Regrets Of What Was Lost Chapter 01
Seven years into my marriage, I met a girl who made me want to start my life over.
She was gentle, but so full of life.
When she smiled, the world didn’t feel so dull.
My wife, by comparison, felt ordinary.
Our conversations had shrunk to the mundane: the kids, the bills, notices from school, the thousand tiny logistics of running a house.
So on our wedding anniversary, I asked for a divorce.
I’d braced myself for tears, for questions, for a fight.
She gave me none of it.
She simply paused what she was doing in the kitchen, turned around, and looked at me, her expression unreadable.
“All right. I have only one condition.”
“Sell this house, and I’ll sign.”
…
I froze.
I had a whole script prepared for her inevitable meltdown. Now every line was useless.
The truth was, I hadn’t thought she would agree.
I’d tried to bring it up twice before. Both times, she’d looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and asked why it had come to this.
Of course, I hadn’t dared tell her I’d found someone else.
All I could say was that this life was suffocating me, that I couldn’t see a reason to keep going.
That night, she sat on the couch and cried until morning. The next day, she went to Whole Foods and came back with a bag of organic flour and butter.
She said she was going to bake me an apple pie.
Watching her move around the kitchen, I had only one thought: she still didn’t get it.
I didn’t want to be in this marriage anymore.
No amount of thoughtfulness was going to change that.
“Just like that?” I asked, trying to catch up.
She untied her apron and slid the half-sliced bell pepper into a storage container.
“We’ve been together almost ten years, from the day we started dating until now. When have I ever lied to you?”
“You’re not making dinner?”
“No. Let’s eat out. If we’re going to talk about a divorce, we should at least do it somewhere decent.”
She wiped her hands, picked up her phone, and put it on speaker. I could hear the faint sound of a TV on the other end.
“Mom, Tucker and I are discussing the divorce tonight. Can you take Chloe overnight?”
There was a two-second pause.
“…What did you say?”
“Just pick up Chloe. I’ll explain later.”
Then she hung up.
I understood immediately.
She was looping her mother in, hoping family pressure would make me back down.
But she’d miscalculated.
My mother was already half in love with Savannah.
Savannah had an MBA from the University of Chicago.
Her education, her poise, her social graces—they were all miles beyond Zinnia’s.
At the Italian place on the corner we always went to, I handed her the menu, just like I always did.
“You order. I’ll pay.”
She didn’t argue, just casually ordered three dishes.
After the server left, I pulled the divorce papers from my briefcase.
“I’ve been thinking about the assets. The condo is paid off—it’s yours. I’ll keep the house. I’ll also give you two hundred thousand in cash. Chloe will live with you, and I’ll pay three thousand a month in child support. How does that sound?”
Zinnia pushed the papers back toward me.
“I’m afraid that won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“There’s still over six hundred thousand left on the mortgage for this house. If you default, the bank will come after me. I won’t raise Chloe while carrying that kind of risk for you and your new girlfriend.”
I frowned.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
I was a vice president at my company, making hundreds of thousands a year.
As if I’d ever miss a mortgage payment.
To me, this was just a delay tactic. A clear sign she didn’t really want the divorce.
I pulled the papers back.
“Let’s eat first.”
Soon, the first dish arrived.
Tomato pasta.
My fork paused over the plate.
I knew she was about to bring up the past.
The year we graduated, we were crammed into a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. The first meal she ever cooked for me was tomato pasta.
I’d worked late at my internship that day. When I got home, she had fallen asleep at the table, her head resting on her arms next to a covered plate.
When I lifted the lid, the pasta was still warm.
I’m sure I’d said something that night about taking care of her forever.
But that was ten years ago.
I didn’t believe something you said in your twenties should dictate the rest of your life.
So I spoke first.
“Zinnia, let’s not do this. I’ve told you a dozen times I don’t like tomato pasta.”
She looked up at me, her gaze quiet.
“I know.”
She picked up her fork, twirled the pasta, and carefully transferred it to the takeout container beside her.
“I ordered it for Chloe.”