Stranded with My Husband's Lover

My name is Heather Wendell, and I have been married to Jonas Lowell for five years. During those five years, I did everything I could think of. I cooked his favorite sweet and sour ribs, remembered his shirt sizes, and even waited two hours early outside his office when he worked late. But the way he looked at me was never filled with passion. I should have realized it long ago. In his heart, there was another woman—someone far away, abroad. That person was named Reese Quinn. I first heard that name in our second year of marriage. That day, he was drunk, clutching a pillow and repeatedly murmuring "Reese." I asked him who she was, but when he sobered up, he said I must have misheard. After that, I never asked again. I just silently memorized the unknown number saved in his phone without any name. Life went on like that—like a cup of lukewarm water: tasteless, dull, yet uninterrupted. Until last Saturday, my day off, when I planned to give the house a thorough cleaning. Jonas Lowell rarely allowed me into his study; he always said it was filled with work files I wouldn't understand. But that day, since he had gone to the office for overtime, I noticed the dusty windowsill and couldn't resist going inside. On the top shelf of the bookcase, there was a black box. I had never seen it before. Curiosity urged me to bring a chair over and take the box down. The box wasn't locked. The moment I opened it, my hands began to tremble. Inside, there were only letters. The handwriting on the envelopes was delicate, yet unmistakably familiar. It was written by Reese Quinn. I pulled out a letter dated March last year. "Jonas, the winters in Country N are so cold; I still miss the ginger soup you used to make." "You said to wait for me to come back after graduation, but I'm afraid—afraid that there might be someone else by your side." My tears fell onto the letter, smudging the ink. I pulled out another letter, this one from October last year. "Jonas, I've secured a spot to stay at the school, but I might still have to wait another two years." "Don't be anxious. I know you have me in your heart, and that's enough." So they had been in contact all along. So all the effort I'd put in over those five years was nothing more than an inconsequential episode in his eyes. I put the letters back into the box, one by one. My hands were still trembling, but my heart felt frozen. That day, when Jonas Lowell came home, I had already prepared dinner. Four dishes and a soup—all his favorites. He sat at the dining table, staring down at his phone, never once looking at me. "Why didn't you make sweet and sour ribs today?" He asked suddenly. I was stunned for a moment before I remembered he had said last week he wanted them. "I forgot," I said softly. He frowned but didn't say anything else. That night, he lay on the sofa watching the game. I walked over and sat down next to him. "Jonas, let's get a divorce." I thought he would be surprised, that he would ask why. But he just stared at the TV screen, and after a long moment said, "Have you thought this through?" "Yes." "Alright, when I have time, we'll handle the paperwork." His calmness hurt me more than any accusation ever could. I turned and went back to the bedroom, closed the door, and finally couldn't hold back my tears. The next day, I contacted a lawyer. The lawyer said we needed to prepare a divorce agreement and told me to start organizing our assets. Jonas Lowell and I have no shared property after marriage; the house was bought by him before we married, and so was the car. The only things I can take with me are my own clothes and luggage. Maybe it's for the best—leaving like this feels cleaner. But things didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped.