After giving my wife freedom, she regretted it.

My wife, Clara, was celebrating a work win with her best friend, Josh, at the office. I packed my bags, left the divorce papers on the table, and posted a farewell message on social media: "I’m out. Enjoy the space."

Thirty minutes later, her call came. "Jason, what the hell is this? Are you done with your little tantrum?"

I scoffed. I’m leaving you. I don’t care who you’re with anymore.

Turns out, she cared. A lot.

1.

On my birthday, I dropped Clara off at work. “I’ll be home early. There’s something I want to talk about,” I said.

She hesitated, then nodded.

We’d been married for three years. She was a high-powered executive; I was a freelance designer. My income was good, but nothing compared to hers. Most men would feel emasculated. I didn’t.

I’d met Clara when I was sixteen. Love at first sight. She was three years older, a senior giving a presentation at my high school orientation. I was mesmerized. After the presentation, I tried to get a picture with her, but the crowd was too thick. In desperation, I yelled, "Clara-bella!" She’d turned, a smile lighting up her face, and I snapped a photo. I followed her to college, becoming her junior. It took three years of relentless pursuit before she agreed to date me. We only got married because her parents were pressuring her.

Marriage revealed a cold truth: some hearts can’t be warmed.

I’d ordered a cake, cooked a special dinner, and waited. And waited. Six o’clock turned into nine. No Clara. My calls went straight to voicemail. Then, a text from Josh, with a video attached. Clara, her arms around him, laughing, surrounded by cheering colleagues, popping champagne. Jason, Clara just landed the Orangewood account. They're celebrating. Don't be a buzzkill.

My heart sank. I should have known. I was always last on her list.

I reheated the food and ate alone, then blew out the candles, making a wish. At sixteen, I’d wished to spend my life with her. At twenty-six, I wished for freedom, for both of us.

I'd known about Josh for a year. Her "best friend." Her confidant. Her go-to guy whenever she needed something. He was her right-hand man at work, solving her problems, smoothing her path. At first, I’d thought he was just a valuable asset. Then I noticed the way he looked at her. Their casual touches lingered too long. The anonymous texts started, photos of them together, increasingly intimate.

The first time, I’d panicked, confronting Clara. She’d been annoyed. "Jason, it was just a hug! He’s my friend! Don’t be so dramatic!"

I’d asked her to distance herself from him, even staged a fake "hug" with a female friend to provoke her. She’d seen through my charade and given me the silent treatment for a week. Message received: threats wouldn't work.

So I stopped, but I made a vow. When the photos reached a hundred, I’d leave. I hadn’t made it to a hundred. I couldn't take it anymore. Each photo was a knife twisting in my gut.

At midnight, still no Clara. My birthday was over. The conversation...