Chapter 2: Promises Broken

Let’s get a divorce.

The words came out quieter than I’d planned, barely rising above the hum of the air conditioner. Lillian was hunched over her computer in the study, posture stiff, blue light from the screen cutting sharp lines across her face. Still in her work clothes—navy slacks, crisp white blouse, pen behind her ear—she looked every bit the professional, not the woman I once knew.

She heard me, and her fingers froze on the keyboard. The typing stopped.

Her shoulders tensed, and the silence stretched out until the ticking wall clock sounded like a drumbeat. Every second hit harder than the last.

Divorce.

She repeated it, disbelief flickering in her eyes.

Her lips parted. She looked at me like she thought she’d misheard, like this was a bad punchline. For a second, I thought she might laugh.

Yeah. Divorce.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, fighting to keep my voice steady, to keep it from cracking.

*Seriously, bro, can you stop being so cold?*

*She’s pregnant—emotions everywhere—and you want to play tough guy?*

*Classic case of "not appreciating what you have." Side guy’s a clown.*

*Didn’t you promise you’d always love her at the wedding? Guess not all men are different after all.*

Those imaginary comments kept rolling by, a Greek chorus from every soap opera I’d watched over Lillian’s shoulder. Every word stung. I saw them in my head, bright as neon.

I really did say those things when we got married.

I could still see us, standing under the rented white arch in the church fellowship hall, hands shaking, voice thick. The whole town was there—Maple Heights didn’t do small weddings. I promised her forever. I meant it.

Lillian and I grew up together in Maple Heights, just a few houses apart. We were childhood sweethearts, whether we admitted it or not.

Our moms swapped casseroles and gossip on the porch swing. We’d pedal our bikes past the old water tower, the scent of fresh-cut grass and grill smoke in the air, fireflies blinking like tiny lanterns as dusk settled over Maple Heights. We built forts out of cardboard boxes and caught lightning bugs behind the Little League fields.

Then, freshman year, Lillian’s dad lost everything in a business deal gone bad and skipped town out West. The whole story was everywhere—people whispered in the diner, at the Fourth of July parade, even during Sunday service. Lillian started showing up at school with bags under her eyes, clothes a size too big, that same faded jean jacket no matter the weather. Suddenly, she was the girl with the missing dad.

Debt collectors parked outside her house every day. I’d walk by and see strange cars in the driveway, men in cheap suits banging on the door. Her mom tried to shield her, but you could feel the stress everywhere—the grass grew long, the porch paint peeled.

After a year, her mom couldn’t take it anymore. She left Lillian behind and remarried.

I’ll never forget the day Lillian came to school with red eyes, lips pressed into a line, refusing to talk about her mom. The guidance counselor tried to help, but Maple Heights didn’t even have a real social worker. Lillian faded into the background, a ghost in the hallway.

Kids can be cruel, and small towns are worse. The girls at school started to ostracize her, calling her bad luck, whispering that she’d cursed her own family.

The rumors got worse, and soon she was eating lunch alone.

I couldn’t stand to see her like that. After talking to my parents, I brought her to live with us and switched schools, just to make sure she had a fresh start.

My folks didn’t hesitate. Mom made up the guest room, Dad drove us both to the new school on his way to the plant. I tried to make her feel at home, like she belonged with us.

After high school, we promised to get into the same college so we could look out for each other.

We studied late, split cheap pizza in the dorm kitchen, and helped each other through every rough patch. I made sure she was never alone.

I skipped parties, picked up shifts at the library to help with bills, and always had her back. She was my best friend and, I hoped, more than that.

After college, she was the one who asked if we could be together.

It was raining outside the old campus coffee shop. Her voice shook as she told me how she felt. I was so shocked, I nearly dropped my umbrella.

I was over the moon. I hugged her tight and took her to pick out two simple gold bracelets at the little jewelry shop downtown. Mrs. Thomas, the owner, watched us with a knowing smile.

We dated for two years before getting married.

Those years were filled with movie nights, road trips to Cleveland, lazy Sundays at the diner. We argued over dishes, made up under the covers, learned how to be adults together.

At our wedding, I made her a promise: "Lillian, thank you for loving me. Don’t worry, from now on I’ll work hard and make money. You just stay at home and be Mrs. Harper. I’ll never let you suffer—not even a little. I’ll love you forever."

I stood there in my rented tux, her hand in mine, grinning like an idiot. The reception was in the church basement, everyone clapping off-beat as we danced to Springsteen with plastic cups of punch. Mom wiped her eyes, Dad nearly knocked me over with a hug.

I thought she’d always be mine.

I thought nothing was wrong with promising to protect her.

I never imagined the day would come when my wife would betray me. But now I was the guy left behind, blindsided, watching my marriage unravel like a bad episode of Maury. I thought our love could survive anything. Turns out, I didn’t know anything at all.