Maybe happy endings only exist in fairy tales.

Once, you thought you had it all—a cozy home, a husband who held you like the world would end without you. You didn’t push for children. You didn’t need them to feel complete. You and Simon were enough for each other. Or so you believed. Time would take care of the rest.

But time didn’t bring promises. It brought cracks.

You’d known for a while—longer than you wanted to admit—that Simon wasn’t faithful. He never outright confessed, but he didn’t try to hide it either. The hints were everywhere: unfamiliar perfume clinging to his collar, receipts tucked into his pockets from dinners you didn’t share.

You stayed silent. Maybe because the silence was easier than the truth. You played the role of the devoted wife. When he came home late, you reheated dinner. When he vanished for weekend “work trips,” you cried into his side of the bed and told yourself it didn’t mean what you knew it did.

Then came the final straw—a receipt for an expensive jewelry set you found in his coat. For a moment, foolish hope bloomed in your chest. Maybe he remembered your birthday. Maybe he was planning a surprise.

But your birthday came and went. No dinner. No flowers. Just him brushing past you in the hallway with a bag slung over his shoulder. Another business trip, another weekend with her.

You spent the day alone. No cake. No calls. No illusions left.

And so, Sunday evening found you in the kitchen, not crying this time, not waiting. Just sitting. Calm. Steady. A stack of divorce papers neatly placed on the table before you.

You heard his keys jingle. The front door opened and shut. Heavy boots on the floor. And then he stepped into the kitchen.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

He saw the papers. And for the first time in a long time… he was the one rendered silent.

Just like your heart had been.