Attached were indeed the statements—page after page—mortgage entries, almost all from her bank account. His entries were rare, irregular, and significantly smaller in amount.
He had never thought about it, just lived, believing that was how it should be.
She earned more, so she covered more.
Normal, right?
But now, looking at those figures, at the cold accounting of their life together, Darnell suddenly saw the truth.
She had carried both of them—always covered the condo, the groceries, the monthly essentials—and he… he spent his money on himself, on his car, on entertainment, on—
Darnell pushed the documents away and rubbed his face.
His head was pounding.
The next sheet: inventory of assets. The condo, his car, her car, furniture, electronics—everything was appraised, everything was itemized.
And again, most of it was purchased with her money, or on a card she paid off.
Darnell stood up, walked around the kitchen, and went to the window, looking out at the park. Downstairs, kids were playing basketball with a makeshift ball. An ordinary evening, and his life was turning upside down.
He went back to the table, picked up the note again, and read it to the end.
The divorce and asset division documents are on the table. Everything is filed through a lawyer. Everything is legal. I have packed your things in boxes. They are in the hall. Pick them up when it is convenient. Leave the keys on the entry table.
Aisha.
No emotion.
No pleas to return.
No tears or reproaches.
Just facts.
Cold as ice.
Darnell slowly sank back onto the chair and looked at his hands. The ordinary hands of a forty-five-year-old man, slightly rough from working at the dealership, with hangnails. These hands had once held Aisha twenty years ago on their wedding day.
He had truly loved her.
The young, beautiful, smart girl who looked at him with adoring eyes.
When did everything change?
Darnell leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
Memories flooded in.
Aisha was always the strong one. When he was in college, she was already working as an engineer, helping him with money for textbooks and bus fare. He hadn’t thought of it as help back then, just took it for granted. When they rented their first apartment, she paid two-thirds of the rent. Then when they got the mortgage, she put down the initial $10,000—all her savings from three years of work.
He had promised to pay his share, but his salary was less.
Then he changed jobs.
There were gaps, and Aisha paid silently, without reproach.
When he wanted to open his repair shop, she gave him all their savings—$25,000. She believed in him, supported him, loved him.
And when the business failed six months later, she didn’t utter a single word of reproach. She just hugged him and said, “It’s okay. We’ll try again when we have the money.”
Darnell opened his eyes and looked at the documents on the table.
“We’ll try again.”
She always said, “We’ll try.”
And he… he took her support for granted and nurtured a resentment that she was more successful, stronger, and more needed at work than he was.
And when he saw the gray hair, he—
Darnell stood up, walked to the hallway mirror, and looked at himself.
Forty-five years old. Thinning hair at the temples. Wrinkles around the eyes. A starting double chin.
And gray hair.
He had just as much gray hair as Aisha. He just kept his hair cut short so it wasn’t as noticeable.
Old lady.
He had called her an old lady.
And what was he?
Darnell walked into the bedroom. His side of the closet was indeed empty. Aisha had neatly collected everything into the boxes standing by the door.
He opened one.
His shirts neatly folded. His jeans. His socks sorted by color.
Even as she left—even after his words and his betrayal—she had taken care of his things. She hadn’t thrown them into a trash bag or dumped them on the landing.
She had folded them carefully.
Darnell sat on the bed.
Their bed.
Where they had slept for twenty years.
He looked at the bedside table on her side: a book, some novel, reading glasses, hand cream—simple things.
The life of a simple woman who worked, came home tired, read before bed, and put cream on her hands.
And he had said he didn’t want to live with an old lady.
Darnell pulled out his phone and found her number. His fingers hovered over the screen.
Should he call?
Say what?
I made a mistake. Let’s go back.
He imagined her picking up, hearing his voice.
What would she say?
No.
She wouldn’t pick up.
She had already made her decision.
Head of the division with $150,000.
She was already at a new stage in her life without him.
Darnell put the phone back in his pocket, stood up, picked up one box of clothes, and carried it to the car.
Then a second.
A third.
Four boxes—his entire life from this condo.
He returned, took off the watch—the expensive Swiss one Aisha had given him for his fortieth birthday—and placed it on her bedside table.
Let her keep it.
Let her sell it or throw it away.
Darnell walked through the condo one last time.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Bathroom.
Bedroom.
Twenty years.
They had celebrated New Year’s here. They had made up after fights here. They had made plans for the future here.
And now it was all over.
He took the documents from the table, folded them into a folder, and pulled out his set of keys. He placed them on the entry table exactly as Aisha had asked in the note.
Darnell walked out, closed the door, and stood on the landing.
Music was playing in the condo across the hall.
Someone was laughing.
Life went on.
He walked down to his car, loaded the last box into the trunk, got behind the wheel, and started the engine.
But he didn’t drive away.
He sat there staring at the front entrance.
His phone vibrated.
A text from Kylie.
Vince, are you coming soon? I’m cooking dinner.
Darnell looked at the screen.
Kylie. Twenty-eight years old. Cute, cheerful, no gray hair—the one for whom he had orchestrated all of this.
He started to type a reply, but his fingers froze.
Suddenly, with terrifying clarity, he understood.
Kylie wasn’t love.
She was an escape.
An escape from his own inadequacy. From the comparison with his successful wife, from the realization that he hadn’t become the man he wanted to be.
Aisha had grown professionally, moving upward while he had stalled. A sales manager at an auto dealership making $45,000 at age forty-five.
And instead of working on himself, he found a young mistress to feel significant, needed, and important again.
And Aisha… Aisha had simply lived, worked, achieved her goals, and grown.
And her hair had turned gray from the work, the exhaustion, the stress from carrying both the family and her career on her back.
Darnell put the phone on the passenger seat without replying to Kylie and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.
What had he done?
He had lost the woman who had been his rock for twenty years, who had believed in him, supported him, and loved him—who had never once reproached him for earning less or for not reaching career heights.
And in return he had called her an old lady and walked out for a younger woman.
Darnell dropped his head onto the steering wheel.
Something tightened in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
It wasn’t pain in the usual sense.
It was the realization of the scale of his loss—the life he had thrown away due to his own foolishness.
$150,000.
Head of the division.
Aisha had achieved what he could only dream of, and she had done it by herself without him.
Moreover, perhaps she was only able to do it precisely because she was free of him—because she no longer had to spend her energy propping up his shaky ego, soothing his insecurities, or enduring his indecisiveness.
His phone vibrated again.
Kylie texted: Vince, where are you? I’m worried.
Darnell picked up the phone and looked at Kylie’s profile picture.
A young face, a bright smile—a cute girl who worked as a clerk at the mall and dreamed of a glamorous life.
He typed a reply.
Be there soon.
He started the car and drove out of the parking lot, taking the boxes with his things to the rented studio on the outskirts.
To the new life he had chosen for himself.
The whole way, only one question echoed in his mind.
What if I made a terrible mistake?
Darnell arrived at Kylie’s and went up to the third floor of the small apartment building.
She opened the door, smiling.
“Finally. I thought you weren’t coming.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Help me bring in the boxes.”
They hauled the boxes into the apartment. One room, cramped, with furniture that wasn’t theirs. It smelled like something fried.
“I cooked chicken,” Kylie said, walking into the kitchen. “Sit down. Let’s eat.”
Darnell sat down at the small kitchen table.
Kylie served the food, telling him something about her work and her friends.
He listened half-heartedly.
“Vince, why are you so quiet?” Kylie looked at him carefully. “Did something happen?”
“No, everything’s fine,” he lied. “Just tired.”
They ate dinner, then went to bed on the narrow sofa. Kylie snuggled up to him and fell asleep quickly, but Darnell lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Only one thought spun in his head.
What now?
Divorce.
Division.
Thirty-five percent of the condo, about $150,000 considering current market prices.
Not bad money.
He could start something, maybe try his business again.
But there was no joy in those thoughts, only emptiness.
Darnell carefully slipped out of Kylie’s embrace, got up, and went onto the tiny balcony. He lit a cigarette—a habit he’d been trying to quit for years, but couldn’t.
The city slept. Only a few windows glowed in the buildings across the way.
Somewhere out there in this city, Aisha was also awake.
Perhaps she was thinking about her new life, her new position, about the fact that she was finally free of the husband who hadn’t valued her.
Darnell put out the cigarette, went back inside, lay down next to Kylie, and closed his eyes, trying to sleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
And only one voice, quiet and persistent, sounded in his head.
You lost her for good.
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