; I’ve planned a surprise for you.”

Watching him act, watching him grasp at whatever script he thought would move me, I almost laughed.

“I’ve got a surprise for you too.”

Perhaps out of guilt, he personally arranged my hospital admission and even ran out to buy me fruit. A rare sight. My son and his wife also showed up, looking awkward and hesitant, trying to smooth things over.

“Dad and Aunt Eleanor, they’re not what you think.”

“Mom, they ended things thirty years ago. They’re just friends now.”

“Yeah. Friends who do artificial insemination. I’m tired. If that’s all, you can go.”

They stared at me in shock. I’d always spoken gently to them. My sarcasm now struck like a slap. At that moment, my phone buzzed with a new message.

[I’m coming to get you tonight. Ready? Doesn’t matter. I’ll carry you if I have to.]

Without a word, I typed back: [Be on time.]

Stephen walked in with a bag of fruit, his eyes lingering on my phone. “Who are you messaging?” he asked quietly.

“Credit card company. It’s time to pay the bill.”

He chuckled lightly. “If you need money, just tell me. All these years, it’s not like I’ve ever let you go without.”

Right. Even beggars on the street didn’t starve. That day, Stephen played the role of a devoted husband, pouring tea, peeling fruit, and buying dinner. But I knew better. It wasn’t love. It was guilt.

As night settled in, his phone rang. He took one look, locked the screen, and quickly tucked it away. Then he leaned down, kissed my forehead, and murmured, “There’s an emergency at the office. I’ll be back soon. Get some rest.”

Minutes after he left in a rush, a message popped up on my phone.

[Don’t get smug, bitch. One call from me and he’s already not coming back to you tonight.]

Attached was a photo of him kneeling on the ground, reverently kissing her stomach.

I turned off my phone, opened the cabinet, pulled out my suitcase, and walked out of the hospital.

A Bentley waited under the streetlamp. The window rolled down, revealing the refined, handsome face of a mature man.

Once inside the car, I opened my social media and carefully selected several photos to share. One of the wedding ring and divorce agreement resting in the safe. One of my hospitalization records after the car accident. One of them, tangled together in passion at a hotel while I was clinging to life. And lastly, a photo of my notebook, where I had quietly documented sixty-six moments of heartbreak.

When the clock struck midnight, I pressed send, tagging Stephen. [After the 66th disappointment, I’m finally free. Hope you enjoy this 30th-anniversary surprise. Happy divorce.]

“Is your foot okay?”