My Husband Kept Sending Packages to Ex, So I Filed for Divorce Chapter 01
My husband and I were supposed to spend Thanksgiving at my parents’ house this year.
We were walking out the door when he stopped. “Oh, I forgot to change the address. The package went to Chloe’s again.”
I went still.
Three years of marriage, and he had never once changed the default address.
The microwave I ordered? Delivered to his ex-girlfriend. He shrugged and said hers had just broken, anyway.
My anniversary gift? She signed for it. He said it would be too awkward to ask for it back.
The Valentine’s Day roses he promised me? Sent straight to her door.
He told me he couldn’t give me flowers meant for me if they’d already been delivered to her. So he let her keep them.
This time, I warned him two weeks ahead of time. I picked out the Thanksgiving gift box myself and reminded him twice.
It still ended up at her place.
I kept my voice steady. “Go get it back. Right now.”
His face went hard. “She already opened it, Claire. What am I supposed to do? We’ll just grab something on the way.”
“Get. It. Back.”
“God, why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion? You’re exhausting.”
That line. Every single time something landed at his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and I asked him to fix it, that was what I got.
My nails dug into my palms as the front door slammed behind him.
I furiously wiped my cheeks and texted my lawyer.
[Happy Thanksgiving. I know this is a holiday, but I need your help preparing a divorce agreement.]
I picked up replacement gifts and drove to my parents’ house alone.
They noticed right away.
“Where’s Julian? Weren’t you two coming together?”
“Everything okay, honey?”
I smiled. “Sorry, he got called into work at the last minute. You know how it is.”
They nodded. “Well, work is work.”
But I was already looking at my phone.
Chloe had posted. Nine photos. One caption.
[The Thanksgiving surprise he put together just for me. He’s the best.]
The artisan pie gift box I’d spent weeks researching, unboxed, baked, and laid out on her table like she’d made them herself.
Arranged on pretty dishes. A full spread.
In one of the photos, a pair of hands was pulling a pie apart. Long fingers, bony knuckles, a scar on the right thumb.
Julian Vance’s hands.
And on his left ring finger, nothing.
No wedding band. Not even a tan line.
Our mutual friends were all over the comments.
[omg you two need to just get married already!!]
I liked the post.
Julian’s texts hit within minutes.
[Claire, you kicked me out on a holiday. What was I supposed to do, starve?]
[Liking her post? Really? It’s bad enough when you pull this drama with me, but dragging Chloe into it? You want everyone to think we’re a joke?]
Every message pointed the finger at me.
All I did was tap a heart on a post.
What about him?
He called her Chlo-Chlo.
He always called her Chlo-Chlo, in a way that was warm and familiar, like the name still belonged in his mouth.
He called me Claire. That was it.
I brought it up once. He barely looked up. “It’s just a name. I’m used to it.”
“Why do you have to make everything into a thing?”
I scrolled back through our messages.
[Hey, where’s my iced caramel macchiato? It’s been two hours. Did the driver get lost?]
[Forgot to change the address. It went to Chlo-Chlo’s.]
[Can you please change the default address already? And delete her address?]
[It’s one coffee, Claire. Why are you being so dramatic? Just order another one yourself. This is embarrassing.]
Julian was the one who promised to send me the iced caramel macchiato.
I waited two hours.
Then got blamed for asking where it was.
I scrolled further.
[Julian, it’s almost midnight. Valentine’s Day is basically over. Where’s the surprise you promised me?]
[Forgot to change the address. It went to Chlo-Chlo’s. I’ll make it up to you.]
…
I couldn’t pinpoint when it started.
But somewhere along the way, this became the only conversation we ever had.
Packages. Deliveries. Wrong address. Always her.
We’d planned a year ago to spend this Thanksgiving together at my parents’ house.
He sent their gifts to Chloe by mistake. Then followed the gifts right through her door and spent the holiday there too.
I stared at the photo. Julian’s bare ring finger.
I felt pathetic.
Maybe none of it was an accident. Maybe the wrong address was never wrong. Maybe everything was always going exactly where he wanted it to go.
She wasn’t the mistake.
I was.
My phone buzzed.
The lawyer.
[Hi, Mrs. Vance. Happy Thanksgiving. I’ve drafted the divorce agreement and attached it.]
I said goodbye to my parents, drove home, and printed the papers.
I was about to sign when Julian walked in, two shopping bags in hand.
“Those pies are nothing special. You can get them anywhere. I went back and got the clothes I bought your parents. That’s what actually matters.”
“My bad. Let me take you somewhere nice tonight. That French place. Sound good?”
I didn’t correct him. You couldn’t get those pies just anywhere. I chose that bakery specifically because my parents have health issues, and they were the only ones who accommodated their strict dietary needs.
But I didn’t say any of that.
I also didn’t tell him I hate French food.
I’d told him before. A dozen times.
He never listened. He never would. And if I reminded him now, I’d just be dramatic, difficult, too much.
It didn’t matter anymore.