Love is stagnant

Ashley suddenly shoved her phone in my face, her Instagram feed open to a gushing post dedicated to her childhood sweetheart, Michael:

"Once a distant dream, now a beautiful reality. You always had my heart, Michael."

I glanced at the time. Just past midnight. Our sixth wedding anniversary.

"Did it have to be today?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Of course," she retorted. "His happiness is fueled by your misery."

Happiness, huh? I’d give them a double dose.

I hit the like button, then the share. Family group chat? Check. Work colleagues? Check. Every single one.

The post vanished within seconds. Ashley's call followed instantly.

"Mark! You're so pathetic! You're actually jealous?"

"It's just a bit of fun for Michael and me," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "Why are you being such a drama queen?"

Meanwhile, Michael was busy posting intimate photos of them, one by one, each followed by a casual "Oops, wrong send. Don't mind me ;)"

Oh, I didn’t mind at all. My heart was a stagnant pool, incapable of even a ripple.

…

Ashley stumbled in at dawn, her clattering waking me.

"Mark! Get out here!"

"What's the big deal? I just stayed out one night," I mumbled, opening the door. I took in the mess – takeout containers strewn across the table, the sofa cushions askew – and walked past her to the bathroom without a word.

Before, I wouldn't have left so much as a dirty dish, terrified of Ashley’s disapproval. But last night, after seeing her in bed with Michael, something snapped. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. No more meticulously counting calories, no more anxiously waiting for her to come home. It felt…liberating.

"Are you deaf? I'm talking to you!"

I wiped my face, not bothering to look at her. "Clean it yourself. Or don’t. I don't care."

Ashley froze, her face a mask of disbelief. To my surprise, she actually started clearing the mess, seemingly unfazed by the potential damage to her perfect manicure.

She noticed the empty bottle of vintage Cabernet – one of six we'd agreed to open every two years to celebrate our future child's birthdays. I'd taken a sip from each, then poured them down the drain. Too tart, too bitter, too much like my life.

Her face darkened. "You've been drinking?"

I didn't answer.

She mistook my silence for sulking. "I got you some hangover soup. Drink it while I make you some oatmeal."

"Fine," I replied, already pouring the soup down the sink before she returned.

Just then, Michael posted an update: "Spoiled by my amazing girl! Knew I was hungover and went out at the crack of dawn to get me soup, then made me breakfast. #blessed #soinlove." The photo showed him with his arm around a woman in an apron. I recognized the wedding ring. My wedding ring. On Ashley’s hand.

For years, I’d pampered her, never letting her lift a finger. And this was how she repaid me. Great.

Ashley returned just as I finished disposing of the now-rancid soup.

"Mark! I went out of my way to get you that! ...