fiction

Chapter 8 - Spring Cleaning

Spring in New York arrived with a violent, beautiful explosion of green.

The snow melted away from the streets of Astoria and the manicured lawns of Montclair, washing away the grey residue of winter. By April, my divorce was finalized. Sarah Sterling had secured an absolute victory: I walked away with full ownership of the Montclair condo (which I promptly sold for a substantial profit), zero liability for Ethan’s corporate misdeeds, and a clean financial slate.

I had also accepted a promotion to Vice President of Global HR Compliance at a major tech firm in Manhattan, doubling my previous salary and moving into a gorgeous, sun-drenched loft apartment in Brooklyn with exposed brick walls and massive arched windows overlooking the East River.

I didn't think about Ethan. Occasionally, mutual acquaintances mentioned him—rumors that he had moved back to Ohio, living with a distant relative, trying to find entry-level commercial work under a cloud of corporate suspicion. Carol had reportedly moved into an assisted living facility in Toledo, still complaining about the quality of the breakfast toast.

They were ghosts of a life I had outgrown.

On a warm Saturday morning in May, I was sitting at my large oak dining table in my Brooklyn loft, reviewing a stack of international compliance reports with a cup of fresh coffee at my elbow.

My phone chimed on the table.

It was a text from an unknown number with a Montclair area code.

Unknown: Amelia? It’s Ethan. I know you blocked me everywhere, but I just wanted to say... I’m sorry. I lost everything. I finally realized what I threw away. If you ever want to talk... I’m here.

I stared at the message on the screen.

For a fraction of a second, I thought about replying. I thought about sending him a picture of my new loft, my new career, my new life of absolute freedom and peace.

Then I realized that replying would give him something he didn't deserve: my attention.

May you like

I tapped the screen, selected Block Contact, and then clicked Delete.

The message vanished into the digital void, leaving no trace behind.

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