He Ignored Me 304 Times: I Divorced Him novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: Three Hundred and Four
I asked my husband three hundred and four times to come with me.
I counted every single one, one by one, in a notebook I kept in my nightstand drawer.
The last time was last night, on my knees in the kitchen, my father's hand still warm in my memory.
"Just one day, Emilio," I said. "One day in Caleta Horcón. My dad wants to see the sea before he dies."
He didn't even look up from his phone.
"I'll see how my schedule looks," he replied.
I knew that answer by heart.
Even so, this morning I pushed my dad's wheelchair down the wooden ramp to the shore.
The seagulls were fighting over some sardines by the boats.
The wind smelled of salt, seaweed, and old gasoline, the same smell as his workshop.
"Right here, sweetheart," my dad said. "Stop me right here."
I braked the chair facing the waves.
He was sixty-six years old and weighed half of what he did a year ago.
The cancer had eaten his lungs, and the doctor had told me it would be a matter of weeks.
My dad covered his legs with the blanket I'd brought and smiled.
"The sea looks so pretty today."
"Yeah, Dad."
"Your husband's coming, right?"
My hands trembled.
"He's on his way," I lied.
"Good. I want to get to know him better before I go."
I'd been married to Emilio Cañas for eight years, and my dad had seen him maybe five times.
Something always came up: a meeting, a client, a trip to Santiago.
I looked at my watch.
It was twelve thirty.
Emilio had promised yesterday, by text, that he'd arrive at eleven.
I texted him at twelve, at twelve fifteen, at twelve twenty.
None of my messages had the two blue checkmarks.
At one o'clock, my dad started coughing.
I gave him his water, adjusted his wool hat, and held his back until he calmed down.
"Don't worry about me," he whispered. "I'm fine here."
Then he just stared at the horizon, quiet, and I just stared at him.
At twenty to two, his hand was ice cold inside mine.
I got scared.
"Dad, are you cold? I'll get you another blanket."
"No, sweetheart. It's the sea. It takes all the warmth away."
I knelt beside him in the sand, and for a while we just listened to the waves.
That's when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I thought it was Emilio, and I felt a ridiculous wave of relief.
It wasn't him.
It was an Instagram notification, from the account of Jimena Cortes, the neighbor of my husband's parents.
A new photo.
Emilio, in his blue jacket, lying in a green meadow looking at the clouds.
And Jimena, leaning on his shoulder, laughing with her eyes closed.
The caption said: "Far from the world, as long as you're here."
The post time was one fifty-two.
He'd been with her all day.
While I waited for him with my dad.
My finger slipped before I could think, and the photo filled with a red heart.
A like, by accident.
I wanted to unlike it, but it was too late.
My phone vibrated again, this time with my husband's name on the screen.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to bother Jimena? If you can't control yourself, then let's get a divorce."
I read it sitting in the sand.
He'd used that word so many times I'd lost count.
He used it when I asked him to have dinner together, when I asked about a motel receipt, when I cried.
This time I didn't feel afraid.
I felt tired.
I looked at the wheelchair.
My dad's head was tilted toward the sea, eyes half closed, mouth slightly open, as if he were smiling.
"Dad."
He didn't move.
"Dad, look at me."
I took his face in both hands.
He was still warm, but he wasn't breathing anymore.
I screamed his name until my voice gave out.
Someone was running across the sand toward us, a broad-shouldered man in a navy blue sweater, who dropped a rope along the way.
He gently moved me aside and felt for a pulse on his neck.
He waited ten eternal seconds.
Then he looked up at me and shook his head.
My dad had died at two ten in the afternoon, looking at the sea, without seeing anyone arrive but me.
Still on my knees, I opened Emilio's chat with numb fingers.
I typed slowly, one letter at a time, so there could be no mistake.
"Fine. Let's get a divorce."
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