On my wedding day, I received a ticket from my husband.
Chapter 1
My wedding day came to a screeching halt
when my husband, Liam, abruptly left. I
waited, brimming with anticipation for his
—
return, only to receive a text message a
parking ticket.
The photo showed my Porsche illegally
parked, and through the windshield, two
entwined bodies were clearly visible.
My husband had a new wife.
I dismissed the guests, ended the wedding,
tossed my ring, and without tears or drama,
walked away from seven years of my life,
disappearing from his world.
Liam went crazy looking for me.
The ticket felt surreal.
I stared at the picture again and again. My
Porsche. illegally parked. Through the
windshield, I could see two bodies,
intertwined, their pale skin jarringly stark
against the scene.
I couldn’t even begin to fathom that the man
I’d just been marrying was making love to
someone else in my car.
During the ring exchange, Liam took a call
and vanished.
Leaving me alone to awkwardly navigate a
room full of chattering guests – a nightmare
for an introvert like myself.
As his legal wife, I didn’t even get an
explanation.
Just a text an hour later: “Busy.”
Two words. That was it. His generosity.
I thought I’d be angry, I’d scream at him,
demand answers.
But I just felt… numb. Used to it. Used to his
demands, his indifference, his neglect.
The images of what I’d seen churned in my
stomach. I vomited.
I was done. Seven years. Seven years of
chasing him, of adapting, of compromising. In
our relationship, Liam was always the one in
control, and I constantly molded myself to fit
his mold.
He hated long–distance, so I left my family
overseas to be with him.
He had a stomach condition, so I stopped
eating my beloved hot pot, learning to cook
bland, health–conscious meals instead.
I used to be my parents‘ little princess,
shielded from any hardship.
–
I looked at my hands calloused, rough, the
skin cracked from cold weather. Even the
best makeup couldn’t hide the wear and tear.
On my ring finger sat a simple band, too
small, stark against my skin.
My wedding ring.
Putting it on had been a struggle. Liam had
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weight, about the “waste of money” that
buying me a diamond ring would be. From a
multi–millionaire CEO, no less.
He’d forgotten.
Forgotten that the ring was sized in the fall,
forgotten about my winter fingers, swollen
with frostbite, fat as carrots.
Countless times, I’d suggested we get a
water heater for the kitchen.
His response? “Don’t need one. I don’t use it.”
Never a question about my needs.
He’d forced the ring on, and I thought my
finger would break.
It turned purple and swollen, the ring jammed
against my fingertip.
He didn’t care. Just relieved that the
ceremony was proceeding.
