Chapter 3: Across the Table

In December 2011, he was on a business trip in New York. His ex-wife posted a pitiful Instagram story, tagging him: “Someone’s on a business trip, now my breakfast, lunch, and dinner are in jeopardy.”

A few days later, there was a 3 a.m. post—a photo of a bowl of chicken noodle soup with a poached egg and spinach. The caption: “Someone rushed back overnight. I acted spoiled and said I was hungry, so he went into the kitchen without even taking off his suit. There weren’t many ingredients left at night, so we made do.”

For the next week, there were photos of hearty home-cooked meals every day, including one of Ethan making soup in the kitchen.

A bright, spacious kitchen, probably filled with the aroma of simmering broth and fresh herbs. He was in casual pajamas—maybe gray sweats and a faded college tee—tall and handsome, standing by the counter with a wooden spoon, focused and serious as he watched the soup simmer. The kind of domestic scene that feels safe and warm, the light above the stove casting a soft glow on everything.

The comments were all from mutual friends teasing them, calling Ethan a homebody and a doting boyfriend. Such a lively, bustling, steamy life.

So much happiness. Even after eleven years, it radiates from the screen, making my eyes sting and my heart ache with envy. The warmth of those moments felt almost tangible, like sunlight through a window on a winter morning.

I never knew Ethan could cook. We always eat out, and there are three housekeepers at home, each specializing in a different cuisine. Once, while waiting for food, I casually asked, “Can you cook?”

He smiled and said, “A little.” I looked at him expectantly, wanting to ask if he’d cook for me. He must have known what I was hoping for, but he didn’t say anything more, and I never brought it up again. I wondered if he could make something simple, like mac and cheese, or if he only knew how to whip up fancy dishes from his travels. If I’d asked him directly, would he have said yes?

Maybe he’d agree, maybe not. I don’t know. The thought lingered, a question I never found the courage to ask.

At the beginning of 2012, they started planning their wedding.

The ceremony, the dress, the honeymoon destination, what to do in each other’s hometowns—classic wedding debates. Of course, there were occasional arguments, like over whether to have the ceremony at a vineyard or a country club, or over the color of the wedding flowers. She liked blue, but Ethan preferred red. She wrote: “He says blue is cool, but red is romantic and passionate, and means moving forward without hesitation. He wants me to always be happy and passionate.”

Such a romantic and open Ethan Caldwell—he never discusses things with me. Maybe it’s his vision, his authority. Any decision he makes for me is always right. I rarely object, and I’ve gotten used to accepting his arrangements. He takes care of everything, and I never have to worry or ask.

I used to think this was his way of spoiling me, but now, I really envy—truly envy—the woman who had that version of Ethan Caldwell. I never knew he had it in him to fuss over wedding flowers or debate the symbolism of colors.

She complained on Instagram about Virgo perfectionism: for the wedding balloons, he bought ten different kinds, compared the thickness of each, and finally picked the one he liked best. I guess astrology memes were already a thing back then—everyone loves to joke about Virgos being extra picky.

That down-to-earth Ethan feels out of reach. Now, he rarely does anything personally. With just a glance, people rush to guess his intentions. He probably no longer has the energy or patience for such details. Sometimes I wonder if the Ethan I know is just a shadow of who he used to be—someone who’s always busy, always detached, his phone lighting up with work emails instead of wedding Pinterest boards.

Then I saw their wedding photos.

All kinds of settings, all kinds of moods, but every photo radiated happiness. For the first time, I saw Ethan smile without reservation, his eyes crinkled, youthful and handsome. Of course, he often smiles at me too, but it’s the smile of a mature man, the corners of his mouth gently upturned, but his eyes always calm.

And he doesn’t like taking pictures. On my birthday, he spent the day with me. I tried to take a Polaroid of him, but he instinctively reached out to block the lens, smiling gently but firmly: “Baby, be good, I don’t like taking photos.”

I put the camera away and never tried again. But in her photos, he appears again and again.