Excuse Me For My Leaving

Michael and I met at a cafe arranged by our elders. That day, I wore an off-white knitted dress. When he pushed the door open, sunlight fell just right on the cuff of his bespoke suit, so glaring it made me squint. He was a somewhat well-known architect in South City, having won one of the nation's top design awards before he turned thirty. His studio was in the most bustling skyscraper downtown. When the matchmaker read his resume like an admissions brochure, I quietly sighed to myself—how could someone like him possibly need to be set up on a blind date? After that, we naturally dated, met each other's families, and talked about marriage. Everyone said I was fortunate to marry Michael Luke—a man outstanding in both looks and career. Only I knew that in the way he looked at me, there was never the "liking" others claimed to see. On our wedding day, when he slipped the ring onto my finger, his fingertips never even touched my hand. Halfway through the toast, he took a work call and, right in front of my parents, said, "Once this is finished, I need to go back to the Studio to revise the drawings," his tone utterly devoid of any newlywed warmth. I gripped the hem of my wedding dress, smiling as I told relatives, "He's just busy with work," while my fingertips dug into my palm until it hurt. I always believed that with time, things would change. He worked late into the night; I would make soup and bring it to his Studio, watching the side of his face as he typed at his computer, feeling that such quiet companionship was a kind of comfort. When he was on a business trip, I packed his usual razor and laptop into the suitcase just as he preferred, even bringing two extra cuff buttons for his shirts. On our first wedding anniversary, he took me to an upscale private club. The private room was packed with his friends. Someone jeered, "Michael, married to your wife for a year—are you loving her more and more?" I held my juice glass, unable to stop it from trembling slightly. Then I heard Michael Luke's voice. Not loud, just mixed in with the laughter in the room, but it pierced my ears like an ice pick: "Love? Being with Blair Scott is less interesting than staring at CAD drawings in the studio." The glass in my hand clicked, and the juice splashed onto the tablecloth, spreading a small wet stain. Someone noticed my expression and tried to smooth things over, saying, "Michael, your joke is a bit harsh," but no one actually came to comfort me. Michael Luke didn't even glance at me; he was still talking with someone nearby about a new project they had just taken on. I slowly stood up and picked up the bag sitting on the sofa. Only then did Michael Luke lift his eyelids slightly, his tone tinged with impatience: "Where are you going?" "Home." I tried to keep my voice steady. He frowned, "I have a meeting with the client later, so I won't be coming back tonight." "Take a taxi yourself. Don't call me." I looked at his expressionless face and suddenly felt utterly ridiculous. It was our wedding anniversary, yet he wasn't even willing to spend ten extra minutes with me. I chuckled softly, barely audible, but it immediately silenced the laughter in the private room. "Michael Luke," I said, staring at him, "Next time you make up an excuse, can you at least find one I haven't heard before?" After that, I turned and walked away. The instant the private room door shut, I heard someone say, "she seems angry," followed by Michael Luke's voice: "Let her be." As I reached the clubhouse entrance, the evening breeze blew, and only then did I realize tears had already fallen from my eyes. My phone rang; it was my best friend Rachel Xavier. On the phone, she called Michael Luke "heartless," saying, "If I'd known he was like this, I would have stopped you from the start." I leaned against the lamppost, listening to Rachel's voice, suddenly unable to say a word. Actually, it wasn't that I hadn't noticed his coldness. Last month, I discovered I was pregnant. When I showed him the test results, he was busy revising a design plan. He didn't even look at the test results. He just said, "Get rid of it," in a tone as calm as if he were asking, "What's for dinner tonight?"