The One He Loved Was Never Me Chapter 01
On my fifth birthday since getting married, no one remembered. Again.
I’d made a plate of garlic butter shrimp to celebrate on my own. I’d barely raised my fork when Ethan blocked my hand.
“Emily, Megan loves these. Let her have them.”
My mother chimed in from across the table. “You’re the older sister. Act like it.”
I’d been hearing that line for twentyeight years. I was long past arguing. “Fine,” I said calmly. “I’ll just have the few that are left.”
“You were in the kitchen all afternoon—I’m sure you snuck plenty.” Ethan frowned, sliding the entire plate in front of Megan. He picked up a piece of roasted zucchini with his chopsticks and dropped it into my bowl. “Eat some vegetables. They’re good for you.”
I froze.
Zucchini. Megan’s most hated food—and the one I’m allergic to.
“It’s my birthday. Can’t I even have a few bites of shrimp that I made myself?”
All four of them went still for a beat.
Megan immediately reached out. “It’s my fault—here, take all the shrimp, sis!”
But she didn’t move.
My parents, however, bristled. “Why would you give them to her?”
Ethan sighed, his voice heavy with reproach. “Emily, it’s just a birthday. Stop making a scene. If you really want shrimp that badly, I’ll transfer you some money and you can buy your own.”
Just a birthday.
But Megan was only a year younger than me. Every year for her birthday, he booked a restaurant three weeks in advance, bought gifts, rented out venues. He’d never missed a single one.
Suddenly, this whole dinner felt pointless.
I smiled faintly and set down my chopsticks.
“Forget it. Ethan, let’s get a divorce.”
Ethan’s hands froze midpeel over Megan’s shrimp.
“Emily, when did you get so petty? Over a few shrimp—is this really worth making a fuss about?”
When I didn’t respond, he sighed with weary patience and placed the peeled shrimp into Megan’s bowl. Then he picked up his fork, plucked a lemon wedge dripping with garlic and butter sauce from the shrimp plate, and deposited it in mine.
“You’re a grown woman. Are you really going to fight your little sister over food?”
“It all came from the same plate anyway—same flavor. Just pretend you’ve had some, okay? Stop this. Be good.”
He coaxed me like he was soothing an unreasonable child throwing a tantrum.
I looked at the lone lemon wedge in my bowl, then at the mountain of shrimp in Megan’s. I smiled to myself, soundless.
“Ethan, didn’t you hear me? I said: divorce.”
His grip tightened around his fork. The casual indifference on his face finally cracked.
“Emily…”
Megan blinked, and her eyes instantly brimmed with tears. “It’s all my fault—there’s so much food on this table, and I just had to want the thing you wanted… I won’t eat it. You can have it all, sis!”
She sniffled loudly and slapped her fork onto the table with a sharp clack.
The sound rang through the room like a bell.
My mother immediately wrapped her arms around Megan and turned on me. “There are five dishes on this table—not enough for you? You won’t be happy until you’ve guilted your sister into starving so you can have the shrimp?”
My father said nothing, but his face was etched with disapproval.
“But it’s my birthday.”
I stressed each word, looking at each of their faces in turn.
Ethan didn’t even glance up. He was busy fetching Megan a clean fork, smoothing the napkin in front of her, fussing over every little detail.
My eyes burned, reddening against my will.
Five years of marriage.
I’d never once celebrated my birthday.
Even a date as simple as August first—no one ever remembered.
But Megan’s birthday, June twentythird—he never forgot. Every January, the moment he bought a new planner, he’d circle it in red pen. He’d set two reminders on his phone.
And right next to that red circle, on the very next line, was mine.
It was as if he simply couldn’t see it.
Megan sat up straight, one hand pressed daintily to her chest, her voice thin and fragile. “Today is my sister’s birthday. Making her happy is what matters most. I’m fine, really.”
She stood, swaying slightly on her feet.
Ethan caught her wrist and gently pressed her back into the chair. Then, with visible impatience, he pulled out his wallet, slid out a credit card, and tossed it in front of me.
“Emily, you know Megan has a weak heart. She can’t handle stress. Do you really need to keep harping on something this trivial?”
“There’s enough on that card to buy you a year’s worth of shrimp. Let her have this plate. Is that so hard?”
The card bounced twice on the table, slid to the edge, and clattered to the floor.
Like a hammer blow to my chest.
He hadn’t always been this way.
Before Ethan, I’d already spent a lifetime getting used to it. The best dish always went to Megan first. The prettiest clothes were always hers to pick from. Parentteacher conferences—they only ever went to her classroom. Because I was the older sister. So I had to yield.
Then Ethan came along, the first time he visited my family home.
He passed Megan’s walkin closet—spacious as a boutique—and paused at the door to my room: cramped, dim, crammed with old storage boxes.
He took my hand, slowly, firmly, and said, word by word:
“Emily, from now on, with me here, you will always be my first choice.”
But promises made in youth weigh so little. In the end, they can’t outrun the long erosion of years.
The man who once walked beside me, hand in hand, had finally taken his seat across the table from me.
I smiled gently. I didn’t look at the credit card on the floor. I nodded, calm.
“Give it all to her.”
The shrimp. The man. This home. I didn’t want any of it anymore.
I stood and walked back to the bedroom.
No one stopped me.
Only Ethan’s voice drifted after me, flat and unbothered: “Let Emily cool off in her room. She probably filled up on food while she was cooking anyway.”
My deliberately measured footsteps halted.
The last hidden ember of hope in my chest went dark.
I closed the bedroom door and began packing.
There wasn’t much in this apartment that truly belonged to me. A few changes of clothes, that was all.
I looked at the marriage certificate displayed in the glass cabinet, laughed bitterly at myself, pulled my hand back, and zipped the bag shut.
The moment I finished, the bedroom door opened.
Ethan walked in carrying an elegant cake box. He ruffled my hair, his voice deliberately soft. “Still sulking? I rushordered a cake for you. Isn’t this the brand you’ve been going on about wanting to try?”
My lips pressed together. The ache in my chest was sour and raw.
So he’d known all along.
He just never cared enough before.
After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the box.
He smiled faintly, pulled me into his arms, and rested his chin on my head. “Thought of a wish yet? How about… wishing for a sweet little baby this year? Sound good?”
My hand drifted instinctively to my belly. I started to speak, then stopped.
He didn’t notice. He was still talking. “Ideally a girl. One who looks like you…”
The next second, his lips were still moving, but I could no longer hear him.
I stared at the writing on the cake, my whole body going cold.
In gold fondant lettering, neat and deliberate across the white frosting:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGAN.
The cake was ringed with raspberries and blueberries—Megan’s favorites—vibrant enough to sting. The color hurt my eyes.
Ethan felt me go rigid. He followed my gaze and his breath caught sharply.
“Emily!”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. In a fluster, he reached for the lid.
His hands were shaking—the movement too rushed, too desperate.
“The bakery must have mixed up the order! I’ll call them right now and have them redo it!”
I curved my lips upward and pressed my hand over his, gentle but absolute.
“Don’t bother.”
A bespoke bakery famous for its meticulous attention to detail doesn’t mix up orders.
He’d simply never ordered a birthday cake for me before. In five years of order history at that shop, the only name that appeared again and again was Megan’s. Her preferences. Her favorites.
He seemed surprised that I wasn’t crying or screaming. With something like relief, he pinched my cheek. “Well, since the cake’s already made, just let Megan have it. After her birthday next week, I’ll get you an even fancier one to make up for it!”
He picked up the box, light on his feet, and walked out.
The bedroom door sealed his retreating back from my voice.
“Ethan, there won’t be a next week for us.”
But he was walking too fast. He didn’t hear.
I lowered my eyes. My fingers found my belly again.
After a long moment, I opened my phone and changed tomorrow morning’s OBGYN appointment from “prenatal checkup” to “termination consultation.”
Then I opened a booking app and purchased a oneway ticket to New York, departing the day after tomorrow.