Never Call Me Again

After our ninety-ninth screaming match, I lost control of my car on the expressway and shattered both my legs. Trapped in the trauma bay, the stench of sterile gauze and copper thick in my throat, I called Miranda thirty-seven times. Thirty-seven rings that tumbled straight into the hollow click of voicemail. I only found out later that she had been at a pop concert with Justin, her newly hired executive assistant. She thought my repeated calls were an annoyance, a petulant bid for attention, so she switched her phone to silent and slid it deep into her clutch. When I was finally discharged, I settled into my wheelchair without a word. I stopped monitoring her schedule. I stopped staying up in the dark, waiting for the sound of her key turning in the lock. I stopped leaving the hallway light burning for her. Even when she took Justin’s calls right in front of me, murmuring into the receiver in that low, soothing cadence she once reserved only for me, I simply kept my head down, quietly sipping my Earl Grey. My silence unmoored her. It wasn't the reaction she was scripted for. In response, she began staying out until dawn, even deliberately wearing silk slips and dresses Justin had helped her pick out, parading them past my chair. When I gave her nothing—not a glance, not an accusation—her composure finally snapped. She reached down and ripped the porcelain teacup from my grip. Boiling water sloshed over the back of her pale hand. She didn't flinch. Instead, her voice shook with a venomous, cornered rage: "How long are you going to punish me, Simon? I told you, I promised him those concert tickets weeks ago! Do you really have to be this suffocatingly passive-aggressive?" "I fired him already. What else do you want from me?" I looked up at her disheveled elegance, my voice devoid of tremor: "I don't want anything from you." "Miranda, I just don't love you anymore." "Find an afternoon this week. Let's sign the divorce papers." Her entire frame recoiled, the porcelain certainty in her eyes shattering piece by piece. … After Miranda slammed the front door behind her, I sat alone in the dim living room for a very long time. Spilled tea seeped into the oak floorboards, dark and spreading, the ceramic shards glistening like broken teeth against the wool rug. Martha, our housekeeper, hurried in with a broom, her face drawn with worry. "Don't touch that," I said quietly, stopping her. "I'll clean it." She looked at my braced, useless legs and rushed to steady my shoulders. "Sir, please don't move." "I can do it." I gripped the armrest of the sofa, grinding my teeth, and forced myself upright. But the moment I shifted my weight, my left knee buckled under me like a snapping twig. I hit the floor hard. A sickening bolt of white-hot agony shot through my femoral pins, turning my vision completely black. I lay there on the cold wood, chest heaving, unable to drag myself up. My phone rested a few feet away on the rug. The screen blinked awake with a soft chime. A notification from Miranda: "Justin is in a very dark place tonight. I won't be coming home." Not a single inquiry about my condition. Not a passing mention of the scalding water or the cup she had just ripped from my hands. I stared at that brief, indifferent line of text, and an empty, breathless laugh tore from my chest. Five years of marriage. Ninety-nine wars fought across marble countertops and luxury hotel suites. And every single battle concluded according to the exact same script: I got furious; she retreated into icy silence. I demanded an explanation; she offered a practiced, patronizing defense. And then, her coup de grâce: "Simon, can you stop being so childish? Can you stop saying cruel things just to wound me?" She always made me feel like the lunatic. An unreasonable, hysterical man screaming at shadows. She stayed late with Justin because he was reeling from a bitter divorce. She ignored my frantic calls because her phone battery was low. She bypassed senior managers to give Justin the premier project lead because the boy needed his confidence rebuilt. Even that lingering kiss on the stadium Jumbotron during the concert—she had reduced it to corporate diplomacy: "The cameras put us on the giant screen, Simon. Thousands of people were cheering. I couldn't humiliate him in public." She never stopped to wonder if I was being humiliated. She simply took it for granted that I was an immovable fixture in her life. That no matter how far she wandered, I would remain anchored right where she left me, grateful for whatever scraps of tenderness she deigned to drop into my lap on her way back to bed. Martha knelt and gently hoisted me back into the wheelchair, her voice trembling. "Does... does Mrs. Beaumont not know your orthopedic follow-up is this afternoon?" "No." "Why didn't you remind her?" I lowered my eyes, my thumb hovering over the screen, and deleted the message I had drafted hours ago. The surgeon had already warned me that the bone knitting was abnormal, that the alignment was failing. I had originally wanted to ask if she would hold my hand through the physical therapy session tonight. Now, the thought felt pathetic. "From now on, Martha, don't update her on my medical matters." Martha froze, staring at me in dismay. I wheeled myself down the hall to the master closet. Methodically, I began pulling Miranda's tailored suits and cashmere coats from their cedar hangers, folding them into heavy cardboard boxes. She was obsessive about her wardrobe. No one was permitted to touch her clothes. Over the years, I had learned her personal taxonomy: dark palettes on the far left, light silks on the right, hangers spaced precisely one inch apart, cuffs aligned toward the interior. Occasionally, she would lean against the doorframe, watching me work, and reach out to smooth down my hair with a languid smile. "You really do know me best, Simon." Back then, I had worn that praise like a medal of honor, convinced it was proof of our intimacy. Now I understood: it wasn't love. She just appreciated having a devoted, unpaid concierge. I taped the first box shut. When the front door clicked open and Miranda walked in, the sight of the cardboard boxes stopped her dead in her tracks. Her brows knitted into a tight, irritated ridge. "What kind of performance is this now?" "Packing your things." "This is my house," she said, her voice dropping into that clipped, executive cadence. "Where exactly am I moving?" "You said you weren't coming home tonight." She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her silk blouse, exposing a slender, pale wrist. The platinum Cartier Tank watch caught the recessed lighting—a watch I had bought for her with my very first performance bonus years ago. She had worn it every day for three years, but she had never once asked how many seventy-hour workweeks it had cost me. "I told you," she said, defensive edge sharpening her tone, "Justin was having a panic attack." "Okay." "Just 'okay'?" "Go be with him." "Simon!" There was a time when that sharp, reprimanding tone would have made my stomach drop, terrified that she was pulling away. But now, I merely tilted my head back against the leather headrest. "Is there anything else?" She stood there, speechless. It was as if she had finally registered that I hadn't asked where she went, whose car dropped her off, or why she smelled faintly of masculine cologne. She stepped forward, her manicured fingers closing over the coat in my lap. "Stop this. Put it back." "Why?" "I don't like the house looking like a warehouse." I looked directly into her eyes. "It’s your house, remember? Not mine." Her hands went rigid on the fabric. "Can you stop twisting every word that comes out of my mouth? Can we please just stop with the spite?" I looked back down and continued folding the sleeve. "I’m not twisting anything, Miranda. I just finally heard you." The next morning, Miranda returned early. In her hands was a boutique paper bag from "Le Marais", alongside an elaborate arrangement of white garden roses. She set them on the dining table before me, her demeanor reverting to that polished, accommodating veneer she wore when managing difficult board members. "I picked them up on the way home." I glanced at the gold-embossed logo on the bakery bag. It was the patisserie where we had our very first date. She had once sworn their warm chestnut brioche was the most exquisite thing she had ever tasted. I reached out and accepted the warm paper bag. I saw the visible slackening in Miranda’s posture, the faint, relieved assumption that the storm had passed. Then, without looking at her, I passed the bag to Martha. "Give it to him." Miranda blinked. "To who?" "Justin." The warmth drained from her face, layer by layer. "He doesn't eat refined sugar." "Then throw it in the trash." "Simon, you don't need to act like a petulant child." "Like what, exactly?" "Like this. Bitter. Petty." She leaned down, pulling open the wax paper, and extracted a warm, glazed brioche, holding it inches from my lips. "You used to crave these. You loved them." I didn't part my lips. "I did. Past tense." "And now you don't?" "People change, Miranda." She stared at me, the stillness in the room thick and suffocating, before she finally let the pastry drop back onto the table. "What is this really about? What score are you still keeping?" "You know what this is about." "Because I went to that concert with Justin?" "Because you didn't answer my calls." Her breath hitched, just slightly. The memory was etched into my nervous system: the horrific shriek of tearing metal, the steering column pinning my thighs, the siren wails muffled by the ringing in my ears. The paramedic yelling for the jaws of life while I clawed at my shattered phone screen, dialing her number like a drowning man grasping at foam. Once. Twice. Thirty-seven times. By the time they cut me out and rushed me into the ICU, she still hadn't picked up. When she finally called back hours later, I was waking from a morphine haze. The very first sentence that came through the receiver was laced with irritation: "Are you done throwing your tantrum yet?" In the background, the concert bass was thumping through the line. People were screaming, laughing. And then Justin’s voice had drifted close to the microphone, breathy and boyish: "Who is that, Miranda?" And Miranda had replied, smooth and careless: "Nobody. Just a spam caller." Then she hung up. In that sterile hospital room, I hadn't even wept. The shock was too deep. I had spent hours believing she was simply unreachable, trapped in some terrible emergency of her own. But she knew. She had seen the screen light up with my name over and over again, and she had simply dismissed my life as background noise. "You heard my voice on that line," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Why pretend you didn't know?" Miranda’s gaze dropped, her jaw tightening. "The connection was awful. I couldn't see the caller ID clearly." "You heard me." "I was in the middle of a packed arena!" "And?" She said nothing. I managed a faint, dry smile. "So I’m the one who needs to be understanding?" "I had promised him weeks in advance, Simon! If I canceled at the last minute, he would have spiraled! He was fragile!" "Right, right. He would have been sad. But what about me, Miranda? Did it ever cross your mind that I might be dying?" "You were already out of danger by the time I found out!" The words slipped from her mouth before she could filter them. The instant they landed between us, she realized how monstrous they sounded. She stepped forward, her hands hovering nervously in the air: "That’s not what I meant. Simon, I didn't mean it like that." "Then what did you mean?" She reached out to touch my cheek, but I turned my face sharply away. Her hand froze in midair, a flicker of wounded vanity crossing her features—quick, theatrical, as if rehearsed to elicit my guilt. "I’m here now, aren't I? I’ve been taking care of you." "How many nights have you actually been here?" "I come back every evening!" "You come home to sleep only because Justin doesn't require an audience after midnight." Her eyes narrowed, dark clouds rolling back into her gaze. "Simon, must you turn every single thing into a balance sheet?" I held her gaze, unwavering. "You’re the one who taught me accounting, Miranda." "What are you talking about?" "You told me that love isn't about scorekeeping—it’s about who needs it more in the moment." I pointed my thumb toward her iPhone sitting on the marble island. "He sends one SOS text, and you drop everything to run to him. Well, I don't need you anymore. Shouldn't you be leaving?" Her fury was boiling just beneath the surface, but she swallowed it down with an effort that made her throat work. She bent down, aggressively tucking the cashmere throw around my paralyzed knees. "I know you’re lashing out because of the physical trauma. You’re in pain." "Say whatever you want. Vent. I’m not going to argue with an invalid." She sounded so magnanimous. The noble, long-suffering wife enduring the irrational outbursts of a broken husband. It was her favorite role: casting me as the hysterical villain so she could remain the patron saint. Right on cue, her phone buzzed against the marble. A distinctive ringtone. Justin. Miranda glanced at the screen, and the tension in her jaw instantly vanished. When she answered, her voice dropped an octave, softening into that honeyed, maternal cadence: "Justin? What happened?" "Breathe. Don't cry. Tell me slowly." "Where are you? Stay right there, I’m coming." I watched her, listening to that tender, bottomless well of patience, and felt the last remaining chamber of my heart turn cold and hollow. She knew Justin was terrified of the dark. She knew he couldn't stand cilantro. She knew he chewed his thumbnails when he felt insecure. And me? She knew my legs were pinned together with surgical titanium, but she had no idea how many times I woke up sweating in agony each night. She knew I got chills, yet on the day she brought me home, she set the house thermostat to sixty-five because she felt flushed. She knew I despised clinical corridors, but she hadn't accompanied me to a single follow-up scan. She hung up and grabbed her trench coat from the back of the chair. "I have to check on him." "Go ahead." Her hand hesitated on the brass door handle. She lingered for two seconds, perhaps waiting for me to break, to beg her to stay, to stage the familiar scene where I demanded her loyalty. I said nothing. I didn't even look up. She stood there in the silence, then pulled the door open and pulled it shut behind her with a sharp, echoing snap. The lock engaged with a tiny, metallic click. Inside my chest, something vital snapped along with it. ... We had legally signed our marriage papers five years ago at City Hall, but our formal wedding celebration had been perpetually postponed—pushed back by her promotions, her firm’s public offering, her busy quarters—until this autumn. The venue was an estate out in the countryside. Every detail—from the weight of the linen tablecloths to the placement of the string quartet, to the delicate sequence of the reception music—had been chosen by me, painstakingly, while sitting in this chair. The processional piece was a song she had once played for me on the piano for my twenty-fifth birthday. She had leaned across the keyboard, kissing my temple, and whispered: "When we finally walk down that aisle, I want the whole world to watch you coming toward me." I had believed her. I had held onto that promise for half a decade. Until the day of our final wedding rehearsal. Martha wheeled me through the arched double doors of the glass conservatory, and I saw Justin standing at the altar. He was wearing the custom, three-piece tuxedo crafted for the groom. My tuxedo. The one I had spent three months designing with a bespoke tailor. Miranda was standing inches from him, her fingers lightly smoothing the lapels, adjusting the silk bow tie at his throat. When she heard the rubber tires squeak against the polished stone, she turned. Her expression barely flickered before she stepped forward, smoothing her dress. "Simon? What are you doing here?" I stared past her, looking at the young man standing under the floral arch. "I should be asking him that." Justin looked down, adopting that timid, puppyish posture he used whenever he needed protection. "Simon, please don't be upset. The event director said they needed someone of your general height to test the lighting angles on the fabric. I was just... helping out." "That is my bespoke suit," I said evenly. "I know." "You know, and you put it on anyway?" Justin looked up at Miranda, his eyes instantly brimming with helpless tears. "Miranda... did I mess things up again? Maybe I shouldn't have..." Miranda stepped squarely between us, shielding him from my sight. "Simon, it’s just a fitting test. Don't make a scene." "He put his body into my wedding suit." "I can have the tailor rush another one." "He’s wearing my bow tie." "I said we can replace it!" "Then what is he doing standing beside you at the altar?" Her brow furrowed deeply. "He’s never been to an event of this scale. He has severe social anxiety. He was having a panic attack about the crowd size tomorrow." "So you’re rehearsing our wedding with him to calm his nerves?" "I am trying to keep him functional!" "And what about me?" I looked down at the metal footrests holding my limp feet. "Do I not need assistance walking down that aisle?" The room went dead silent. The first night I started intensive physical therapy, the nerve regeneration was so agonizing I couldn't breathe, let alone sleep. I had texted her, practically pleading for her to sit with me in the hospital room. Her reply had been three sentences: "Justin has an MRI tonight. I can't leave his side." I had endured the clinical agony alone. The physical therapist told me the scar tissue was calcifying, that I would likely need a second, high-risk surgery to salvage any normal mobility. When I placed the MRI films on her desk, she had barely skimmed them before pushing the folder aside. "Why must you always burden me with these things when I’m drowning in work? I’m an executive, Simon, not an orthopedic surgeon." Yet here she was, clearing an entire working afternoon to play dress-up with Justin in my wedding clothes. "Miranda," I said, my voice eerily calm, "do you truly believe that as long as you drag me across that finish line tomorrow, every betrayal and humiliation you’ve inflicted on me over the past five years will magically disappear?" Her face darkened. "I have never thought that." "Your actions say otherwise." Justin reached out from behind her, his fingers curling around the cuff of her blazer. "Miranda... I’ll take it off. I’ll go change right now." "Don't," she commanded softly, turning to face him. Her voice was gentler than it had been all week. "You look stunning in it. Leave it on." The florist, the lighting technicians, the wedding planner—everyone froze, casting uncomfortable glances at the floor. That tuxedo was chosen by Miranda. She had stood beside me in the fitting room months ago, tracing the satin lapels, whispering that I was going to be the most breathtaking groom she had ever seen. Now, she was recycling the exact same words, the exact same soft-focus gaze, for another man. She didn't even bother to change the inflection. I gripped the handrims of my wheelchair and spun the frame around. "Simon!" She caught up to me outside the conservatory doors, her heels clicking angrily against the flagstones, blocking my path. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over a piece of clothing?" "I’m leaving because you choose him. Every single time. Without hesitation." "I’ve told you a hundred times, he is emotionally unstable! He needs me!" "And what am I to you?" "You are my husband!" "You have never treated me like a husband." A rare flicker of panic broke through her polished veneer. Her hands fluttered toward me. "You’re different from him, Simon. You can't compare yourself to Justin." "How am I different?" "You’re strong." A bitter, corrosive laugh ripped through my throat, tears finally stinging the corners of my eyes. "So because I survived, because I didn't bleed out in front of you, I deserve to be abandoned? Being resilient just means I’m the one you can throw away without feeling guilty?" Miranda reached out to wipe the tear from my cheek, but I struck her hand away with a violent swing of my arm. "Don't cry," she urged, her voice faltering. "I’ll fix it. I promise I’ll handle it." "You say that every single time." "I mean it this time!" "How?" I demanded. "How are you going to handle it?" She looked at me, as if offering a monumental concession from on high. "The wedding will proceed as planned. Justin was just testing the suit. Starting next week, I will drastically reduce the amount of time I spend with him." "Reduce it to what?" She hesitated. I finished the sentence for her: "From seeing him every day to every other day? Or just seeing him when I’m not in the room to watch?" Her face settled into a cold, granite mask. "Simon. That is enough." I didn't answer. I pushed my wheels forward, rolling down the ramp toward the waiting town car. Behind me, Justin’s fragile voice carried on the wind: "Does Simon hate me, Miranda?" I paused for half a second. Then Miranda’s answer drifted across the lawn: "Don't pay attention to him." In that exact moment, the strangest thing happened: the agony in my chest evaporated. There was no grief left. No burning betrayal. I didn't care who she chose anymore. I just wanted to be gone. ... The night before the wedding, Miranda went to the hospital again. Not because she had finally decided to accompany me to my surgical consultation. But because Justin had supposedly slit his wrists in his hotel room. The news arrived while I was in the bridal suite with my stylist. The barber was trimming my hair; my father was sitting by the window, adjusting his cufflinks, telling me how proud he was of the man I had become. Miranda’s phone rang. She listened for less than ten seconds, and the color vanished from her cheeks. "I’m coming right now." I watched in the mirror as she grabbed her handbag. "The wedding is tomorrow morning," I said, my voice dead level. "I know." "You’re leaving to be with him?" "He cut his wrists, Simon!" "There are doctors at the hospital to stitch him up." "If he wakes up in that psychiatric ward and doesn't see me, he’ll try it again!" "And what about tomorrow?" She gave no answer. My father stood up, his voice cutting through the room like a steel blade: "Miranda. Tomorrow morning, you are scheduled to marry my son in front of three hundred people." "Sir, I will be back in time." "What guarantee do you offer?" Miranda looked at me, her eyes pleading. "Simon. You have to trust me." Trust her. I had given her five years of blind, unreciprocated trust. Hearing that word now felt like an insult. "I trusted you for five years," I whispered, reaching out to catch the hem of her jacket. "Miranda, if you walk out of this suite tonight, do not bother showing up tomorrow." Her body froze. A violent flash of conflict crossed her eyes, and for a single, naive second, I thought the gravity of the cliff had finally reached her. Then her phone speaker crackled with a frantic wail from Justin’s friend: "Miranda! The bandage isn't holding, he’s bleeding through again!" Miranda closed her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she peeled my fingers off her jacket, one by one. "I have to go." She snatched her car keys, marched to the doorway, and paused, looking back at me with absolute certainty. "The wedding will not be canceled. Wait for me." She still believed I would wait. Just like I had ninety-nine times before. By eleven that night, she hadn't returned. At one in the morning, the wedding planner called, asking if they should proceed with setting up the groom's lounge. I told her to strike the set and cancel the vendors. At two in the morning, my phone lit up with a text from Miranda: "Justin is out of surgery and resting. Can we push the ceremony back by a couple of days? Just until he’s stable?" No apology. No inquiry into my well-being. No explanation for abandoning me on the eve of our vows. Just a casual request to reschedule our life like a dentist appointment. I dialed her number. It was the first time I had initiated a call to her since the night of my car accident. She answered on the second ring. "Simon?" Her voice was hoarse with exhaustion. "Where are you?" "At the county hospital." "How is he?" "Still unconscious." "When are you coming home?" A heavy, suffocating pause. "I don't know." I stared at my reflection in the dark vanity mirror. The tailored tuxedo was hanging on the armoire, empty and limp. "Is the wedding happening tomorrow?" "I just texted you, Simon. We need to postpone." "What if I say no?" "Simon, please, don't throw a tantrum right now. Not tonight." A knot of bitter laughter caught in my throat. "I’m not throwing a tantrum." "You know he has no one else! He cannot survive this without me!" "And what about me, Miranda?" "Why do you constantly turn this into a competition between you and him?!" "Do you think I wanted this competition?" My voice broke, rising in a sudden, violent wave of grief. "You are the one who pushed me to the back of the line every single day! When he cuts his skin, you cross the entire city in the dead of night! When both my legs were crushed under two tons of steel, you couldn't even be bothered to answer your damn phone! He whines that he’s scared, and you hold his hand until sunrise! I lay in traction for three weeks, and you didn't even know the name of my attending surgeon!" The line went completely dead, save for the shallow, ragged intake of her breath. "Simon... I’m sorry." "Don't say you’re sorry." "Then what do you want me to say?" "Say that you choose him." "That’s not true!" "Then come back right now. Prove it." Silence. Nothing but the distant, rhythmic hum of a hospital monitor on the other end of the line. I waited. One second. Five seconds. Ten. She never answered. A quiet, final smile spread across my face. "You see? You won't even bother lying to me anymore." "No, Simon, listen to me, I—" I pressed the red button and ended the call. Before the sky turned gray, I called our family attorney. "Draft the dissolution of marriage agreement immediately. Full asset separation. And put the downtown penthouse on the market today." The lawyer sounded stunned. "When do you want to sign, Simon?" "Right now." I packed the bespoke tuxedo into a shipping box and sealed every gift, every watch, every piece of jewelry she had ever bought me into another. Those objects, which once felt like proof that I was cherished, were now just lead weights dragging me down. Before rolling out the door into the morning mist, I sent Miranda one final text: "Don't bother postponing the wedding." "It’s over. My attorney will serve the papers." This time, she didn't reply immediately. And this time, I didn't wait. Before the sun rose over the skyline, I left the city for good.