Fireworks Over the River, Farewell to the Old Year

On New Year’s Eve, I was scrolling through a local news station’s drone livestream. Fireworks exploded in a riot of color over the river, illuminating the man I’d been married to for five years, locked in a passionate kiss with his childhood sweetheart. I calmly switched off the livestream and dialed his number. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up, the background a cacophony of noise. “Where are you?” I asked. After a brief silence, he said, “At the office. Didn’t I tell you I was working late?” “Working late with your childhood sweetheart?” A much longer silence followed on his end. I heard my own voice, terrifyingly calm. “You always do this. Go silent when you’re asked a question you can’t answer.” “Well, after tonight, you won’t have to answer me ever again.”

1. After I hung up, the silence in the room was deafening. On the dining table, an elaborate dinner of six dishes and a soup had long gone cold. I stared at the food for a long time, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over me. Five years ago today, Luke was in our tiny rental apartment, making hot pot for me. He had suddenly pulled out a small velvet box. “Mia,” he’d said, “marry me.” “I know it’s only silver for now, but I promise, one day I’ll replace it with a diamond.” His eyes had been so bright when he said it, they almost hurt to look at. I’ve worn that silver ring ever since. It’s tarnished now, but I could never bring myself to take it off. He said he would give me the best life possible, and I believed him. When we first started our company, it was just the two of us. He handled the tech side; I managed finances and sales. During the day, he’d write code while I met with clients. At night, we’d pack shipments together and eat instant noodles sitting on the staircase of our apartment building. Once, rushing to meet a bid deadline, I’d survived on eight hours of sleep over three days and ended up fainting at a print shop. Luke carried me to the hospital, his whole body trembling. His eyes were red. “We’re done with this startup. I’ll get a regular job. I can’t let you work yourself to death.” I shook my head. “No. We’re so close. I can do this.” And in the end, we did it. The day our company secured its first round of funding, Luke picked me up and spun me around in the office. Then he suddenly knelt, burying his face in my stomach. I felt a wet patch spreading through my shirt. “Mia,” he’d sobbed, “I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.” By our third year, the company was stable. We bought a house and a new car. In our fourth year, he got down on one knee and replaced the silver ring with a diamond. “Honey, let’s have a baby.” I touched my stomach and nodded with a smile. I had just settled into my role as CFO, but seeing the hopeful look in his eyes, I submitted my resignation. Two months into the pregnancy, my morning sickness was so severe I had to be hospitalized. Luke rushed between the office and the hospital every day, the dark circles under his eyes alarmingly deep. I stroked his face. “We should hire a nurse.” He shook his head. “You’re my wife. I have to be the one to take care of you.” Back then, I thought that was what happiness looked like. Until six months ago, when his childhood sweetheart, Sylvia, got divorced and moved back from overseas. Luke was the one who picked her up from the airport. He came home very late that night, smelling of a strange perfume. “Sylvia’s back with her kid, all alone. It’s a tough spot,” he said, taking off his jacket. “I helped her find a place to stay.” From that day on, “a tough spot” became Sylvia’s defining trait. When her car broke down, Luke went to fix it. When her son got sick, Luke took them to the hospital. When she was in a bad mood, Luke stayed out drinking with her until the early hours of the morning. My questions turned to accusations, and accusations turned to fights. Luke would say, “Mia, you never used to be like this.” And I would reply, “Luke, you never used to be like this, either.” Eventually, he just stopped talking. No matter how much I screamed or cried, he would just watch me silently, then turn and walk away, leaving me alone, feeling like a madwoman. Even tonight, on New Year’s Eve, he couldn’t even be bothered to come up with a convincing lie. He just said he was working late. And then I saw him on a livestream, kissing another woman. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence. Luke walked in. He saw me, then the untouched dinner on the table, and froze. “You’re still up?” I didn’t say a word. He walked closer, and the scent of perfume on his clothes made my stomach turn. “Something urgent came up at the office…” he began. I cut him off. “I have my check-up tomorrow. Eight in the morning.” Luke opened his mouth, but the explanation he had prepared died in his throat. I stood up to leave, and he grabbed my wrist. “Mia, I’m sorry.” His voice was low. “Just this year, I promise it won’t happen again. Once Sylvia gets back on her feet…” I gently pulled my hand away. “Don’t wait. Luke, let’s get a divorce.”

2. He stiffened. “What… What did you just say?” I looked him straight in the eye. “I said, let’s get a divorce. You can sleep in the guest room.” A firework exploded outside, illuminating the shock on his face. “Just because I didn’t spend New Year’s with you? Mia, are you serious?” I didn’t answer. I just turned and walked into the bedroom. As I closed the door, I heard him yelling from the other side. “What are you throwing a fit about now? Can’t you just be a little more understanding?” Understanding. That word again. I placed a hand on my slightly swollen belly and whispered, “Baby, from now on, it’s just you and me.” The Mia who once believed in a love that would last forever died on this New Year’s Eve. It was raining on the morning of my appointment. After I finished breakfast, Luke’s door was still closed. I knocked. “We’re leaving at eight.” No response. At 7:50, I grabbed my bag and walked out. In the elevator, I received a text from him: [Something came up. Should I call you a car?] I stared at the screen, remembering my first prenatal appointment. He had taken the whole week off, so nervous he’d crumpled the appointment slip in his hand. In the ultrasound room, when the doctor said, “That’s the baby’s heartbeat,” his eyes had immediately filled with tears. Afterward, he spun me around in the hospital parking lot, shouting, “I’m going to be a dad!” Back then, his phone was on for me 24/7. If I said I was craving the spicy noodles from a place an hour away, he would get in the car without a second thought. Now, he said something came up at the office. I replied: [No need. I’ll drive myself.] The hospital was, as always, packed. The waiting area of the obstetrics department was filled with expectant mothers, most of them with their husbands. The check-up went smoothly. The doctor smiled, looking at the ultrasound screen. “The baby is very healthy.” I looked at the tiny, flickering shape, and my nose began to sting. This was my child. Mine alone. “The next appointment is for the Down syndrome screening. Your husband will need to come and sign the forms,” the doctor reminded me. I nodded, wondering how far along the divorce proceedings would be by then. I left the clinic and went to the pharmacy to pick up my prenatal vitamins. While I was waiting in line, a familiar figure caught my eye. Luke. He was holding a little boy, about three or four years old, and walking out of the pediatric emergency department. Sylvia was beside him, her eyes red and swollen. The little boy’s face was flushed, and he was leaning limply against Luke’s shoulder. Luke was whispering something to him, his expression impossibly gentle. They didn’t see me. I stood frozen, the bag of vitamins in my hand suddenly feeling very heavy. So he did remember he had to come to the hospital today. Just not for me. “Mia?” Luke suddenly turned his head. His face changed the moment he saw me. He hastily handed the child to Sylvia and rushed over. He glanced at my pharmacy bag. “You’re… done with your appointment?” “Yes.” “Mia, I didn’t mean to miss it, it’s just…” The little boy started to cry. “Uncle Luke! It hurts…” Sylvia, holding the child, looked over with tear-filled eyes. “Luke, Cody wants you…” Luke looked torn. I found the whole scene ridiculous. “Go on. The child is more important.” “Mia, Cody suddenly came down with a high fever and passed out. Sylvia couldn’t handle it on her own, so I had to…” Sylvia shrieked, “Luke! Cody’s throwing up!” The child had vomited all over himself and onto Luke’s jacket. Instinctively, Luke turned his attention back to the boy. I turned and walked away. “Mia!” he called out from behind me. I didn’t look back. As the elevator doors closed, I saw him rushing the child toward the restroom, Sylvia following close behind, her hand on his arm. They looked just like a family. In the car, my hands trembled on the steering wheel. It wasn’t anger. It was cold. A deep, penetrating cold that reached my bones. My phone vibrated. A text from Luke: [Cody’s not doing well. I’ll be home late.] I stared at the screen, my face a blank mask, and typed: [Luke, when you get back, we’re discussing the divorce.] My finger hovered over the send button. I deleted the message and typed a new one: [Don’t bother coming back.] I hit send. Then I opened my contacts and found my lawyer’s number. The call connected. My voice was perfectly steady. “Mr. Davies, this is Mia Wright.” “I’d like to consult with you about getting a divorce.”

3. Mr. Davies arranged to meet me at a coffee shop. “Mrs. Wright, I can draft the divorce agreement, but if you can provide evidence of your husband transferring marital assets, you’ll have a significant advantage in the division of property.” I stirred my coffee. “What kind of evidence do you need?” Mr. Davies adjusted his glasses. “For example, if he gifted joint assets to a third party without your consent.” “Try to think if your husband has had any unusual financial activities.” I thought for a moment. And then I thought of Sylvia’s social media. For the past six months, the things she posted had become increasingly expensive. The floor-to-ceiling windows of a new apartment, the steering wheel of a white Porsche, Hermès bags, designer clothes for her son. She was unemployed and newly divorced. Where was the money coming from? “I remember her saying her ex-husband didn’t give her much in alimony,” I muttered. Mr. Davies nodded. “That’s a red flag. It might be worth looking into.” When I got home, I scoured Sylvia’s social media feed, taking screenshots of everything: the backgrounds of her photos, license plates, even the logos on shopping bags. Then I called Amy. Amy was my protégé back at the company. When I resigned, she took over my position. “Mia?” she whispered, her voice low. I got straight to the point. “Amy, I need you to do something for me.” “Check the company’s recent accounts. Are there any unusual expenditures? Large-sum transfers to an individual, for example.” There was a pause on the other end. When Amy spoke again, her voice was even quieter. “There are. Luke has approved several over the past six months. The recipient is always Sylvia Ross. The largest was a down payment for a house. Two hundred thousand dollars.” My heart sank. “What else?” “A car. Eighty thousand. The rest is miscellaneous spending, but it adds up to…” She paused. “Close to a hundred thousand.” Three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I hung up the phone, my hand shaking. It wasn’t about the money. It was because I remembered last week, when I mentioned wanting to book a postpartum recovery center for about ten thousand dollars. Luke had frowned. “That’s too expensive. My mom can come take care of you.” At that very time, Sylvia was posting pictures of her new Birkin bag. I spent the entire night logging into the company’s financial system. I used my old account, which still had the highest level of clearance. Luke had never changed it. Or rather, it had never occurred to him that I would check. The transfer records were all there, clear as day. From the day Sylvia returned until now, six months, three hundred eighty-two thousand, seven hundred and forty dollars. House, car, luxury goods, children’s clothes, early education, housekeeping services… Every single transaction was a knife in my gut. I took screenshots, saved them, and backed them up. Then, I waited for Luke to come home. He came back after midnight, smelling of alcohol. He saw me sitting in the living room and stopped short. “You’re still up?” “The company is missing three hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars,” I said, without preamble. The expression on Luke’s face froze. “Sylvia’s house, her car, all those bags… you bought them all, didn’t you?” Silence. That same, infuriating silence. “Speak,” I said, my voice dangerously soft. “Mia, Sylvia just got divorced, it’s not easy for her with a kid, I was just helping…” I cut him off. “Helping her by buying her a house and a car?” “Luke, our first year in business, we took the bus carrying our own product samples just to save fifty bucks on shipping. And now you can throw away over three hundred grand without blinking an eye?” He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “You have one week. Put every single dollar back into the company account.” “Otherwise, I’ll sue you for fraudulent transfer of marital assets, and I’ll report you to the IRS.” His eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you insane? You’d ruin me over money?” I met his gaze. “This isn’t about the money. This is for me and my child.” He just stood there, a statue of a man. Silent. Always silent when faced with a difficult question. I repeated myself. “Seven days. If the money isn’t back, I’ll see you in court.” I turned and went back to the bedroom. As I closed the door, I heard him collapse onto the sofa, followed by the flick of a lighter. I placed a hand on my belly, feeling the tiny life inside. Suddenly, the pain didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Now, there was only one thing I wanted. To leave with my child and my money. And Luke? He was going to pay.

4. On the seventh day, the money was not in the account. A letter from my lawyer was delivered to the office. That evening, Luke came home and slammed the envelope on the table. “Mia, do you really have to do this?” I asked calmly, “What’s the alternative? Should I wait until you’ve given away all our money and my child and I are left with nothing?” His eyes were red. “What about our five years together…” I cut him off. “You’re the one who destroyed our marriage.” “Luke, every time you chose her, you were destroying us.” “Every time you chose silence, you were chipping away at what we had.” He was, once again, speechless. That weekend, I went out to buy baby supplies. When I returned, I could hear laughter from inside before I even opened the door. The living room had been transformed into a children’s playground. Balloons, streamers, and toys were everywhere. A group of kids was running around, and Sylvia’s son, Cody, was riding on Luke’s shoulders, his face flushed with excitement. Sylvia came out of the kitchen wearing an apron. Her smile froze when she saw me. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Mia, it’s Cody’s birthday today. Your place is so much bigger, so I just…” Luke set Cody down, his expression awkward. “Mia, let me explain…” “Who gave you permission?” My voice was ice. The living room fell silent. All the children turned to look at me. I enunciated every word. “This is my house. Who gave you permission to bring strangers in here?” Sylvia’s eyes turned red. “I’m so sorry, we’ll leave right now… Cody, let’s go…” “Sylvia!” Luke grabbed her arm, then turned to me. “Mia, it’s just a child’s birthday party. Do you have to be like this?” Be like this. I had heard those words so many times. “Get out,” I said. “Mia!” “Take these people and get out!” Suddenly, Cody screamed and charged at me. “Mean lady! Don’t you yell at my mommy!” He slammed into me with surprising force. I stumbled backward, caught off guard. My lower back hit the sharp corner of the dining table, and an explosion of pain radiated through me. Even worse was the tearing, twisting agony that shot through my abdomen. I looked down and saw a horrifying bloom of red spreading across my light-colored pants. “Blood…” someone screamed. Luke rushed to help me, but I shoved him away. I gritted my teeth. “Call an ambulance… Call an ambulance!” In the ambulance, waves of pain washed over me. I gripped the paramedic’s hand. “My baby… my baby…” She tried to comfort me, but her eyes said it all. I was rushed into the emergency room. When I woke up, the doctor was standing over me, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t save the baby.” I didn’t cry. I just stared at the ceiling, my mind a complete blank. In the hospital room, Luke stood by my bed, his eyes red and raw. “Mia, I’m so sorry…” “Get out.” “We’re still young, we can try again…” “Get out!” He didn’t move. I grabbed the glass of water from the bedside table and hurled it at him. It shattered at his feet. “Get out!” Luke finally left. I lay in the bed and touched my stomach. It was flat again, as if the little life had never been there at all. This morning, when I left the house, I could still feel it move. Now, there was nothing. The last thread connecting me to Luke had been severed. The next day, I placed the divorce papers in front of him. “Sign it.” Luke’s eyes scanned the terms, stopping at the clause that left him with nothing. He looked up, shocked. “Mia, you…”