Gerald shook his head.
“Marriage means keeping things between us.”
“Marriage also means supporting your spouse.”
“I supported you.”
“You supported the transaction you thought you were making.”
His expression darkened.
“I think you’re overreacting because you’re emotional after surgery.”
That sentence destroyed whatever hope I still had.
I went to the bedroom, picked up the overnight bag he’d carried inside, and returned.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I need somewhere peaceful to recover.”
“We can talk this out.”
“We’ve been talking.”
“Lyla.”
“No.”
He stepped in front of the door.
“You can’t just walk out.”
“I can.”
“You’re my wife.”
“And I’m also a patient who needs rest instead of stress.”
He stared at me.
“So that’s it?”
I looked at him sadly.
“This is the first time you’ve been honest with me.”
I called my mother and asked her to come get me.
Twenty minutes later, I put my bag in her car and spent the next week recovering in the guest room I grew up in.
The distance gave me something I hadn’t had in years.
Silence.
No comments about my appearance.
No reminders that I had changed.
No guilt over money we’d both agreed to spend.
Just recovery.
A week later, Gerald called.
“I’ve had time to think.”
“So have I.”
“I still think you owe me an apology.”
I almost smiled.
“For what?”
“For dismissing my feelings.”
I ended the call.
The following morning, he texted asking when I planned to transfer $5,000 into our joint account so he could schedule his hair transplant.
I stared at the message before replying.
“The savings paid for my medical procedure. If you want elective cosmetic surgery, you’re welcome to save for it yourself.”
His response came instantly.
“So you’re punishing me?”
“No. I’m refusing to reward you for treating my pain like a bargaining chip.”
He didn’t answer.
Two days later, his mother called.
“Lyla, I heard you two had a fight.”
I hesitated.
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