My ex-wife asked me to help destroy her own wedding. I agreed without hesitation. At the time, I thought the hardest part would be standing beside the woman I never truly stopped loving while she married someone else. I had no idea that a fake pregnancy, a gender reveal party, and one carefully planned public humiliation would change everything.
I’m fifty-five years old, and even after two years, it still feels strange referring to Sarah as my ex-wife.
The divorce happened, the paperwork was signed, and our lives officially moved in different directions.
But some things don’t end just because a judge says they have.
At least not for me.
I never completely moved on.
Sarah seemed to.
Within a year, she was dating a man named Nicholas.
He was twenty-five years younger than she was and looked like the kind of man who never left the house without checking his reflection three times.
I told myself I was being unfair.
Jealous.
Bitter.
Maybe even pathetic.
Then I met him.
The first thing Nicholas did was shake my hand far too aggressively.
The second thing he did was call me “sir” in a tone that sounded respectful on the surface but somehow managed to feel insulting underneath.
Sarah thought he was charming.
Maybe he had been at first.
I decided to stay out of it.
Our daughter, Lily, already had enough stress without acting as a referee between her divorced parents.
So I kept my opinions to myself.
When Sarah and Nicholas announced their engagement, I smiled politely.
The kind of smile society expects from a divorced man whose former wife is marrying a younger guy with perfect teeth and an employment history that seemed suspiciously vague.
“Congratulations,” I told them.
Then I went home and poured myself a glass of bourbon.
Maybe two.
For months, I convinced myself Sarah was happy.
