Chapter 3: The End of the Relationship

2

About marriage—

The second year after graduation, my parents urged me to get a commitment from Rachel. I was too embarrassed to bring it up directly, afraid I’d seem desperate, so I mentioned it jokingly.

We were eating takeout on the couch—Chinese from that place down the block—when I tossed out, “Guess my parents want you to make an honest woman out of me.” My voice was light, but my heart hammered in my chest. My heart thudded against my ribs. Was I really about to risk everything on a question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to?

Rachel’s hands paused on his Xbox controller, pretending not to hear.

He shot me a quick side-eye, then returned to his game, as if my words had floated in and out like a passing breeze.

His mother stayed warm, but never brought up marriage.

She still sent me Christmas cookies and birthday cards, but the word “wedding” never once came up.

By the fourth year after graduation, a college roommate asked why I still wasn’t married.

She called from Seattle, voice tinny with static, and when I told her, she let out a low whistle. “Girl, what are you waiting for?”

I acted casual, “Still young—no rush to step into the grave of love.”

We both laughed, but the joke didn’t land the way it used to. I could feel the years stacking up behind me.

Time flew by.

Birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays slipped past, each year a little faster than the last.

The sixth year after graduation—our tenth year together—on Valentine’s Day, I booked a romantic restaurant. Halfway through dinner, I smiled and asked, “Shouldn’t we think about getting married?”

The place was all low lighting and soft jazz. I wore a new dress. I could feel the hope bubbling up, like maybe this was it.

Under the candlelight, Rachel’s affectionate expression instantly turned cold. “Alright, I’ll talk to my mom.”

It was like someone flipped a switch. His eyes lost their warmth, and suddenly, I was sitting across from a stranger.

Relieved, I quickly changed the subject to avoid the awkwardness.

I asked about work, the latest Netflix series—anything to fill the silence. My appetite vanished.

But nothing happened after that.

Days turned into weeks, and my question hung in the air like smoke, never acknowledged.

I brought it up a few more times. Each time, he grew more impatient.

He’d sigh, roll his eyes, or suddenly remember something urgent to do. I started to dread the conversation.

Finally, during an argument over something trivial, he blurted out the truth—

“Aubrey, my mom doesn’t agree to me marrying you.”

It was over spilled coffee, a stupid fight about chores, but his words cut deeper than any argument we’d ever had.

His words echoed, and suddenly I remembered all those family dinners where his mom’s smile never quite reached her eyes.

I froze. But deep down, I wasn’t as surprised as I thought I’d be. The fight stopped abruptly.

There was a numbness spreading through me—a quiet recognition that this was always coming.

Rachel realized what he’d said, but didn’t try to fix it. He just took out his phone in silence.

He scrolled absently, thumbs moving fast, shutting me out like it was second nature.

My anger wasn’t a sudden blaze, but a cold lake spreading quietly—slow, suffocating.

It was the kind of anger that chills instead of burns—a silent, heavy disappointment.

“So you never planned to marry me, did you?”

My voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but it filled the room.

Rachel rubbed his brow, frustrated, as if giving up. “Isn’t it fine for us to just keep dating? Why do we have to get married? What’s the point of a marriage certificate? And you’re at a critical stage in your career—wouldn’t marriage just get in the way?”

His excuses piled up, one after another, flimsy as wet paper.

Every word was an excuse. Every sentence, a reason to avoid commitment.

It was as if he was building a wall, brick by brick, with every phrase.

I cut him off. “Rachel, you really disgust me.”

The words surprised even me—so sharp, so final.

Someone I knew so well now felt like a stranger.

For a second, I wondered if he’d always been one.

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

My vision blurred, and I turned away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Rachel wasn’t the type to comfort me; he’d long since stopped caring about my tears. He cursed under his breath, then looked at me with mocking eyes.

He just stared, jaw clenched, then scoffed, “Really? You’re crying again? Typical.”

“Aubrey, don’t act like you’re so wronged, like you love me so much. Aren’t you just looking for a local guy to marry? There are plenty of women at my mom’s office from out of town who think like you. I’m already the best you can get—aren’t you pushing so hard because you’re afraid to lose me?”

He sneered, throwing every old stereotype back in my face. The words landed heavy and mean.

My fingers curled into fists in my lap, nails biting into my palm.

Before he could finish, I turned and left.

I grabbed my bag, shoes untied, and slammed the door so hard the picture frames rattled.

That night, I stayed at a friend’s place. The next morning, looking at my swollen eyes in the mirror, I quickly washed my face. No matter how heartbroken you are, adults still have to go to work.

I forced myself into a blazer, dabbed concealer under my eyes, and tried to smile at my own reflection. You can’t call in brokenhearted, not in corporate America.

Rachel and I had argued before. We always made up. Friends said, this time he’d gone too far—I shouldn’t forgive him so easily. I had just replied “okay,” when a message from Rachel popped up:

Their group chat was buzzing, people picking sides. I just typed “okay,” too tired to argue.

“Matching family backgrounds is important.”

“Aubrey, let’s break up.”

My phone nearly slipped from my hand.

I read the words over and over, as if they’d rearrange themselves into something less final. But they never did.