The Last Cherry Blossom Falls

It was our wedding anniversary, and Jude finally had the time to take me to Kyoto to have the ceremony we had missed.

But right before we boarded, he swiped his digital pass off his screen and spun around, already walking back toward the exit. "Miranda has a toothache," he said, his voice tight with an urgency that belonged in an emergency room, not an airport terminal. "We’ll have to go next time." My phone screen was still glowing with the PDF of our itinerary.

I had spent six months planning every single detail of this trip.

Phoebe’s texts were buzzing, lighting up my screen with rapidfire excitement. "You’ve been dreaming about the Kyoto cherry blossoms since high school—literally over a decade.

I guess Jude actually has a heart after all.

Your dream is finally coming true!" "When you put on that wedding dress I designed for you, and the petals start falling, I am going to take the most gorgeous photos of you two!" But Jude had already stood me up for six years, always for the sake of the girl he insisted was just a sister.

This year made seven. "She’s almost thirty," I whispered, staring blankly at the boarding gate. "Can't she go to the dentist by herself?" Jude frowned, looking at me as if I’d just said something incredibly cruel. "Willa, I’ve taken her to every doctor’s appointment since we were kids.

If I’m not there, she panics." I managed a small, hollow smile. "Then go." I watched his back disappear into the airport crowd, then turned around and boarded the plane alone.

The cherry blossoms in Kyoto would still fall, with or without him. … As the soft, pale petals drifted down into my open palm, Jude’s Instagram post popped up on my feed. "Shoutout to Miranda for being so brave today." The photo showed Miranda in a dentist's chair, her eyes watery, while Jude tightly held both of her hands.

On his ring finger, the wedding band I designed glinted in the sterile fluorescent light. I stared at the photo for what felt like hours before finally hitting the 'like' button.

Phoebe stood across from me, her eyes red and teary behind her camera lens as she snapped photos of me in my white gown. "A wedding for one? This is pathetic.

What is so special about Miranda? She’s a grown woman who acts like a helpless toddler!" But Jude didn't see her that way.

The first year of our marriage, Miranda couldn't figure out her GPS and got lost downtown.

I suggested she call a cop, but Jude spent the entire night driving around looking for her, missing our flight. The second year, her water heater burst, flooding her apartment.

I told him to call maintenance, but Jude claimed she was terrified of deep water, leaving his packed suitcases behind at the checkin counter.

Year three, year four... all the way until now. Every single time, Jude broke his promises over Miranda’s trivial emergencies.

Whenever I cried or begged him to stay, he would look at me with that patronizing, exhausted expression, like I was the unreasonable child. "Miranda’s always been fragile, Willa.

She’s not strong and independent like you. That’s why I have to look out for her." "Why can’t you just do things on your own?

Why do you always have to be so needy?" Standing alone in a quiet, solemn chapel under the priest’s bewildered gaze, I recited my vows to empty air.

I think, in that moment, I finally learned what Jude meant by "independent." It wasn't until the day before my flight back that Jude finally texted me. "You’re not home?" If he had bothered to look back for even a second at the airport, he would have known I boarded that flight to Kyoto.

I forced a bitter smile, trying to swallow the dull ache in my chest. "Yeah, I’m out." "Alright. Do you have the recipe for that creamy potato soup you used to make me?

Miranda’s hungry." My fingers hovered over the screen. I remembered the year Jude had an excruciating toothache. We were so broke we couldn't even afford painkillers.

I remembered walking down the street, touching my hair—which I’d spent four years growing out—and walking into a local salon to sell it.

After his extraction, I fed him simple potato soup every single day. "I asked the doctor," I had lied to him back then, "potato soup is the best for recovery." I lied because potatoes were the cheapest thing at the grocery store; a fivepound bag could stretch for a week.

He had touched my newly cropped, boyish hair, tears streaming down his face as he told me it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

Now, I slowly typed out my reply. "Boil the potatoes. Mash them with water." "That’s it? No cream or broth?" "No.

Just that." "Okay, cool." I stared out the window at the falling cherry blossoms. "Aren’t you going to ask where I went?" "Oh. Where are you?" "I’m in—" "Actually, gotta go.

Need to start cooking for Miranda." I froze, then slowly deleted the letters I’d typed.

In our three years of dating and seven years of marriage, Jude had never cooked a single meal for me. Outside, the wind died down, and the petals stopped falling.

But even in their stillness, they were beautiful. I tapped the contact number Phoebe had sent me earlier. "Hello, who is this?" "Hi, is this Mr. Cleveland?

I'd like to consult about a divorce." When I got back from the airport, my key code wouldn't unlock the front door.

The passcode had always been my birthday, but after three failed attempts, the keypad locked me out.

I sat huddled in the hallway corner, waiting for hours until Jude finally showed up, with Miranda hovering right behind him. "Why didn't you answer my texts?" Jude asked, his tone entirely casual.

He stepped up to the keypad and punched in a new sequence—Miranda’s birthday. "I was taking Miranda shopping. I didn't see my phone.

What did you text?" I dragged my suitcase inside, bonetired.

Jude immediately knelt down, naturally helping Miranda slide off her designer boots. "You changed the passcode?" "Miranda couldn't remember the old one, so I updated it.

Forgot to tell you." I nodded slowly, not saying another word. Walking further into the house, I realized everything had changed.

The couch was different, the indoor plants were gone, and when the TV turned on, it defaulted to a reality show I never watched.

In our master bedroom, the sheets on the bed were rumpled, clearly slept in, and the closet was packed to the brim with Miranda’s clothes.

I tore through the hangers, a hot, roaring anger building in my chest. "Jude! Jude!" I yelled until my throat burned, but no one answered.

Out in the living room, Miranda was sprawled across the sofa.

She casually pressed a little silver call bell on the coffee table, and Jude instantly dashed out of the kitchen. "What's wrong, Miranda?

You okay?" Only when she lazily muttered that she was fine did the tension leave his shoulders.

I clenched my fists, my voice trembling as I confronted him. "Jude, where is the red wool scarf my mother made for you?" He blinked, shrugshouldered and entirely unbothered. "Oh, Miranda said it smelled musty.

I threw it out." Tears spilled over my eyelashes instantly. "That was the last thing my mother ever made!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "How could you throw it away?" Miranda jumped off the sofa and shoved me back. "It’s just an old piece of yarn!

Why are you screaming at Jude like that?" But as she pushed me, she winced and clutched her jaw, whining in pain.

Jude’s face twisted in panic, and he immediately hovered over her, checking her mouth.

I stood there, watching them, feeling like the bitter, hysterical villain in some cheap melodrama. I wiped my face, spun on my heel, and ran out into the pouring rain.

For two hours, I dug through the dumpster behind our building and the nearby trash bins. Nothing.

The rain soaked me to the bone, my fingernails were torn and bleeding, and the water dripping down my cheeks tasted like salt and dirt.

When my mother was in the final stages of pancreatic cancer, Jude had casually mentioned how cold the winters got here.

Despite her failing strength, she bought the finest wool she could find and spent her remaining days knitting.

On her deathbed, she used her last ounce of strength to wrap that red scarf around his neck. "There, Jude. Now you won't be cold.

I know you're a good boy... please, take care of my Willa." Jude had fallen to his knees by her bedside, sobbing, swearing he would love and protect me for the rest of his life.

And now, the physical proof of that promise was rotting in a landfill. I collapsed onto the wet pavement beside the trash bins, letting out a raw, broken sob.

Suddenly, a sharp, whitehot pain bloomed in my abdomen. I looked down, and a dark, terrifying stain was spreading down my jeans.

Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jude's number. Once. Twice. Seven times. He never picked up.

Finally, a text lit up the screen: "Stop calling, you’re going to wake Miranda up. Where did you even go? Get back here, it’s pouring." My hands shook so hard I couldn't even reply.

The world spun, turned completely black, and I collapsed. I lost the baby. Eight weeks along. A silent arrival, a silent departure.

The ER doctor told me softly that if I had been brought in just an hour earlier, they might have saved the pregnancy.

I stared at the sterile white hospital ceiling, tears pooling in my ears. The old, jagged scar in my chest tore open all over again.

A week before our wedding, seven years ago, I was seven months pregnant. Miranda had insisted on making me prenatal herbal soup but forgot to turn off the gas stove.

That night, the apartment filled with carbon monoxide. I lost our baby girl in the ICU, and our wedding was canceled.

Jude had knelt by my hospital bed, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and swollen. "Willa, I'm so sorry.

Miranda is just stupid—she was trying to do something nice and made a horrible mistake. I'm so sorry." With bloodshot eyes, he held my limp hand and swore, "We'll have another baby.

I promise, I will protect you and our family next time." I believed him. But this second baby—the one I had prayed for every single night—was gone, too. My phone buzzed.

A PDF from Mr. Cleveland: a draft of the divorce petition. "If there is infidelity, we should gather as much evidence as possible.

It will help our case immensely." I stared at the word "infidelity" until it blurred.

Finally, I typed: "Okay." I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and stumbled out of the ward, clutching my hospital gown. But as I rounded the corner near the clinic's exit, I froze.

There was Jude, his arm wrapped protectively around Miranda's shoulders as they waited in line at the hospital's dental wing. My lower abdomen throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo just as Miranda leaned up to press her lips against Jude's cheek. Suddenly, Jude's eyes drifted, catching mine.

He froze, panic instantly flickering across his features. "Willa?

What are you doing here?" He scrambled to distance himself from Miranda. "Willa, look, she was just saying thank you. It’s like a French cheekkiss thing, you know?

She lived abroad for a bit. She’s always been affectionate like that." Such a pathetic, clumsy excuse. I looked at him, and for the first time, I didn't feel angry.

I just felt a deep, pitying amusement. "Right. Okay." My absolute calm caught him off guard.

In the past, if Miranda so much as brushed against him, I would have thrown a massive, jealous fit, screaming to assert my boundaries.

His friends used to call me a "psycho" and a "controlling bitch" behind my back. But today, I just wanted to leave with some dignity.

Jude’s face darkened, walking a thin line between irritation and confusion. "Willa, don't start with the silent treatment.

Because of your little tantrum earlier, Miranda tried to defend me and ended up tearing her dental stitches.

Since you're here, you need to apologize to her." He grabbed my wrist, dragging me toward her.

His grip was brutal, sending a jolt of pain through my arm that brought hot tears to my eyes. "Jude, let go of me!

I'm not apologizing to her!" He stared at the tears slipping down my face, momentarily faltering, but his voice hardened again. "You got her so worked up she's in pain, and you're too proud to say sorry?

Are you really that fragile?" Before I could pull away, a nurse came rushing down the hallway, shouting, "Willa! What are you doing?

You just had a miscarriage, you can't just rip out your IV and walk around!" Jude froze.

Every ounce of color drained from his face. "You... miscarried?" His eyes slowly dropped to my abdomen. "When were you pregnant?

Why didn't you tell me?" His voice cracked, rising in a desperate, frantic octave as his eyes brimmed with tears. I just looked at him, completely hollow, completely cold.

The nurse stepped firmly between us, glaring at him. "Sir, she is extremely weak right now. Do not raise your voice at her!" She gently guided me back toward the recovery ward.

Behind me, I heard Jude's frantic footsteps trying to follow. "Willa, wait!

You can't be alone right now!" Just then, the clinic’s intercom chimed, calling out Miranda’s name for her followup. I didn't look back.

And he didn't follow. "Was that your husband?" the nurse asked gently as she hooked up a fresh IV bag.

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not for much longer." After the IV finished, I took an Uber home. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Jude. "Miranda can’t even speak right now.

I couldn't just leave her there." "Willa, please just listen to the doctor. Wait for me." I didn't reply to a single one.

I pulled my old suitcase out from the closet and started packing. There wasn't much to pack. Most of my things had already been boxed up and shoved into the guest room anyway.

The apartment we had shared for seven years had been completely overwritten by another woman's presence in a matter of days.

Once the suitcase was zipped, the physical exhaustion of the miscarriage hit me like a wave, and I collapsed onto the guest bed, drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Sometime in the dead of night, I felt cold, trembling hands wrap around my waist.

I opened my eyes to see Jude sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot, looking utterly drained. "You didn't tell me you were leaving the hospital," he whispered. "I looked everywhere for you after I got Miranda settled.

Willa... what happened? How did we lose the baby?" But all I could smell on him was Miranda’s sweet, cloying perfume. It made my stomach churn with violent nausea.

I closed my eyes, coldly brushing his hands off my hips, and turned my back to him. Silence stretched between us before Jude let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. "Willa, seriously?

I am exhausted, I ran all the way back here to check on you, and you’re still giving me the cold shoulder?

You know how desperately I wanted a family!" I bolted upright in bed, tears hot and angry on my cheeks. "You wanted a family?" I choked out, my voice raw. "If you hadn't forced me to accept Miranda's 'kindness' seven years ago, our daughter would be starting school right now!

You literally risked my life and our baby's life just to spare her feelings!" Jude’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "That was years ago!" he yelled back. "Are you really bringing that up now just to hurt me?

Neither Miranda nor I did that on purpose! Besides, that pregnancy was terrible timing anyway. You were barely out of college, begging me to marry you with a pregnant belly.

Do you have any idea what people were saying behind your back? They said you trapped me!" His words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, the air leaving my lungs.

I remembered the day we found out. I remembered how Jude’s eyes had lit up, how he had gently wiped away my tears and promised to give me the most beautiful life.

I had nodded, trusting him completely. "You're right," I whispered, the fight completely draining out of me. "I was pathetic." Jude turned his head away, unable to look at me, and stormed out, slamming the bedroom door so hard the walls rattled.

I sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, staring at the floorboards until the sun came up. The next morning, I made breakfast.

When Jude walked into the kitchen, rubbing his temples, he bypassed the eggs I’d cooked and grabbed a carton of oat milk from the fridge—the one Miranda had bought, still adorned with a little pink sticky note with a handdrawn heart.

He sat across from me, looking uncomfortable. "Look, about yesterday... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things.

I didn't mean them." He took a sip of the milk. "Losing the baby... that's on me, too. Willa, we can try again.

We can have another one." I took a bite of my toast and offered him a soft smile, cutting him off. "Jude, just eat with me." This would be our last meal.

He nodded, then glanced at the suitcase by the entryway. "Are you going somewhere? Your body is still recovering..." Suddenly, his phone screen lit up.

The caller ID read: "Silly Miranda". I looked down, slowly stirring my oatmeal.

Jude grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, already moving toward the door. "I need to check on Miranda." He couldn't even finish a single meal with me. "Can't it wait?" I asked quietly.

He frowned, defensive. "Of course not. She's in pain. She needs me right now." I kept quiet. The apartment fell silent again, leaving me entirely alone.

I finished my oatmeal, one slow bite at a time. Downstairs, Phoebe’s car was waiting for me.

I walked into the living room, placed the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, and slipped off my wedding ring, placing it on top of a handwritten note: "Jude, let’s get a divorce."