Weight of Her Decision

Her parents named her Jerica, meaning "Strong Spear," wanting her to have a strong resolve to reach her goals, but she felt like anything but strong. Confrontation wasn't in her nature; she longed for peace, for a life free of conflict and tension.

That was how she lived. She let out a helpless sigh.

The smell of hot coffee and waffles wafted toward her, her stomach growling in response. Her husband might be a slob, but he was a fantastic cook. Every morning, no matter how early, he made sure to prepare breakfast for her, even packing her lunch with a care that was as confusing as it was heartwarming.

But the numbness in her heart persisted. His gestures, once sweet, now felt like empty routines, lacking the warmth of genuine love.

She hesitated, her resolve weakening with each passing second. But she knew she couldn't avoid him forever. She had to face him, had to face the truth of their crumbling marriage.

She took a step forward, only to stumble over his shoes, carelessly strewn across the hallway. She caught herself against the wall, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips as she spotted his socks, rolled into balls, tossed carelessly aside.

Her throat tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. The urge to scream, to release the pent-up anguish threatening to consume her, was overwhelming. Should she have to endure this every morning? The thought was suffocating.

She sighed again, the sound heavier, more resigned, as she reached for the cabinet where she kept the cleaning supplies—the one place he'd never bother to open even if her life depended on it.

Hidden inside was a brown envelope. Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out, the weight of her decision pressing down on her like a physical burden. Today was the day she was going to live up to her name. She was done. Done with the mess, the neglect, the loneliness.

She was going to ask for a divorce.

The sweet smell of breakfast curled around her, wrapping her in a blanket of nostalgia and guilt. She clutched the envelope tighter as if it were a shameful secret. Should she really go through with this?

But then she inhaled deeply, steeling herself. Why shouldn't she? It wasn't as if he would miss her. Just because he cooked for her didn't mean he cared. She couldn't endure the abandonment any longer. She needed love—real love—not just empty gestures.

Entering the kitchen, her gaze was immediately drawn to the counter. A single long-stemmed red rose lay there, delicate and beautiful, beside a card adorned with a red bow and a velvet box. Her heart skipped a beat, confusion and disbelief warring within her.

Then she looked at him—her husband, standing by the stove, his broad shoulders filling out a pale blue formal shirt, the sleeves rolled up, an apron tied around his waist. His hands, strong and capable, moved with an effortless grace as he cooked, every motion a testament to the skill and care he poured into this one daily ritual.

The morning light bathed him in a soft glow, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips, and the tousled perfection of his brown hair. His eyes, a warm shade of brown that once held all the love in the world for her, seemed to catch the sunlight, turning them into pools of molten gold.

For a moment, he looked almost angelic, the very picture of the man she had once fallen in love with so deeply, so irrevocably.

Hearing her footsteps, he turned, and his face brightened with a smile that made her heart twist painfully in her chest.

"Oh, I was waiting for you!" His voice was warm, welcoming, a stark contrast to the icy silence that had settled between them in recent months. The sun cast a soft halo around his head, making him look almost otherworldly in his simple, domestic glory.

Jerica froze, her heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach. What was this? Why now? Had she stepped into some strange, alternate reality where everything was still perfect between them? Or was this just some cruel twist of fate?

The envelope in her hand felt like it weighed a ton, the decision she'd made now feeling impossibly heavy.

"Happy fourth anniversary!" he said, stepping toward her with a smile that had once made her heart flutter with joy, a smile she hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity.

Anniversary. How could she have forgotten?

The envelope crinkled in her hand, the word hit her like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from her lungs.

"Happy Anniversary, Jared," she cleared her throat and forced herself to say, her voice strained, the smile on her face feeling more like a mask than an expression of joy. Her throat was tight, and the words barely made it out.

Jared Petrovski turned, picking up the rose with the card and the small gift box from the counter, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing within her. His calm demeanor only added to her inner turmoil.

"Th-thank you," Jerica managed, her chuckle awkward as she accepted the card and the rose. The gesture felt hollow, the weight of the envelope in her other hand growing heavier with each passing second.

"What's that?" Jared asked, his hand reaching for the envelope she was holding.