Second, a catering company. Sliders, pasta, salads, sides, desserts, and a cake for twenty.
The cost hurt—but not as much as his indifference.
Third call: my lawyer.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Can he be served at the party?”
“Yes,” she replied.
The next day, the house sparkled. Ethan texted, impressed.
“Told you I’d handle it,” I replied.
On party day, the caterers set everything up. Guests arrived. Ethan soaked up praise.
“What happened to your arm?” people asked.
“She’s tough,” Ethan laughed. “Still did everything.”
Then his mother, Carol Moore, arrived, eyeing my cast.
“When I broke my wrist, I still cooked,” she sniffed. “If you don’t try hard enough, men tend to look elsewhere.”
I smiled.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Ethan snapped his fingers. “Get that.”
“You should,” I said. “It’s your surprise.”
He opened the door.
Standing there were a man in a suit, the cleaning manager, and the caterer.
“I’m here to deliver legal documents,” the man said.
Ethan opened the folder. His face drained.
“Divorce?” he shouted.
The cleaning manager handed him an invoice. “Paid in full by your wife.”
The caterer added, “She covered everything. She was medically unable to cook with a cast.”
The room went silent.
“You’re humiliating me!” Ethan yelled.
“I tried talking,” I said. “You ignored me. You told me my broken arm was bad timing for your birthday.”
I lifted my cast.
“I didn’t ruin your party. You did.”
I grabbed my bag.
“You can’t leave,” he said. “We have guests.”
“No,” I said. “You have guests.”
Outside, my friend Lauren waited. She helped me into the car.
“You ready?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “But I’m leaving anyway.”
I turned my phone off.
That was the last party I ever hosted for him.
And the first day of my real life.
