Chapter 1: The Papers on the Dryer

When I told my husband I’d go with my terminally ill first love on his final journey, Derek was folding my laundry.

The low hum of the dryer rattled through our apartment, mixing with the clean cotton scent. Derek stood at the counter, folding my favorite hoodie—the one with the faded college logo—like nothing had changed. My words hung there, sharp and dangerous. My chest tightened; I waited for him to explode.

I braced for another fight. Last time, he’d thrown his phone across the couch and stormed around the living room, voice hoarse from yelling. Now, my palms sweated and my eyes darted to the window, just in case I needed to bolt. But this time, he only paused, then nodded.

He even handed me a document to sign.

His hand trembled slightly as he slid the paper toward me, a blue-inked pen clipped to the corner. He didn’t look up—just kept folding my socks, one after the other, as if the simple act could keep his heart from falling apart.

The moment my eyes landed on the paper, I saw the heading: "Divorce Agreement."

The words were bold, cold, final—so official they might as well have been chiseled in stone. My name, his, the date—staring back at me. Suddenly, the kitchen counter felt icy under my white-knuckled grip. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and flashes of memory hit me: Derek carrying me over the threshold of our first apartment; a night spent laughing in bed, tangled in sheets; his shy grin when he made pancakes on our anniversary. All of it spun through my mind, breaking me open just as I signed.

He’d leave with nothing. No claim on the apartment, the car, not even the battered TV remote he always lost. Just—gone. Like he’d never been here at all.

My heart stuttered, pain blooming in my chest.

I snapped, "Derek, I already told you he's about to die. Why can't you be a little more generous? Are you really using divorce to threaten me?"

My voice climbed, ricocheting off the cheap drywall. The apartment seemed to shrink around us, judgmental and suffocating. Through the vent, I heard a neighbor’s TV—a game show’s laughter, cruelly out of place.

"He's dying, but I didn't kill him."

Derek’s words landed with a quiet finality. No raised voice, no drama. His calmness made my blood boil, made me want to scream, to shake him until he finally cracked. But I just stood there, rooted to the linoleum, tongue-tied, the washing machine’s beep echoing in my head.

This man, who’s shared my bed for six years, never seemed particularly capable. Always quiet, reserved—never knew how to handle things.

He’d never once raised his voice to me in public, never tried to take charge, never even fought over what to watch on TV. Sometimes I wondered if he even wanted to be here, or if he’d just drifted into my life and stayed because it was easy.

I used to call him a golden retriever type—laid-back, unbothered. If he stayed, fine; if he left, fine too.

He’d smile that lopsided smile, scratch the back of his neck, and say, "Whatever you want, Rach." At first, it was sweet. After a while, it felt like he was just watching his own life from the outside.

I stared at his face, so calm it bordered on indifference, my temper nearly boiling over.

I wanted to see something—anger, heartbreak, anything. Instead, he pressed another crease into my t-shirt, eyes glued to the fabric, like my meltdown was just another mess to fold away.

"The car you drive was a gift from my dad, and now you're leaving with nothing. What do you even have in this house?"

My words got sharp, poking at old wounds. I knew how sour it sounded—measuring a person by car payments and hand-me-downs—but I let them fly.

"You never even tried to get ahead, Derek. Never made friends at work, never brought home a raise. No wonder you’re still stuck at that desk job."

"What, did some rich woman take a liking to you, and now you have the nerve to divorce me?"

I always spoke without thinking, and his poker face only made me angrier. I blurted out whatever would hurt most.

Derek’s face went pale, lips pressed tight, saying nothing. His eyes flicked over me like I was a stain he couldn’t scrub out. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the faded linoleum, shoulders stiff, knuckles white around a pair of rolled-up socks. He was always terrible at arguing.

My anger flared hotter, words growing sharper and meaner.

"I'll just tear this up. If you have the guts, sue me. I never cheated—let’s see how the court rules."

I grabbed the papers and ripped them in half. The paper fluttered into the trash, the sound louder than it should’ve been in the cramped kitchen.

Derek’s gaze grew colder and colder—an expression I’d never seen from him before. I took two instinctive steps back. But then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

A cold, unsettling curve. Was this man crazy?

"Rachel, if you’re so dissatisfied, why did you marry me?"

There was self-mockery in his eyes, but he wasn’t mocking me—he was mocking himself.

"Satisfied or not, I married you, didn’t I? I never asked for a fancy wedding, and you married me so easily, right?"

I heard the edge in my own voice, that desperate lilt I used when I was trying to convince myself as much as him. The silence in the apartment pressed in.

"You’ve been saying this for six years."

Derek’s voice was almost a whisper. I couldn’t bring myself to look for heartbreak in his eyes—anyway, I’d be fine on my own.

All I knew was that Chris was dying. I didn’t want to just attend his wedding or his funeral; I wanted to be there for him in his final days, so that even after he was gone, he would remember me.

My priorities were all tangled, but I clung to the idea that at least I could matter to someone, even if only in the end. I tore up the divorce agreement and threw it in the trash, then slammed the door shut.

Isn’t marriage just like this? Never marrying the one you love most, settling for someone suitable, having kids, and even in death not ending up together.

All adults understand this, so why can’t Derek?

I stood in the hallway, breathing in the scent of someone’s takeout, the echo of my own words rattling in my head. I wondered if anyone ever really got it right, or if we were all just pretending until something broke.