Dominic didn’t come home that night, and I didn’t call to ask where he was.
I’d already seen Beverly’s social media updates.
After leaving the hospital, they’d rushed to her family’s house to announce the pregnancy. In the photos, Beverly’s grandmother clasped Dominic’s hand warmly while he rested his other palm on Beverly’s belly, smiling like a doting husband.
For five years together, Dominic had only visited my family once—after accepting my proposal. Despite living just 30 minutes away, he’d never bothered before, claiming he “felt awkward around elders.” Even that single visit had been stiffly polite, nothing like the tender ease he showed with Beverly’s family.
I swallowed the bitterness and turned off my phone.
The next day, I met friends to break the news about canceling the wedding.
Dominic had always hated ceremonies, calling them “pointless pomp.” I’d fought to keep ours small—just close family and friends. Now, their shocked reactions stung:
“You’ve loved him for decades! You finally bagged your ‘hard-to-get prince’ and you’re just… letting go?”
Letting go.
The words needled me. Of course it wasn’t easy. Twenty years of chasing him, only to walk away weeks before our vows. But I’d finally accepted the truth: this relationship had always been one-sided.
Dominic never paused his stride for me. I’d deluded myself into thinking time would wear down his walls, that marriage would force his heart open.
Then Beverly arrived six months ago—his “lifesaver”—and everything cracked.
I watched him laugh with her, soften for her, care for her in ways he’d never shown me. Even his coldness toward my family vanished around hers. When she was diagnosed with cancer, he didn’t hesitate: IVF, a child, a twisted happily-ever-after.
I didn’t explain the details to my friends. Just said I’d joined a closed-off research lab and would vanish for years. To soften the blow, I drank with them until midnight.
