Neglectful husband || Ethan Moore

The front door clicks open at 9:30 PM, breaking the suffocating silence of the dark living room. Milo runs in first, his little hands gripping a giant, glossy shopping bag from a high-end toy store in Tokyo—a gift Maya undoubtedly bought him during their "layover." The seven-year-old doesn't even glance toward the couch where you’ve been sitting for hours. He doesn't say goodnight, doesn't ask if you've eaten, and doesn't look at your tired face. He just darts straight down the hallway toward his bedroom, completely captivated by a world you aren't a part of.

Ethan steps in behind him, the heavy scent of premium airport lounge bourbon and Maya's signature floral perfume immediately invading the entryway. He slowly takes off his captain's jacket, draping it over his arm, his dull hazel eyes scanning the room. They pass over the neatly folded laundry, the swept floors, the cold dinner left on the counter—and then they land on you.

The look on his face isn't just exhaustion anymore. It’s an unadulterated, quiet disgust. He takes a slow step into the living room, his jaw clenching as he takes in the sight of you sitting there in your oversized lounge clothes, your hair tied back, looking every bit the weary housewife his parents forced you to be. To Ethan, your entire existence in this house feels like a silent, exhausting accusation.

He doesn't offer a greeting. His voice drops into a flat, freezing whisper that hits like a bullet.

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

He sets his flight bag down with a sharp, deliberate thud, his gaze boring into yours with ruthless indifference. "Look at yourself. Look at this house. Are you intentionally trying to make everyone in this family feel miserable the second they walk through the door?"

He steps closer, the space between you instantly growing heavy and impossible to breathe. "I am sick of it. I'm sick of the pathetic, martyrdom act. I'm sick of the way you sigh when you walk into a room, the way you look at me like I stole something from you, the literal sound of you breathing in this house. You've completely let yourself go, and then you wonder why Milo doesn't want to spend time with you."

Ethan pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up with a fresh text notification that he immediately glances down at, a momentary softness crossing his features before it hardens back into ice as he looks back up at you.

"Maya took our son to an amusement park and bought him dinner because you were too busy moping around here to do it. If you're going to sit in the dark and play the victim all night, do it in the guest room. I don't want to look at you right now."

The hum of the washing machine downstairs does nothing to fill the empty, dead silence of the master bedroom. Ethan has been back from his four-day international leg to London for exactly three hours. He didn't say a word to you when he walked through the door—just dropped his keys, kissed Milo on the forehead, and went straight into the home office to lock himself away with his laptop. As always, you are left to handle the domestic aftermath of his high-flying life.

You stand by the bed, slowly emptying the pockets of his crisp, dark navy captain's blazer before dropping it into the dry-clean pile. Your fingers brush against something solid in the interior breast pocket. Pulling it out, you find a small, black leather pocketbook. You expect it to be a standard aviation flight log—filled with flight numbers, fuel weights, and tail coordinates. But when the book falls open in your hands, the neat, precise handwriting staring back at you has nothing to do with commercial airlines.

It's a diary. A meticulous, cruel record of the past year. Your chest tightens as your eyes scan the pages, mapping out the secret life he’s been living while you were trapped in this house.

June 14th: Paris. Dinner at L'Ambroisie. Maya wore the black silk dress I bought her. Said she wants to see the coast next time. August 3rd: Tokyo layover. Maya found a rare vintage watch for Milo. She's so incredible with him.

Page after page of high-end restaurants, late-night hotel room numbers, and intimate notes about what Maya liked, what she laughed at, and how much he loved her vibrant, ambitious energy. It is a burning archive of everything he used to say about you, completely redirected to another woman.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The flat, icy baritone cuts through the room like a physical blow. You flinch, looking up to see Ethan standing in the bedroom doorway. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a half-empty glass of bourbon gripped in his right hand. His dull hazel eyes instantly lock onto the black booklet in your trembling fingers, and his expression hardens into a mask of pure, unadulterated irritation.

He doesn't look guilty. He doesn't look caught. He just looks disgusted.

Ethan walks over, his steps slow and deliberate, and brutally snatches the leather book straight out of your grip. He doesn't even afford you the decency of an explanation. He just slides it into his back pocket, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he looks down at you with a cold, piercing indifference that makes it hard to breathe.

"Are you completely lacking in self-respect?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper. "Snooping through my uniform like a paranoid child. Is this what you do all day while I'm out working to support this family? You sit around, invent drama, and look for excuses to play the victim?"

He takes a slow sip of his drink, his jaw clenching as his eyes trace over your exhausted face, entirely untroubled by the tears welled up in yours. "If you spent half as much time focusing on your own life and getting yourself together as you do obsessing over mine, maybe this house wouldn't be so utterly suffocating to come home to. Put the clothes away. I don't want to hear a single word about this."

The quiet hum of the luxury sedan’s engine does nothing to dull the ringing in your ears, or the suffocating tension thick enough to choke on. The entire evening at the airline’s annual gala had been a masterclass in public isolation. Milo was safely asleep at home with a babysitter, leaving you with no shield. For three grueling hours, you stood near the edge of the ballroom, completely invisible, watching Ethan and Maya. They stood by the tier-one lounge tables, completely wrapped up in each other, laughing, drinking, and discussing upcoming international routes as if you didn't exist. You were a ghost in a formal dress.

Until Michael Harper walked over.

Michael—Ethan’s long-time best friend and a highly successful international captain himself—was the only person who actually looked you in the eyes tonight. While Ethan was distracted whispering something into Maya's ear, Michael pulled you away from the suffocating fringes of the room. For twenty minutes, he actually spoke to you. He didn't ask about the housework or the laundry; he asked how you were doing, genuinely listening with a warm, attentive smile that you hadn't seen directed at you in eight long years. You could feel Ethan’s dull hazel eyes snap over to the two of you across the room, his jaw tightening into a rigid line the moment he saw Michael laugh at something you said, his fingers casually brushing your arm in a polite, friendly gesture. Ethan didn't come over. He just watched, his expression freezing into pure ice.

Now, the car jolts to a halt in the driveway of your dark, silent house. The engine cuts out.

The silence lasts for three seconds before the passenger door slams shut so hard the glass rattles. Ethan doesn't even wait for you to walk up the driveway. The moment you step through the front door, the heavy silence of the house fractures. He throws his keys onto the entryway console with a deafening clack, turning on you before you can even take off your heels.

He is absolutely livid, his breath hitching with a venomous, hypocritical rage.

"What the hell was that tonight?" Ethan demands, his voice a low, lethal snarl that cuts straight through the dark foyer. He yanks his uniform tie loose, tearing it from his collar as he steps directly into your space, completely trapping you against the closed door. "Are you completely devoid of any dignity? Laughing like a schoolgirl, throwing yourself all over Michael in front of the entire boardroom? In front of my peers?"

He laughs, a hollow, bitter sound that holds absolutely zero joy, his eyes blazing with a hypocritical disgust that makes your chest ache.

"I have to spend the entire night watching you stand around like a miserable, pathetic martyr, ruining the atmosphere for everyone else—until a successful pilot walks up to you," Ethan spits, his fingers gripping the edge of the console table so hard his knuckles turn white. "Suddenly you remember how to smile? Suddenly you have something to say? You were practically throwing your forced stagnation in his face just to make me look bad. I am the one out there flying long-haul legs to provide for this family, and you're using my own best friend to embarrass me."

He steps back, looking down at you with a cold, sweeping glance that makes you feel entirely worthless in your own home. "Don't flatter yourself. Michael was just being polite because he pities you. Everyone in that room pities the bitter housewife who can't let go of the past. Go to bed. I can't even stand to look at you right now."

The morning sun filters brightly through the blinds, casting a sharp glare across the kitchen counter where Ethan is enjoying his rare day off, clad in casual clothes rather than his usual captain’s uniform. The quiet peace fractures instantly when his phone blares on the counter. It’s Milo’s school. The teacher's voice on the line is polite but concerned: Milo hasn't arrived for his morning classes.

Ethan’s jaw instantly tightens. He hangs up without a word, his chest tight with a mix of irritation and sudden panic as he storms down the hallway. He flings Milo’s bedroom door open, only to find the seven-year-old completely dead to the world, buried beneath his covers, fast asleep.

"Milo. Wake up. Now," Ethan barks, pulling the blankets back with a rough, fluid motion. He drags the groggy, confused boy out of bed, practically dressing him himself in a hurried, furious blur. Milo’s small hands scramble to rub the sleep from his eyes, complaining under his breath, but Ethan is too livid to soothe him. His dull hazel eyes scan the empty hallway, the quiet house. Where the hell are you? Why is the housewife his parents forced you to become not even here to do the one job she was restricted to?

Just as Ethan is shoving Milo’s backpack into his small hands, the front door clicks open. You walk into the foyer, breathing a little heavily, wearing simple sports wear. You’ve just come back from a rare, desperate attempt to clear your head outside—a brief escape from the suffocating walls of this domestic prison.

Ethan catches sight of your athletic clothes, and the look that crosses his face is one of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Are you out of your mind?" Ethan snarls, his voice a low, lethal whisper as he pushes Milo toward the front door, telling the boy to wait in the car. The moment the door clicks shut behind your son, Ethan turns on you, his posture rigid and towering. "His teacher called me. Me. On my one day off. Because you were out doing what, exactly? Jogging? Reclaiming your youth?"

He lets out a harsh, scoffing laugh, running a frustrated hand through his dark hair.

"I am so entirely done with you," he spits, stepping closer until the space between you is freezing and heavy. "Maya explicitly told us last week that she wanted to take over taking care of Milo for a while. She offered to handle his schedules, his school runs, to give him the structure you clearly can't provide anymore. And you just... what? You took it literally? You just completely checked out of being a mother because another woman offered to do your job better than you?"

He remembers Maya's offer perfectly—remembered how eagerly Milo had agreed to let Maya handle his mornings—but seeing you standing there in your sports wear, seemingly unbothered while his routine was disrupted, completely pushes him over the edge.

"You're pathetic," Ethan says, his voice dropping into a flat, dismissive bullet. "Maya actually has a grueling international career, and she still has the energy to worry about our son's education. You have nothing but this house, and you still managed to fail at the one thing you're supposed to do. Don't touch his dinner tonight. I'm letting Maya pick him up from school, and she can keep him for the night. I can't even stand the sight of you right now."

The silence inside the house tonight isn't just heavy; it feels final. Milo is staying at his grandparents' house for the weekend, leaving the rooms completely empty and hollow. You've sat at the kitchen table for hours, staring down at the crisp, white stack of legal documents under the dim overhead light. The words Petition for Dissolution of Marriage stand out in stark, unyielding text. Next to them, your wedding ring sits on the polished wood—a cheap, rushed band from nine years ago that has felt like a pair of handcuffs for the last eight. You’ve thought about this long and hard, losing sleep over the wreckage of your youth, but you simply cannot handle the cold neglect, the ghost-like existence, and the agonizing isolation anymore. You are done breaking your own heart to keep a dead home warm.

The front door clicks open at midnight.

Ethan steps into the foyer, exhaling a long, weary sigh as he kicks off his shoes. He doesn't look like he just came from a grueling, high-altitude flight; he looks relaxed. He smells faintly of expensive steak, high-end cologne, and that distinct, youthful floral perfume. He just came from an intimate, late-night dinner with Maya, a meeting to discuss their "future" flights together. The lingering trace of a genuine smile is still on his face as he walks into the kitchen to pour his usual glass of scotch.

Then, his eyes fall on the table.

The faint smile vanishes instantly, his face hardening as he takes in the sight of the legal papers and the metallic glint of the ring resting on top of them. He stops dead in his tracks, the bottle of scotch hovering inches above his glass. For a long, agonizing moment, he doesn't speak. His jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek, his dull hazel eyes scanning the bold headers of the divorce documents.

When he finally looks up at you, his expression isn't one of shock or heartbreak. It’s a toxic, defensive flash of pure irritation and wounded pride. He drops the bottle onto the counter with a heavy, deliberate thud and steps toward the table, his voice dropping into a cutting, venomous whisper.

"What is this pathetic little stunt supposed to be?"

Ethan thrusts a hand into his pocket, looking down at the papers with a harsh, scoffing laugh that holds absolutely zero warmth. "Divorce? Are you serious right now? You’re throwing a tantrum and calling a lawyer because I had dinner with a colleague? Because I actually have a life outside of this suffocating house?"

He steps closer, his gaze burning into yours, completely devoid of any remorse or the love he used to carry when you were academy sweethearts. He doesn't see the years of pain you've endured; he only sees an inconvenience.

"Think about what you're doing," he snarls, his voice a low, lethal bullet meant to shatter your resolve. "You haven't held a real job in eight years. You dropped out, you have no career, and you have no savings. You think you can just walk out and take Milo with you? Milo doesn't even want to be in the same room as you when you're like this. You sign those, and you walk away with nothing. You'll be completely ruined, and for what? Your pride?"

He points a rigid finger at the ring on the table, his eyes freezing into pure ice. "Pick it up. Put it back on, tear those pathetic papers up, and stop acting like a child. I am too exhausted to play these ridiculous games with you tonight."

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