I Gave Him His Freedom

“Is it over?”

As soon as I stepped out of the courthouse, my mother walked over to me.

“It’s over.”

“He still didn’t show up?”

“He didn’t.”

“Does he know?”

I shook my head.

“The court published the notice for sixty days. No one could get in touch with him. I don’t think he’s had the time to see it.”

My mother’s voice trembled. “All because of Natalie?”

“Yes. She was in surgery back then. She was hanging between life and death.”

My mother wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.

“So... is she getting better?”

“Maybe.”

“Yvette, you’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

“For three years, he took care of every single one of her meals without missing a day. Mom, maybe there’s a place for me in his heart, but there’s a place for her too.”

The sorrow on my mother’s face deepened, but she said nothing more.

Five years ago, we had met at the hospital.

He was already the most renowned thoracic surgeon in the province.

I was his patient.

Every day at 8 a.m., he led the other doctors on their rounds. His eyes never lingered on me.

But each time, he left me a piece of candy.

He would say, “The medicine is a little bitter. A piece of candy will make it easier.”

On the day I was discharged, Orion Young came to my room alone.

He had said, “You’re all better now. You won’t need to come back.”

I could not hide the disappointment in my eyes.

Then, he said something that left me speechless.

“You’re not my patient anymore. Can I ask you out?”

Back then, everyone in the hospital knew Orion liked me.

During the month I was in the hospital, he traded every possible shift just so he could see me one more time.

For many days, he had worked the day shift and the night shift back-to-back, just so he could ask me one question.

“How are you feeling today?”

Ding.

The elevator doors opened. The sound pulled me out of my memories.

When I got home, my phone lit up. It was Orion.

He had sent me a photo.

It was a plane ticket from South City to North City.

The departure date was tomorrow.

A second later, another message came through.

[Honey, I’ll be home soon!]

I stood in the doorway and stared at those words for a long time.

Last year, I came down with acute appendicitis.

On my way to the hospital, I had sent him an almost identical message.

The only difference was that mine was a question.

[Honey, can you come home?]

My phone had remained silent the entire day.

Later, I saw him in one of Natalie Sullivan’s vlogs.

He looked tense. The camera slowly pulled back, and I saw him spreading frosting over a cake with great care.

He was writing on the cake.

[Happy birthday, Natalie. Wishing you health and happiness.]

It had been three years. On the very day I decided to let him go, he told me he was coming home.

I opened the door, changed into my slippers, and looked around the apartment.

Everywhere I looked, I saw only traces of my own life.

The single pair of men’s slippers in the shoe cabinet never left their box. They had been there for three years.

Only my clothes hung on the balcony.

Not many items belonged to him.

Not a single item belonged to the two of us.

I opened Natalie’s pinned video. It was also the one with the most likes.

It showed the home she and Orion shared in South City.

Two pairs of house slippers sat neatly beneath the shoe cabinet.

One pair was pink. The other was blue.

The soles of the blue pair were already worn smooth.

Their clothes hung side by side on the balcony. They looked like a married couple.

Then, the camera moved to the yard. Bright, colorful flowers filled the screen.

Natalie stepped into view with a radiant smile. She introduced them one by one.

There were roses, daisies, sunflowers, and bougainvillea.

They were all flowers Orion had grown for her. He had needed no special reason. He just wanted to make her happier.

During our second year of marriage, I started growing flowers on our balcony too.

But he always forgot to water them.

I asked, “Orion, can’t you put a little more thought into this?”

He answered, “They’re just flowers.”

Just flowers.

Those two words were only for me.

He simply had never cared enough when it came to me.