The post was accompanied by three pictures:
Dinner at a Michelin-star restaurant,
The latest smartphone,
And a bank transfer of $200,000.
The last photo showed Claire herself, slicing steak and placing it gently onto Ethan’s plate.
I stared at them over and over, my chest hollow.
Ten years together, and Claire had never bought me a gift.
Not once had she transferred me even a dollar.
“Women should only enjoy a man’s love. Why would I ever surprise you?” she used to say.
She always believed women shouldn’t spend on men.
But for Ethan, her generosity knew no bounds.
Dinner dates? She’d sit and wait for me to do everything.
Photos? She refused every single time.
But Ethan—he got it all.
Without even trying.
My eyes burned, but I held it in.
Then—ding dong.
I opened the door. A delivery man stood outside.
“Good evening, I’m here to deliver the wedding photos.”
“I didn’t take any wedding photos.”
“Impossible. This is Claire Bennett’s residence, right?”
I nodded, and he unloaded a stack of large packages.
When he left, I opened one box, my hands trembling.
Inside were wedding photos—Claire and Ethan.
Set after set, outfit after outfit, scene after scene.
Claire beamed in every shot, her smile like a knife to my chest.
I looked up, only to see Claire at the door, holding up Ethan, drunk and leaning against her.
“Give me a hand, will you? He’s drunk.”
She ordered me around as if nothing had happened at work.
I stood still, pointing instead to the pile of boxes.
“I’ll give you five minutes. Clear all this trash out.”
“Including him.”
I gestured at Ethan, his face flushed with alcohol, clinging to Claire.
“No need to be so harsh,” she scolded.
“These photos were for Ethan’s mother. She wanted to see him married before she passed.”
“It was just to comfort her, nothing more. Why do you have to care so much?”
Ethan’s eyes turned red as he nodded.
“I only wanted my mom to leave this world happy.”
“I put my address down, but somehow it got sent to Ms. Bennett’s place.”
“Don’t be mad at her. This isn’t her fault…”
A grown man, speaking like a wounded child—making me look like the unreasonable one.
“You’ve got a master’s degree and you can’t even write down your own address correctly?”
“What’s in your head, air?”
“Fine. Since neither of you can throw this out, I will.”
I turned, grabbed scissors, and shredded the wedding posters and albums.
Frames smashed, glass cracked, paper torn to bits.
“No!”