Divorce Over Two-Fifty

Divorce Over Two-Fifty

Gavin

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"That will be two dollars and fifty cents," the ice cream vendor chirped, a cheerful end to a warm afternoon. My daughter, Lily, beamed up at me, eyes wide for a rainbow-sprinkled cone. But before my fingers found my wallet, a cold voice cut through the air. "What do you think you' re doing, Ava?" It was Leo, my husband, arms crossed, face a mask of disapproval. He shamed me, publicly, over two dollars and fifty cents. "It' s the principle," he snapped, throwing a five-dollar bill at the vendor. "Consider this an advance. Transfer me one dollar and twenty-five cents by tonight. I' ll be checking." My face burned, my heart twisting as Lily clung to me. That night, I overheard his voice, warm and indulgent, on the phone. "Of course, Sophia. You liked the red one? I' ll have it delivered to your new place tomorrow." He was buying his stepsister a penthouse, showering her with gifts, yet demanding I pay for half of our daughter' s ice cream. The contrast was a physical blow. His love, his generosity, was for someone else. Later, in my small art studio, I typed a search: "divorce papers." I downloaded the forms, each keystroke heavy, final. When I placed the stack on his nightstand, he finally looked up, disbelief twisting his face into an ugly laugh. "A divorce? Don' t be ridiculous. Is this about the car I bought Sophia? Are you that jealous?" "It' s about the ice cream," I said, my voice steady, empty of the tears I' d held back all day. He scoffed, tossing the papers aside. "The ice cream? You want to end our marriage over two dollars and fifty cents? Ava, you' re being hysterical." He didn't know yet. This wasn't hysteria. It was the quiet, steel-edged birth of a rebellion.

Introduction

"That will be two dollars and fifty cents," the ice cream vendor chirped, a cheerful end to a warm afternoon.

My daughter, Lily, beamed up at me, eyes wide for a rainbow-sprinkled cone.

But before my fingers found my wallet, a cold voice cut through the air.

"What do you think you' re doing, Ava?"

It was Leo, my husband, arms crossed, face a mask of disapproval.

He shamed me, publicly, over two dollars and fifty cents.

"It' s the principle," he snapped, throwing a five-dollar bill at the vendor. "Consider this an advance. Transfer me one dollar and twenty-five cents by tonight. I' ll be checking."

My face burned, my heart twisting as Lily clung to me.

That night, I overheard his voice, warm and indulgent, on the phone.

"Of course, Sophia. You liked the red one? I' ll have it delivered to your new place tomorrow."

He was buying his stepsister a penthouse, showering her with gifts, yet demanding I pay for half of our daughter' s ice cream.

The contrast was a physical blow. His love, his generosity, was for someone else.

Later, in my small art studio, I typed a search: "divorce papers."

I downloaded the forms, each keystroke heavy, final.

When I placed the stack on his nightstand, he finally looked up, disbelief twisting his face into an ugly laugh.

"A divorce? Don' t be ridiculous. Is this about the car I bought Sophia? Are you that jealous?"

"It' s about the ice cream," I said, my voice steady, empty of the tears I' d held back all day.

He scoffed, tossing the papers aside.

"The ice cream? You want to end our marriage over two dollars and fifty cents? Ava, you' re being hysterical."

He didn't know yet. This wasn't hysteria. It was the quiet, steel-edged birth of a rebellion.

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"Lucien, let's get a divorce," I said in a peremptory tone that was long overdue, the most decisive farewell to this absurd marriage. We had been married for exactly three years-three years that, for me, were filled with nothing but endless loneliness and torment. For three years, the husband who should have stood by my side through every storm, Lucien Sullivan, had completely disappeared from my life as if he had never existed. He vanished without a trace, leaving me alone to endure this empty, desolate marriage. Today, I finally received his message: "I'm back. Come pick me up at the airport." When I read his words, my heart leapt with joy, and I raced to the airport, thinking that he finally understood my love and was coming back to me. But his cruelty was far worse than I could have ever imagined-he was accompanied by a pregnant woman, and that woman was Carla, my closest and most trusted friend. In that moment, all of my previous excitement, all my hope, and all of our shared laughter and tears turned into the sharpest of daggers, stabbing into my heart and leaving me gasping for air. Now, all I want is to escape from this place that has left me so broken-to lick my wounds in solitude. Even if these wounds will remain with me for the rest of my life, I refuse to have anything to do with him ever again. He should know that it was his own hand that trampled our love underfoot, that his coldness and betrayal created this irreparable situation. But when he heard those words, he desperately clung to this broken, crumbling marriage, unwilling to let it end-almost as though doing so could rewind time and return everything to how it used to be. "Aurora, come back. I regret everything!" Regret? Those simple words stirred no emotion in me-only endless sadness and fury. My heart let out a frantic, desperate scream: It's too late for any of this!

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