Page 36 of The Humiliated Wife

Cam frowned. “Hey—where you going?”

“Home,” Dean said. His voice came out hoarse.

“Come on, man. Don’t be soft. We’re joking.”

But that was the problem.

They were always “joking”.

And Fiona had never been in on it.

He looked around the table—at the polished smiles, the expensive shoes, the brittle, brittle people—and wondered how he’d ever thought this was the world he wanted to belong to.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked out into the cold night air.

Dean walked without direction,letting his feet carry him through the rain-slicked streets. The city blurred around him—neon signs reflecting in puddles, the distant hum of traffic, people hurrying past under umbrellas.

Eventually the museum loomed in front of him, its stone facade lit by spotlights that made it look both ancient and eternal. Dean stared up at it, remembering.

Fiona had wanted to see the dinosaur exhibit. It was their third date, and she'd mentioned it casually—how she'd never been to a natural history museum, how she'd always wondered what it would be like to stand next to a T-Rex skeleton.

"Really?" he'd said, trying to hide his smile. "You want to go look at old bones?"

"Don't make fun of me," she'd said, blushing. "I know it's childish."

It was wonderful. It was exactly the kind of thing Dean had loved as a kid, before he'd learned that wonder was something to be embarrassed by.

He’d taken her on a Saturday morning. Fiona had been like a child herself, reading every placard, gasping at the size of the brontosaurus, taking pictures of herself next to the triceratops. She'd grabbed his hand when they walked through the planetarium, squeezing his fingers during the show about black holes.

"This is incredible," she'd whispered in the dark, her face tilted up toward the projected stars.

And Dean had felt it too. That sense of awe, of being small in the best possible way. He'd wanted to tell her how much he loved it, how seeing her joy made everything feel new again.

Instead, he'd made jokes. Called it "retro." Talked about it the next week at the office. Made sure everyone knew he was there ironically, that he was too sophisticated to genuinely enjoy something so earnest.

But he had enjoyed it. More than he'd enjoyed anything in years.

Watching Fiona discover things. Watching her light up with genuine curiosity. Being with someone who wasn't afraid to be delighted by the world.

He'd been terrified that his friends would see him with her and think he was soft. Uncool. Too sincere.

So he'd hidden behind irony. Behind detachment. Behind the careful distance that let him enjoy Fiona's wonder while pretending he was above it.

He'd spent their entire relationship doing that. Loving her authenticity while being too cowardly to be authentic himself. Cherishing her openness while keeping himself carefully closed. Being moved by her vulnerability while documenting it for people who thought sincerity was something to mock.

Dean pressed his palms against the museum's stone steps, the cold seeping through his skin.

Dean knelt there like a penitent in a church, rain soaking through his dress shirt, pooling in his collar, sliding down the back of his neck. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let it happen.

Let the rain strip away the polish.

He thought about that museum day again. Fiona practically skipping from one display to the next, holding his hand without shame, her eyes huge with joy. Her questions—real questions—about space and fossils and climate and extinction. She hadn't tried to sound smart. She hadn't tried to impress anyone.

She’d just…been.

And he’d wanted to be worthy of that. But he hadn’t been.

Not then. Not after. Not ever.