I have always been able to see the loyalty score hovering above every person’s head. Whenever that number drops below sixty percent, it means they are going to leave. The day my father walked out on us for another woman, the number over his head plummeted from sixty-nine percent to twenty-three percent in a single afternoon. The night my older sister packed her duffel bag and ran away from home, hers fell straight to seven percent. Because of this, throughout every relationship in my twenties, I was always able to see the end coming. I could pack my heart into a neat little box and walk away before the blow ever landed. Until I met Eric. For ten straight years, Eric’s loyalty score remained locked at a steady, immaculate one hundred percent. I genuinely believed I had found the exception. I thought I had found real, unbreakable love. Then came our daughter’s third birthday. He broke his promise and didn't show up for the party. When he finally walked through the front door late that night, the bright numbers floating above his dark hair had dropped from one hundred percent to eighty-seven percent. Standing in the hallway, looking at him, I knew what was coming. It was time to start planning my exit. 1 I stared at the eighty-seven percent hovering over Eric’s head, wondering for a split second if my eyes were playing tricks on me. We had dated for five years and been married for five. A full decade together. In all those three thousand six hundred and fifty days, that number had never flickered, never dipped to ninety-nine, never wavered. Eric noticed me staring at the crown of his head. He gave me that familiar, easy smile of his, loosening his tie with one hand. "What are you looking at, Nora? You look mesmerized." I snapped back to reality and offered a faint, rehearsed smile. "Nothing." My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a heavy band around my ribs. Our three-year-old daughter, Lily, was still wearing her silver glitter birthday crown, sitting on the living room rug. In her tiny hands, she clutched the massive collector's edition doll box Eric had brought home. Her eyes crinkled with pure, unfiltered joy. "Mommy, look! Daddy brought me the princess doll!" I knelt beside her on the carpet and stroked her soft cheek. "It’s beautiful, sweetheart." Lily went back to tugging at the ribbon on the box. Above her fine, baby-soft hair, her loyalty score gleamed at a steadfast one hundred percent. There was nothing wrong with my vision. The only thing broken in this house was Eric. A month ago, we had agreed to clear our schedules for Lily’s birthday. A week ago, I had reminded him again over dinner, gently noting that work had pulled him away during her party last year and that he couldn't miss this one. He had held my hand across the table and sworn he would be there. Even last night, as he tucked Lily into bed, she had held onto his pinky finger, making him promise not to be late. He had tapped the tip of her nose with a laugh and told her wild horses couldn't keep him away. Yet at six-fifteen this evening, a text popped up on my phone: Emergency at the office. Something came up that only I can handle. Don’t wait up for dinner. An emergency? What kind of crisis at a corporate logistics firm strictly required the vice president to stay behind while his toddler blew out three candles alone? I didn't argue over text. I didn't demand explanations. I simply replied, Try to make it home as soon as you can. To his credit, he had arrived just after eight o'clock. He came bearing gifts: the doll for Lily, my favorite iced matcha latte, and a box of the French pastries I adored from the bakery downtown. On the surface, he was the picture of a devoted husband and father. He stepped inside, pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, handed Lily her present, and scooped her up into his arms for a warm hug. If it weren't for the shifting numbers glowing above him, I would have swallowed the lie whole. I would have believed he was just drowning in spreadsheets. "I’m exhausted," Eric murmured, shrugging out of his charcoal suit jacket and tossing it onto the armchair. "I’m going to jump in the shower." I walked over and picked up his jacket to hang it in the closet. As I straightened the lapel, my eyes caught a single strand of hair caught on the dark wool near his collar. It was long, chestnut brown, and wavy. I have worn my hair in a blunt, raven-black bob for the past four years. I turned toward the hallway. The bathroom door was shut, and the muffled hiss of running water filled the silence of the apartment. I hung the jacket up carefully. The decision was already made: I needed to start packing. 2 The following morning felt deceptively normal. I woke up at six, made scrambled eggs and toast for the three of us, laid out Eric’s crisp blue dress shirt on the foot of the bed, and got Lily dressed for preschool. At eleven in the morning, I packed a warm, two-tiered bento lunch into a canvas tote, buckled Lily into her car seat for school drop-off, and drove over to Eric’s corporate office downtown. As the vice president, Eric usually brought me and Lily to the annual company galas and summer retreats, so the staff on his floor knew me well. When I stepped off the elevator with the lunch bag in hand, the receptionist beamed and waved me through without hesitation. I walked down the quiet, carpeted corridor toward his corner office and pushed the door open. Sitting in the high-backed leather executive chair was a young woman I had never seen before. She looked fresh out of college, with wide, dewy eyes and long, wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Eric was leaning over her desk, one hand resting on the back of her chair, his chest almost brushing her shoulder as his other hand pointed toward the laptop screen. At the sound of the door opening, both of them snapped their heads toward me. My gaze went instantly to the space above Eric’s head. It had only been three hours since he left the house this morning, but the number had already plummeted from eighty-seven percent to seventy-nine percent. Eric blinked, momentarily startled, before a bright grin broke across his face. "Nora! What are you doing here?" His tone held genuine surprise. "Who’s this?" I asked, keeping my voice mild as I looked at the girl. "Oh! This is Brooke, Laura's temporary assistant," Eric said smoothly, straightening up from the chair. "Laura’s out on her honeymoon leave until next week, so Brooke is filling in. She’s fresh out of school and still getting the hang of our filing system. I was just walking her through some inventory data. That hold-up last night was actually because a set of figures got mixed up in her spreadsheet." He said it so casually, as if losing an entire evening with his daughter over an entry-level clerical error was the most trivial thing in the world. Brooke looked up at me with timid, wide eyes and gave a small, nervous nod. "Hi, Mrs. Bradley." Eric noticed the canvas tote in my hand. "Did you bring lunch?" Without waiting for my answer, he turned back to Brooke with an easy, proprietary wave of his hand. "Come on over, Brooke. Have some lunch before we finish. My wife is an incredible cook." The invitation rolled off his tongue with such practiced ease that before I could even register the words, Brooke had already stood up and pulled a guest chair over to Eric’s small conference table. Whenever I brought lunch to Eric’s office, I always packed enough for two so that we could sit together and eat. In five years, even Laura, his executive assistant of nearly a decade, had only shared my food once or twice when she was swamped with back-to-back calls. I assumed Eric was inviting her to join us for a quick bite. Instead, he took the pair of chopsticks and the spare container and handed them straight to Brooke with effortless familiarity. "Go ahead and eat. We’ve still got a mountain of files to get through after this." "Thank you so much, Mr. Bradley," Brooke murmured, taking the container with a shy blush. Eric didn't once look at me to ask if I had eaten. I sat down in the armchair across from them, folding my hands in my lap, watching them share the meal I had spent an hour preparing. Brooke picked up a piece of the glazed salmon, took a small bite, and let out a soft gasp. "Oh, this is amazing! Mr. Bradley, you are so lucky. Your wife is incredible." A flattered, self-satisfied grin spread across Eric’s face. But as Brooke showered him with praise, the translucent numbers above his head flickered and dropped two points lower. Seventy-seven percent. The heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach finally crystallized into total clarity. They ate and chatted about supply chains and office logistics, treating me like a polite spectator in the room. When the containers were empty, they both set down their utensils. Eric patted his stomach, checked his watch, and looked at me. "Thanks for bringing this by, Nora. You can pack up the dishes whenever you’re ready. Brooke and I need to dive back into these reports." I looked at Eric, a faint, humorless smile touching the corners of my mouth. "Eric," I said quietly. "I haven't had lunch yet." 3 Eric froze. Brooke froze right along with him. The realization hit Eric in a sudden, awkward wave—the food was portioned for two because it was meant for him and me. And he had casually handed my portion to the girl sitting beside him. Brooke’s face flushed crimson. She fumbled with her napkin, looking utterly panicked. "Mrs. Bradley, I am so, so sorry! I had no idea! Let me go downstairs and buy you something. What do you like? I can run down right now—" I ignored her, calmly reaching across the table to stack the empty containers back into the canvas tote. "Don't worry about it," I said, my voice completely flat. Tears welled up in Brooke’s wide eyes. She looked on the verge of sobbing. "I really didn't mean to, Mrs. Bradley! Mr. Bradley told me to eat, so I just... I didn't think..." Eric saw me quietly packing the bag, then looked at Brooke’s fragile, trembling frame. The protective impulse in him took over instantly. "Alright, that’s enough, Brooke. It’s not your fault," Eric cut in, his tone sharp. Then he turned to me, a slight edge of irritation creeping into his voice. "I just forgot, Nora. But honestly, you should have said something upfront. If you had told me you hadn't eaten yet, I wouldn't have offered it to her." He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times, sending a five-thousand-dollar transfer straight to my bank account. "There. I just sent you some money. Go grab whatever you want downstairs at that Italian place on the corner." I didn't argue. I snapped the lid onto the tote, zipped it shut, and stood up from the table. "Okay." As I turned toward the door, Eric’s hand shot out and caught my wrist. His grip was tight, his voice dropping to a low, hurried whisper meant only for me. "Nora, I really didn't do it on purpose." "I know," I said evenly. His fingers loosened, slipping away from my arm. I walked out of the building, walked past the shiny revolving doors, and tossed the designer bento box and the tote straight into the nearest sidewalk trash can. Then I got into my car and drove straight to the upscale shopping district across town. Whether out of quiet spite or raw exhaustion, I walked into an expensive steakhouse, ordered a lavish three-course lunch, and ate until I was completely full. Afterward, I spent two uninterrupted hours wandering through luxury boutiques, buying clothes I didn't need, before picking Lily up from preschool. Instead of going home to cook, I took Lily right back to the shopping center and treated her to a massive dinner at her favorite diner. At seven o'clock, Eric called. "Where are you guys? I’m home, but the house is empty." "We’re eating out," I said into the speakerphone. "Why didn't you wait for me?" he complained, sounding genuinely hurt. "Well," I said coolly, "you didn't wait for me at lunch, did you?" A choked silence fell over the line, and Eric hung up without another word. 4 Perhaps because of the rich, spicy food I had consumed in a fit of frustration throughout the day, my stomach began to cramp violently by ten that night. What started as mild indigestion quickly spiraled into severe acute gastroenteritis. I made a dozen agonizing trips to the bathroom within two hours, until my legs were shaking so badly I couldn't even stand up from the bathroom floor. Eric looked genuinely terrified. He rushed back and forth bringing hot water bottles, helping me back into bed, and trying to coax me into swallowing nausea medication. "Nora, what were you thinking? You know you have a sensitive stomach. Why would you eat all that greasy, spicy food?" I wanted to snap back, but the moment the pills hit my throat, my stomach violently rebelled. I leaned over the side of the mattress and threw up everything. Eric rubbed my back, his brow furrowed with deep, palpable distress. "That's it. You need an IV. We’re going to the emergency room." He called his mother, Helen, asking her to come over immediately to watch Lily, and carried me out to the car. At the hospital, the doctor confirmed severe food poisoning and dehydration. They hooked me up to an IV drip with saline and anti-nausea meds. Drained of every ounce of energy, I drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep. When I finally opened my eyes, the room was dimly lit. I glanced at the digital clock on the wall: 2:30 AM. The IV bag was empty, the needle had already been removed from the back of my hand, and the vinyl chair beside my hospital bed was completely vacant. Eric was gone. I reached for my phone on the bedside table and opened our message thread. Where are you? Five minutes passed. No reply. I dialed his number. It rang once, twice, three times, before he finally picked up. His voice was hushed, almost whispered, as if he were trying not to wake someone in the room. "Nora? How are you feeling?" "Where are you, Eric?" I asked, my voice dry and hoarse. "Did you go home?" There was a long, awkward hesitation on the other end of the line. "Brooke called me in a complete panic," he said quietly. "She said there was some strange guy lingering outside her apartment door trying the doorknob. She was terrified out of her mind, so I drove over to check on the building. The poor girl was shaking so hard she couldn't sleep. I just stayed on the sofa to make sure she was safe until she drifted off. Did you need something?" Did you need something? A harsh, bitter laugh caught in my throat. "Eric, you are my husband. You left your sick wife in an emergency room at two in the morning to go tuck another woman into bed, and you’re asking me if I need something?" Eric let out an exasperated sigh. "Nora, please don't start. She’s an entry-level kid on my team. Looking out for my staff is my responsibility. Besides, I stayed by your side until your IV was finished and you were fast asleep!" "I am lying in a hospital bed!" my voice shook with cold fury. "You abandoned me here to play hero for your assistant? Does she not have friends? Does she not know how to call nine-one-one? Why does an unmarried girl need a married executive to come hold her hand in the dark?" Eric’s patience snapped. "When did you become so petty, Nora? Brooke just moved to this city after graduating. She doesn't have family here, she doesn't know anyone! Who else was she supposed to call in an emergency? Look, I'll order you an Uber to get you home. As soon as I’m sure she’s deeply asleep, I’ll head back." He hung up before I could say another word. I stared at the black screen of my phone, feeling an arctic chill spread through my veins. It was three-thirty in the morning by the time my rideshare pulled up to our apartment building. When I unlocked the front door, my mother-in-law, Helen, tiptoed out of the guest room in her robe. Seeing me walk in alone, pale and hollow-eyed, she blinked in confusion. "Where’s Eric?" "Oh," I said quietly, kicking off my shoes. "He’s spending the night taking care of his female coworker." Helen’s jaw dropped in absolute shock. I didn't wait to hear her reaction. I walked straight into the master bedroom, shut the door, and locked it from the inside. Eric didn't come home until eight the next morning. He had dark circles under his eyes, his stubble was unkempt, and his shirt was rumpled. It was clear he hadn't slept a wink. When he walked into the kitchen and saw Helen and me sitting at the breakfast table in dead silence, he rubbed the back of his neck, visibly guilty. "Brooke kept waking up in a panic last night crying, begging me not to leave. I really didn't have a choice." I took a sip of my coffee and looked at him calmly. "Then make sure you go back and keep her company tonight, too." "Nora! Stop being so passive-aggressive!" Eric raised his voice, his defensiveness flaring. I looked up at the space above his head. After a single night of playing protector in her living room, his loyalty score had breached the safety zone. Sixty-seven percent. I lowered my gaze and buttered a piece of toast, not saying another word. Helen left shortly after breakfast, unable to bear the suffocating tension. Eric went into the bedroom to change for work. When he came out, he gave me a contrite look. "Look, I know last night looked bad. As soon as I help Brooke move into a safer apartment complex this weekend, I’m done getting involved in her personal life. I promise." I didn't respond. The moment the front door clicked shut behind him, I turned to Lily, who was coloring at the kitchen table. "Lily, do you want to go on a trip with Mommy?" At three years old, she didn't grasp the weight of the question. She simply looked up with bright, trusting eyes and clapped her hands. "Wherever Mommy goes, I go!" "Good girl." I walked into the bedroom, pulled two large suitcases from the top of the closet, and packed all of our clothes, documents, and essentials. Then I booked two one-way train tickets to Portland. Before walking out the door, I placed a signed, completed divorce settlement agreement squarely in the center of the glass coffee table. As the heavy wooden door shut behind us with a final, echoing thud, I took one last look at the apartment I had called home for five years. I had spent my entire adult life believing Eric was my safe harbor. I thought I would never have to run away again. Turns out, not even a perfect score can survive the slow rot of a wandering heart.
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