My husband said he was going to Toronto for a two-year work assignment. I saw him off at O’Hare International Airport in tears, but the moment I got home, I transferred every dollar of our $650,000 in savings and filed for divorce. The terminal was bustling with travelers rushing to gates, families saying goodbye, businesspeople checking their watches.
I held Mark’s hand tightly, tears streaming down my face in a performance I’d rehearsed mentally for three days. “Mark, do you really have to be gone for two whole years?” I asked, my voice choked with what he believed was genuine emotion. He wiped my tears away gently, his own voice filled with practiced reluctance.
“Hannah, you know how important this project is for my career. Two years will fly by. I’ll video call you constantly.
I’ll miss you so much.”
I buried my head in his chest while he patted my back softly. “Silly girl. I’ll miss you too, but this is a huge opportunity for our future.
When I come back, we’ll finally have enough money to put a down payment on that house we’ve always wanted in a good neighborhood.”
The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. Mark kissed my forehead deeply. “Wait for me.”
I stood frozen, watching his back disappear through security until my vision blurred—partly from real tears, partly from the rage I was suppressing.
The travelers around me hurried past, no one noticing the weeping woman in the corner who was simultaneously heartbroken and coldly calculating her next move. In the Uber back to our Lincoln Park condo, I leaned against the window watching familiar Chicago streets blur past. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“Seeing someone off?”
I nodded silently. “Must be your boyfriend or husband to be that upset.”
“My husband,” I replied softly. He sighed sympathetically.
“It’s tough for young couples these days, having to live apart for work. But don’t worry—a good man always comes back.”
I managed a faint smile but didn’t respond. If only he knew that Mark had no intention of ever coming back, at least not to me.
The car arrived at our building and I paid the fare, then walked into the home Mark and I had shared for five years. The empty apartment echoed with my footsteps. I stood in the entryway looking at the pair of slippers he’d deliberately left behind—a prop in his elaborate deception—and a bitter laugh escaped my lips.
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