He Saved His Ex, So I Buried Our Marriage

Three years of marriage, and I thought Cliff was just cold by nature.

Then the one he never got over came back, and we were both in a car accident.

He chose her without a second's hesitation and left me in a car about to explode.

I dragged myself out on a broken leg and heard him tell the paramedicSave her first. She's afraid of pain.

Later, when I asked for a divorce, he desperately begged me to forgive him

When the airbag deployed, I heard my ribs crack.

Pain tore out from my chest into every limb, and blood ran from my forehead and blurred my left eye shut.

I was pinned in the driver's seat. The steering wheel dug into my abdomen, the pressure so tight I nearly threw up.

My phone had flown off its mount and landed on the passenger-side floor mat. The screen was still lit, the call display reading Cliff Fox, the timer frozen at four minutes and seventeen seconds.

Four minutes and seventeen seconds ago, I'd asked him if he was coming home for dinner.

He saidBusy today.

Then hung up.

I hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him I was pregnant.

Six weeks. The ultrasound report was still tucked in the glove compartment. I'd planned to surprise him with it in person today.

Now I was pinned inside twisted metal, without the strength to even look down at that ultrasound report.

The crash came out of nowhere. I was driving normally on the service road when a truck ran the red light and T-boned me. My car crumpled like a soda can.

Through the shattered window, I could see a black Mercedes stopped in the opposite lane.

Cliff's car.

His front end had hit the guardrail, and the passenger door was dented inward. He was already climbing out of the driver's side, moving fast, not even bothering to close his door behind him.

He ran toward the passenger side.

Someone was sitting there. I saw a pair of slender legs extend from the open door, feet in off-white heels.

Cliff bent down and lifted her out.

The woman had her arms around his neck, face pressed into his shoulder, long chestnut curls hanging down.

I saw her face.

Phyllis Henson.

She was back. I hadn't known. Cliff never told me.

But I wasn't the least bit surprised.

He carried Phyllis to the curb and set her down, then crouched to check her shin. His hands were so careful, like he was handling something that might shatter. She said something to him with her head lowered, and he reached up and smoothed her hair.

Seven years of knowing Cliff. Three years of being his wife. I had never once seen him that gentle.

I lay slumped against the steering wheel, blood dripping onto my knees, and almost laughed.

That was when smoke started pouring from my car.

A sharp, acrid burning smell rolled out from under the hood, and through the gaps I could see the orange glow of open flame.

People around me were yelling Get outThe car's on fire, someone tried to wrench my door open, but the frame was too warped. It wouldn't budge.

I turned to look toward Cliff.

His back was to me.

Phyllis was leaning against his chest, and he seemed to be on the phone, one hand holding the cell to his ear, the other never leaving her shoulder.

The smoke inside the car was getting thicker.

I kicked the door with everything I had. Nothing. The broken ribs turned every breath into a knife between my lungs. I clenched my teeth and threw my shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

On the third hit, it gave.

The instant I fell out of the car, a dull boom erupted behind me. The windows blew apart and flames shot out from under the hood.

I lay facedown on the pavement and looked back.

The seat where I'd been sitting was already swallowed by fire.

Someone ran over and hauled me up, dragged me to the side of the road. I heard shoutingCall an ambulancesomeone asking if anyone else was in the car. I said no.

I lay on the ground, staring up at the washed-out gray sky, and realized I couldn't feel the pain anymore.

Just the cold.

I turned my head and saw Cliff still crouched beside Phyllis. He'd taken off his jacket and draped it over her. The jacket I'd given him last month for his birthday.

I closed my eyes.

The ambulance came.

When the paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher, I heard quick footsteps approaching.

There's another injured person here.

Cliff's voice.

He stood beside the stretcher and glanced down at me. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. His eyes stayed on my face for one second, then moved away.

Treat her first, he said, pointing toward Phyllis. Not a crack in his voice. Her injuries are worse.

Phyllis had a scrape on her leg.

My leg was broken. Three ribs were broken. Something inside my abdomen was bleeding. The gash on my forehead was still pouring blood.

I looked at him. He wouldn't look back.

The paramedic said, This woman is in critical condition. We need to get her in now

She's my wife, Cliff cut him off, his tone completely flat. I said treat her first.

The person he meant was Phyllis.

The whole scene suddenly felt absurd.

My husband was standing right in front of me, not a scratch on him. Twenty meters away, the one he never got over had a scrape on her shinand he was demanding the paramedics treat her first. Leaving mehis wife, three broken ribs, bleeding internally, skull split openon the asphalt.

He didn't even crouch down to ask if I was okay.

The paramedic ignored him and pushed my stretcher toward the ambulance. The moment they lifted me in, I heard Phyllis call out from somewhere behind usCliffthin, teary.

Cliff turned and walked away.

The ambulance doors closed.

I lay inside, staring at the white ceiling, and one detail surfaced.

From the moment of the crash to the moment he left, Cliff never once said my name.

Never even looked at me a second time.

The surgery took six hours.

They removed my spleenit had ruptured. Three ribs fractured, one of them driven into my lung; they put in a chest tube to drain the cavity. My left tibia was broken, pinned together with a steel plate. Fourteen stitches across my forehead.

When I woke up, the room was quiet.

The window was dark. Only the heart monitor beeped its steady rhythm. I looked down at my stomach, wrapped in gauze, and felt a dull ache low in my abdomen.

When the nurse came in to change my dressing, I asked.

The babyis the baby still there?

Her hands went still for a moment.

She looked at me with that kind of sympathy I knew too well.

You didn't know?

No.

During surgery, they found a uterine rupture. The bleeding was severe, and we She took a breath. We performed a hysterectomy. The baby didn't survive either.

I stared at the ceiling.

Okay.

The nurse glanced back at me several times on her way out. She probably thought I was too calm. I wasn't calm. I just hadn't caught up yet. My brain was shielding itself, queuing everything for later so I wouldn't have to feel it all at once.

It caught up the next morning.

The nurse came to change the drainage bottle and pulled back the blanket. I saw the scar running down my bellylong, from my pubic bone all the way to my navel, closed with neat even stitches, but so long.

I reached down and touched it.

The skin beneath the gauze was numb. Nothing there at all.

I kept thinking about yesterday morningstanding in front of the bathroom mirror, holding that ultrasound report. A tiny dot on the printout. The doctor had said it was a gestational sac, about six weeks along.

I'd smiled at my reflection, thinking I would tell Cliff that evening.

How would he react?

I spent a long time trying to picture it and still couldn't decide whether he'd smile or just go blank. Three years of marriage, and he had never shown me a single strong emotion. I'd told myself that was simply who he was. Reserved. Restrained. Not the type for pretty words.

I'd told myself that what we had might lack passion, but at least it had feeling.

I was wrong.

He wasn't without feeling. He'd just saved all of it for someone else.

On the third day in the hospital, Cliff came.

He pushed open the door wearing a black overcoat, a fruit basket in one hand. His color was bad, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes, like he hadn't slept properly in days.

He set the basket on the nightstand, pulled a chair to the bedside, and sat down.

How are you feeling?

Fine.

The doctor said the surgery went well.

Mm.

Silence.

He looked out the window. I looked at the ceiling.

That day He trailed off before he really started.

I waited for him to go on.

Phyllis had just flown back. I was giving her a ride from the airport. I didn't expect anything to happen.

Mm.

The truck driver was fully at fault. Insurance will cover it.

Mm.

Another stretch of silence.

Your leg. The doctor says if it heals well, it won't affect your walking.

Mm.

He finally turned to look at me, a crease forming between his brows.

Can you say something other than 'mm'?

I turned my head toward him.

What do you want me to say?

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I looked at him and felt suddenly exhausted. Not a body kind of tiredthe kind that leaks out from somewhere deep in your bones, the kind no amount of rest will ever fix.

Cliff, I said. Why didn't you save me first that day?

His expression shifted. Briefly, but I caught it.

It was chaotic. I

She had a scrape.

I didn't know that at the time.

You didn't know? You crouched in front of her for five minutes. And you didn't know it was just a scrape?

He went quiet.

Or maybe, I said slowly, you didn't care how badly I was hurt? You just instinctively chose to save her first?

No.

Then tell me why.

He was silent for a long time.

Long enough that I thought he wasn't going to answer.

She's afraid of pain, he said.

I stared at him.

She's been that way since we were kids. A single shot could make her cry for half the day. When I saw the blood on her leg, my first reaction was

Your first reaction was to save her. Because she's afraid of pain.

I finished the sentence for him.

He didn't deny it.

I laughed.

Laughed until the tears slid from the corners of my eyes and soaked into the pillow.

I'm not afraid of pain, right?

That's not what I meant.

Then what did you mean?

What I meant was He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Everything was happening at once. I couldn'tI admit my first reaction was to go to her. But that wasn't because

Because what? Because you love her?

Christine.

Because you never got over her?

Enough.

Because you only married me because she left the country, and you couldn't find anyone better?

I said enough.

He shoved to his feet. The chair caught behind him and cracked against the floor.

I shut up.

He stood beside the bed, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight the veins stood out along his knuckles. He rarely lost his temper. In all the time I'd known him, this was the first time he'd come undone in front of me.

But it passed quickly. He forced it back down.

He bent and righted the chair, sat again. When he spoke, his voice had returned to that familiar flatness.

Just rest. Don't think about it.

Don't think about it.

I nearly died on the operating table. My uterus was gone. My baby was gone. My husband chose to save the one he never got over at the scene of the crash, and now he was telling me not to think about it.

I said nothing.

He sat for a while, then stood and said the company needed him. He left.

At the door, I called out.

Cliff.

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

The ultrasound report, I said. It's in the glove compartment on the passenger side.

His back went rigid.

I was going to show it to you that night.

He stood where he was. Completely still.

Six weeks, I said. The doctor said there was already a heartbeat.

He turned around slowly.

His eyes were red.

It's gone, I said. They removed it all during the surgery.

His lips moved, like he wanted to say something. Nothing came out.

Go. I closed my eyes.

He stood there for a long time. So long I thought he might not leave.

But in the end, he did.

The door closed softly. Like him. Even the way he left refused to leave a mark.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

The heart monitor beeped on. Sunlight came through the window and fell across my bed.

I remembered the day he moved in, right after the wedding. One suitcase and a cardboard boxthat was everything he brought. The box was full of books, and he placed them on the shelf one by one, handling each like it mattered.

I stood beside him, helping. When I picked up one of the books, a photograph slipped out.

Cliff and Phyllis. A photo of the two of them together.

Both in graduation gowns, standing at the campus gate. She had her arm linked through his, smiling wide and sweet. He faced the camera with the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth.

The closest thing to a smile I had ever seen on Cliff's face.

He took the photo from my hand, slipped it back between the pages, and said, Old classmate.

I didn't press him.

I told myself the past was the past. You move forward.

Now I know. Some people never become the past.

Because they never really left.

On the fifth day, my mother arrived.

She'd taken an overnight train from back home. Her eyes were swollen when she got there. She stood in the doorway, saw me lying in the hospital bed, and her lips trembled a few times. She didn't cry.

Mom, I said. I'm okay.

She came over and touched my forehead, then my hand. Her fingers were rough, the knuckles thickened and bent from years of work, but warm.

How did it get this bad, her voice cracked, how did it get this bad

Car accident. Just bad luck.

Where's Cliff? Why isn't he here?

He's busy.

My mother looked at me. Said nothing.

She reached into her bag and took out a thermos, unscrewed the lidlotus root and pork rib soup, my favorite. She unpacked everything layer by layer: small bowl, spoon, napkins, each piece set down neatly on the side table.

Have some soup. Build your strength.

I propped myself up. My ribs still ached, but less than the days before. I took the bowl and drank.

The soup was rich, the lotus root melting and tender, the ribs falling clean off the bone. My mother's cooking, down to the last drop.

Mom, I said, two spoonfuls in, setting the bowl down. Cliff and I are probably getting a divorce.

Her spoon clattered against the table.

What did you just say?

I told her everything.

Phyllis coming back to the country. The crash. Cliff choosing to save her first. The baby gone. My uterus, removed.

I was calm the whole time, like I was telling someone else's story.

When I finished, my mother was quiet for a long time.

Then she stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to me.

I could see her shoulders shaking.

Mom.

Mm. Her voice came out muffled.

Don't cry.

I'm not.

She turned around. Her eyes were red, but she really wasn't crying. She walked back, sat down again, and pushed the soup bowl toward me.

Finish it.

I drank the whole bowl.

She gathered the dishes and stood up, saying she'd go wash them. At the doorway she paused.

Chrissy, she said, all I care about is whether you're okay. Nothing else matters.

I know.

She left.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The heart monitor beeped on. Sunlight from the window had shifted onto the wall, falling across a cheap landscape print. A field of sunflowers, bright gold, almost gaudy with color.

I thought of the row of books on the top shelf of Cliff's bookcase. All of them Phyllis'sarchitecture and design. He'd studied finance. He would never read a single one of those books in his life.

But he kept them.

Kept them when he moved into my place. Kept them when we changed apartments. Three years, and he hadn't gotten rid of one.

Meanwhile, the wedding photo I'd put on his desk had been tucked into a drawer.

Not thrown away. Tucked away.

He probably thought that counted as respect.

That afternoon, the nurse came to change my dressing. When she peeled back the gauze, I looked down at the scar on my stomach.

Long and red, like a centipede crawled across my skin.

It's healing nicely, the nurse said. A few more days and the stitches can come out.

Okay.

Your husband not visiting today?

No.

She glanced at me, then didn't ask anything else. She finished the dressing, pulled the blanket back over me, and left.

I picked up my phone.

I had to scroll a long way down to find Cliff's name. Our last exchange was three days ago. He'd asked How are you feeling today and I'd replied Fine.

I scrolled up. It was all the same.

Coming home for dinner? Not tonight.

Movie this weekend? Working.

Do you remember my birthday? Yeah.

That last one was mine. He'd answered Yeah.

I wasn't even sure he actually remembered.

I closed the thread and scrolled through Instagram.

Phyllis had posted something new.

A photo of a coffee cup. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind it, sunlight falling across the rim, casting a long shadow.

The caption readIt's good to be home.

Cliff had liked it.

I stared at that like for a long time.

He had never liked a single thing I posted. He saw all of themI knew because he'd occasionally mention something from one. But he never once hit like.

I used to think he just didn't care for that kind of thing.

Turns out he just didn't care for me.

I turned off my phone, rolled over, and faced the wall.

The wall was white, clean, and completely bare.

I stared at it and tried to figure out what I'd done wrong.

I couldn't think of a single one.

From the very first day I met Cliff Fox, I loved him with everything I had.

We met at a friend's birthday party. He was standing in the corner, holding a glass of wine he hadn't touched, barely speaking, but every word he did say landed exactly right.

I was drawn to him.

It wasn't until later that I found out he'd just broken up with Phyllis Henson. She'd gotten an offer abroad and was leaving the country for three years. Long-distance is too hard, she'd said. Let's end it. He didn't ask her to stay.

The friend who told me about it warned me to think it through.

He probably hasn't let her go yet.

I said it didn't matter.

I thought time could change everything.

I spent three years chasing him, three years waiting for him to let me in, waiting for him to let go of her, waiting for him to finally see me.

Then finally, on some ordinary evening, he said to meLet's get married.

No flowers. No ring. No getting down on one knee. He just said it over dinner, out of nowhere.

I still cried from happiness.

I said yes.

I thought he'd finally seen me.

Now I understand. He didn't see me. He was just tired. He needed a marriage, needed a wife, needed a reason to settle down.

And I happened to be there.

Anyone would have done. I just happened to be there.

Tears soaked into the pillow, and I didn't wipe them away.

Then I laughed at myself. What was the point? Could crying bring my baby back? Could it bring my uterus back? Could it make Cliff walk toward me on the day of the crash?

No.

So I wiped my eyes, sat up, picked up my phone, and made a call.

Hello, Attorney James? This is Christine Simmons. I'd like to ask about filing for divorce.

Attorney James said divorce was simpleif both sides agreed, you just signed and it was done.

What if one side doesn't agree? I asked.

Then you file for divorce in court. If there's sufficient evidence that the marriage has irretrievably broken down, the court will grant it.

I have evidence.