The Day I Stopped Caring, She Regretted

After six years of marriage, my wife Vivian Williams suddenly posted on social media:

“Well, well—look who’s here. Sore loser still won’t admit it, wants a rematch?”

The photo showed a young guy in a skull-print tee, pouting with a scowl, cross-legged in a gaming chair.

That was Leo Miller, the new artist her company had just signed.

I was staring at the screen in a daze when a mutual friend commented below:

“Vivian! You forgot to switch accounts!”

A few seconds later, Vivian’s post disappeared entirely. But not long after, the exact same post showed up on Leo’s Instagram.

Vivian called me right away.

In the past, I would’ve screenshotted it, marched over to confront her, and demanded answers.

But this time, I just stared at my phone screen in silence, letting it ring until it stopped.

When Vivian got home, I was curled up on the couch watching a movie.

She tossed her car keys onto the entryway cabinet and bent down to change her shoes.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called? You were home, right?”

Vivian never used to question me like this—unless she was feeling guilty.

I kept my eyes on the TV as I replied casually:

“The movie was too good. Didn’t hear the phone.”

“Work dinner ran late, so I’m home late. You don’t have to sit around waiting for me every night. No one’s impressed by this little act.”

Before, I would’ve patiently explained it was just how I showed I cared.

But today, I couldn’t even be bothered to say anything else.

Vivian stood in front of me, tossing a luxury brand shopping bag my way.

Today marked the premiere of her company’s big new drama series.

To celebrate, I’d left work early like always, cooked a whole spread, and invited some mutual friends over to watch the premiere with her when she got home.

But after four episodes, our friends had eaten dinner in awkward silence and left, and Vivian—who’d promised to be home early—still hadn’t shown up.

I pretended not to notice the ten hours of straight gaming on her phone, took the paper bag, and set it casually on the carpet.

I’d seen this bag before, not long ago—when she missed our anniversary.

Same size, same style.

Vivian stared down at me for a second, then frowned, her voice turning cold:

“Jonathan, are you gonna keep moping around?”

Buying gifts was Vivian’s go-to apology move.

Once I accepted a gift, no matter what had happened before, she’d act like everything was fine. If I brought it up again, I was just “nagging.”

Now that I wasn’t letting her off easy, she was clearly ticked off.

“Here, let me open it for you.”

Without waiting for a response, she ripped open the packaging, pulled out a brand-new handbag, and held it out to me:

“The sales girl said this style is super hard to get—you’ll love it.”

I looked up. Vivian followed my gaze to the bag I’d tossed on the couch earlier—the one I’d grabbed in my rush to make dinner. It was exactly like the one in her hand.

The room went dead silent.

“It’s getting late. You should get some sleep—you have work tomorrow.”

I said flatly, standing up to head to the bedroom.

“I’ll have my assistant take you tomorrow so you can pick out another one.”

Vivian’s voice held a rare note of caution.

“No thanks.”

I refused without turning around.

The next morning, maybe realizing she’d gone too far, Vivian uncharacteristically suggested we carpool to work.

I hadn’t slept well, so I just nodded.

She stood by her car, face tight with bottled-up irritation and impatience.

I couldn’t remember when it started, but Vivian had begun making excuses not to let me ride with her. She treated that passenger seat like her personal space—wouldn’t even let me touch it—until I finally bought my own car.

Every time I asked, she’d snap that I was being ridiculous, obsessing over “shotgun rights” like some internet weirdo, and that she didn’t have time for my petty jealousy.

Now that seat clearly belonged to Leo.

It was covered in race car models and stickers. The seat was custom-fitted to his body, and even the sun visor had been adjusted so he could fix his hair easier.

Vivian glanced at me, sighed, then opened the door and carefully moved all his stuff to the back seat.

Watching her, I frowned a little and said:

“Don’t bother. I’ll drive myself.”

Vivian kept tidying up the clutter:

“I said we’d go together. Leo’s just a kid—he likes that stupid stuff. Don’t take it personally.”

Even with the decorations gone, that custom seat still looked totally out of place in her car.

In the end, I still didn’t get in Vivian’s car.

No real reason—just this sick, twisted feeling in my gut.