A Solo Honeymoon Without You

As we were packing our bags for our delayed honeymoon, my wife announced she was changing the destination to Bali—the one place my younger brother, Brett, had been obsessing over for months. I froze, watching the silent, practiced exchange of looks between Cherry and our daughter. "If Daddy has an objection," Phoebe said in her light, singsong voice, "we can put it to a vote." A vote. That was always their solution whenever Brett and I wanted different things. A democratic performance of fairness where the outcome was rigged before the ballots were cast. On my thirtieth birthday, I booked a table at a quiet French bistro I’d loved for years; they voted two-to-one that Brett’s raw vegan salad bar was better for the family’s health. When Phoebe won her first citywide spelling bee, I stood at the back of the auditorium in my pressed suit, holding flowers for three hours; they voted that Brett should walk on stage to accept the certificate with her because he looked more photogenic. Later, when I saw the framed family portrait she submitted for her school project, my face had already been neatly cropped out and replaced by Brett’s smiling one. Now, the tally stood at two against one. I had lost. Again. My throat burned with a dry, bitter ache. "Cherry," I said softly, "Lake Tahoe is where I proposed to you. We promised we’d go back." Cherry didn’t even look up from her phone, her thumb flicking rapidly across a travel booking app. "Water is water, Jesse. A lake, an ocean—what's the difference? Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?" A soft chime sounded from her phone. She had finalized the purchase. A three-person package deal. "The discount was only good for three," she added, tossing her phone onto the mattress. "You’ll have to book your own ticket." Just like that, she drew the circle: her, our daughter, and my brother inside; me left out in the cold. I looked down at the simple platinum band on my left ring finger. Slowly, I slid it off and laid it on the nightstand. Then I picked up my phone and booked a solo ticket to Tahoe. If there was a distant horizon I needed to reach, I could get there on my own. … Seeing me tap away on my phone, Cherry’s tense brow smoothed out. She reached over to ruffle Brett’s styled hair before coming around the bed to take my hand. "Let’s go pick out swimwear," she said, her tone suddenly cheerful. "Brett and Phoebe have been taking surf lessons all week. They’ll be ready to hit the waves the second we land." Phoebe wrapped her small arms around Brett’s leg, looking up at him with unadulterated adoration. "Uncle Brett is going to be the handsomest guy on the beach." My daughter rarely spoke to me with that kind of sweetness. With me, there was always a cold distance in her eyes, a faint, inexplicable disdain that broke my heart a little more every day. To bridge that chasm, I had spent months following the food vloggers she liked, painstakingly learning to replicate the complicated pastries and savory dishes she bookmarked. But every time I set a plate before her, asking with quiet hope if she liked it, she would wrinkle her nose, spit the bite into the napkin, and make an exaggerated gagging sound. "Daddy’s cooking is gross." The food was good. For the longest time, I told myself she was just a picky eater. But now I saw the truth clearly: she didn't hate the food. She hated me. And because she disliked me, everything I touched became unbearable to her. My knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as I drove. In the rearview mirror, I watched Phoebe nestled comfortably against Brett’s shoulder. When she caught me looking, she pulled down her lower eyelids, stuck out her tongue, and spat toward the front seat. Brett chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, Jesse, you two must have been mortal enemies in a past life. Phoebe is the sweetest kid I’ve ever met, but she just can't stand you." Cherry smiled warmly from the passenger seat, joining in without missing a beat. "She really does adore you, Brett. Every year when she blows out her birthday candles, her wish is that her handsome, cool uncle could be her real dad." Brett’s cheeks flushed slightly. He darted a shy glance at Cherry, then leaned down to tickle Phoebe’s ribs. "Stop it, you two. Your dad’s going to get his feelings hurt." Laughter filled the car, bright and effortless, puncturing my chest like fine needles. This was the child I had raised with every ounce of my soul. Yet ever since Brett moved into our spare bedroom six months ago, she hadn't let me hold her hand once. A metallic bitterness coated my tongue. Cherry leaned across the console to unbuckle my seatbelt when we parked. Perhaps noticing the hollow look on my face, she pressed a brief, placating kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Don't take it personally. She’s just a kid making jokes." Inside the boutique swimwear store, Cherry naturally drifted toward Brett. Brett held Phoebe’s hand, and Phoebe held Cherry’s. The sales clerk greeted them with an enthusiastic beam. "Good afternoon! What a gorgeous little family." No one glanced back at me, trailing several paces behind. And nobody bothered to correct the clerk to say that I was the husband, the father. I watched Phoebe eagerly pulling designer swim trunks from the rack for Brett, a stinging warmth gathering behind my eyes. Suddenly, she turned and trotted toward me, holding up a bright sapphire-blue set, her eyes wide with what looked like pure excitement. "Daddy! You should try this one on. You’ll look so cool." Cherry chimed in immediately, nudging me toward the fitting rooms. "Go on, try it. See what our daughter picked for you." A small, foolish ember of warmth flared in my chest. In the narrow stall, I pulled on the trunks and carefully smoothed down the fabric in front of the mirror, wanting so badly to look presentable. I thought I would step out to a rare word of praise. Instead, the moment I pushed the door open, a blinding flash went off. Phoebe had her phone raised, instantly tapping to upload the picture to our extended family group chat. Her high-pitched voice rang out through the boutique, laced with deliberate cruelty. "Daddy looks like a fat walrus! Look at that ugly centipede scar on his stomach! Why does he always have to ruin Uncle Brett’s style and steal the cool clothes?" The air was sucked from my lungs. Brett stepped out of the adjacent fitting room at that exact moment. He wore the exact same sapphire trunks, the fabric clinging to his sculpted abs and lean, athletic frame. Instantly, the eyes of the other shoppers in the store shifted to him. "Wow, look at him," a woman whispered nearby. "He looks like a fitness model. His girlfriend is so lucky." "And who’s the guy next to him? God, look at that gut and the loose skin. He looks like a sack of expired groceries." I felt entirely naked, stripped of every shred of dignity. I turned frantically to Cherry, searching for an anchor, but her gaze was glued to Brett, her eyes glowing with an intense, unhidden admiration. She didn't even notice the humiliation choking me. My phone buzzed relentlessly in my pocket. The family group chat was already blowing up with laughing emojis and cruel remarks, asking if I was preparing for a sumo tournament. I retreated into the fitting stall like a wounded animal, my chest heaving, unable to catch my breath. When Phoebe was three, she suffered from acute renal failure. I was a matching donor, but my baseline health was frail, and the surgical team said I didn't meet the body-mass criteria required to safely undergo the procedure and provide an adequate graft. To save her life, I gorged myself. Ten heavy meals a day. Eating until I threw up, and then eating again immediately after. I went from the lean, sharp-jawed photographer women used to glance twice at on the street to an overweight man covered in stretch marks, carrying a deep, jagged eight-inch surgical scar across my flank where they took my kidney. The night before the operation, I had held Phoebe’s tiny hand and asked through tears if she would stop loving me if Daddy became ugly. She had cried into my neck, promising that I would always be the best, most handsome daddy in the whole world. After the surgery, severe body dysmorphia and clinical depression took hold of me. Cherry had spent months comforting me back then; Phoebe, once she was old enough to understand, used to kiss the scar and whisper that it was a badge of love. Now, that healed wound had been ripped open and salted by the very hands I had given my flesh to protect. Outside the thin door, their hushed, conspiratorial giggles drifted in. "That'll teach him," Phoebe whispered with satisfaction. "That’s what he gets for yelling at Uncle Brett about leaving his dirty laundry in the hall." I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold linoleum, numb. I stayed there until Cherry knocked briskly on the door, telling me it was time to go. As we walked out to the street, Brett cast a smug, sidelong glance at me, swinging his bulging shopping bags. "Hey, Jesse, next time ask me before you grab something off the rack. Wearing matching outfits is kind of awkward when there’s... you know, a contrast." Phoebe burst out laughing, rushing forward to help Brett carry his bags. Cherry tossed a cheap, generic black swim cap into my chest. "You’re not in your twenties anymore, Jesse. You need to be realistic about your body. Practical things suit you better." My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until they broke the skin. It wasn't that "practical" suited me. It was that in Cherry’s eyes, I was only worth the free promotional items. Brett fell into step beside Cherry, flashing her a charming grin. "Cherry, I forgot to grab designer sunglasses." Cherry grabbed my wrist and yanked me backward with sudden force. "Hold on, don't walk toward the car yet. We need to go back in." Caught off balance, I stumbled hard. The sharp, reinforced edge of one of Brett's heavy paper shopping bags sliced across my bare forearm. A row of bright red beads welled up instantly, stinging sharply. I sucked in a breath through my teeth. Neither Cherry nor Phoebe gave me a second glance. They turned on their heels, chatting animatedly as they escorted Brett back toward the luxury boutique. "Excuse me..." a hesitant, awed voice whispered beside me. A young woman in her twenties was standing on the sidewalk, holding out an adhesive bandage from her purse. "Are you... Crescent?" The name sent a tremor through my chest. Crescent. The artist alias I hadn't heard spoken aloud in years. I gave a faint, hesitant nod. The girl gasped, her eyes shining with genuine reverence. "Oh my god! I've studied every single one of your landscape galleries! I’m such a massive fan of your work. But... you haven't published anything in eight years. Where did you go?" A decade ago, I was one of the most promising young nature photographers on the West Coast. My prints captured light and wilderness with an intimacy that critics called soulful and raw. Cherry had fallen in love with my work first, tracking down my studio email and pursuing me relentlessly. She brought me fresh coffee at dawn, cooked homemade lunches to leave at my darkroom, and met me with hot cocoa after freezing evening shoots. I was swept away by her devotion and said yes when she asked me to marry her. After our wedding, her marketing agency took off, while I split my time between commercial shoots and remote trails. Then Phoebe was born with fragile health. To manage her dialysis and subsequent post-op care, I gave up the field, stepped behind the stove, and never picked up my camera again. I had fought so hard to go to Tahoe because Cherry had once promised that for our tenth anniversary, we would return to the alpine lake where we fell in love and shoot a proper set of wedding portraits. She had forgotten the promise of that horizon. But I was finally ready to go there alone. Accepting the bandage, I looked the young woman in the eyes and said quietly, "I'm coming back soon. You won't have to wait much longer." The sharp clack of high heels approached from behind. Cherry marched up, her brows knitted in irritation. "What are you lingering out here for? You didn't pick a suit, you didn't look at shades. Drop the attitude, Jesse. I promised I’ll take you on your little mountain trip next time, okay?" With me, it was always "next time". With Brett, everything was instant gratification. When Brett wanted a pair of limited-edition sneakers, Cherry called half the boutiques in the state to have them couriered within hours. When I asked for a specific wide-angle lens for my old kit, she promised to order it through a friend. I waited with quiet excitement for a week, only for her to dismissively say she forgot. I had simply ceased to matter. Perhaps seeing how pale and hollow I looked, Cherry softened her tone. "Jesse, he’s your kid brother. He’s young. Why do you constantly have to compete with him?" I gave a slow, quiet nod. "You're right." Pleased by my surrender, she leaned against my shoulder with a practiced smile. "When we do go to Tahoe, I’ll have my assistant book the best bridal suite and a top stylist. Just try to lose some weight before then, so you look like you belong next to everything I’m arranging." Brett and Phoebe emerged from the shop, laden with new purchases and laughing breathlessly. "Let’s head back! We practically bought out the store." Cherry smiled indulgently, taking the heaviest bags from Brett's arms. Outside, the sky suddenly broke into a violent, torrential downpour. Cold rain soaked the cuffs of my trousers in seconds. Inside the SUV, Brett and Phoebe’s mountain of shopping bags occupied the entire back seat and spilled into the front passenger side. The rain hammered deafeningly against the glass. Brett rolled down his window a crack, wearing a look of exaggerated remorse. "Jesse, man, I don't think there's any room left. Do you mind catching an Uber? We're totally jammed in here." Before I could speak, Phoebe reached across and slammed the car door shut. The heavy door clipped my knuckles. A flare of agony shot up my hand. As I jerked back, my foot slipped off the slick curb, and I tumbled sideways into a recessed concrete drain basin. My wrist struck the iron grating with a sickening crack. The sapphire face of my watch fractured into a web of splintered glass. Cherry cracked her door open as if to check on me, but Brett leaned forward from the back seat. "Cherry, the rain is getting worse. The roads will flood—it’s dangerous to drive if you wait." Cherry hesitated for half a second, then shifted into drive. "Take care of yourself, Jesse!" she called out, and accelerated into the gray sheet of rain. The heavy raindrops pelted my back like stones. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. The watch was a custom Swiss timepiece Cherry had commissioned for our eighth anniversary. In my struggle to pull myself out of the muddy ditch, the jagged glass shards dug deep into the flesh of my wrist. Just like our marriage: shattered over time, grinding painfully into bone until nothing remained but ruin. I unclasped the broken strap, pulled the slivers of glass from my skin, and let the rain wash away the blood. I threw the watch into the gutter, discarding the last remnants of my devotion along with it. I stood beneath the leaking awning of a bus stop, shivering violently in my soaked clothes. I pulled out my phone to hail a ride, but water had seeped into the charging port. The screen flickered once and died completely. After what felt like hours, the storm finally subsided into a cold drizzle. A city sanitation worker in an orange vest stopped near the curb and pointed toward the gutter. "Hey, mister! Did you drop your watch?" I looked down at my bare, bleeding wrist, and then back at the stranger. I offered a faint, exhausted smile. "No," I said quietly. "I threw it away." ... By the time I walked through the front door, Cherry was just stepping out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming mug of ginger-honey tea. A hollow ache settled in my chest. I didn't ask why she had suddenly learned how to use the stove. Last month, on my thirtieth birthday, I had asked her if she could boil a simple pot of noodles for me. She had refused flatly without looking up from her laptop. "You know I don't cook, Jesse." A flicker of awkward guilt crossed Cherry’s face as she took in my drenched state. "Brett and Phoebe got caught in the rain on the way inside. I didn't want them catching a cold. There’s some left in the pot if you want it." I glanced toward the stove. The pot held nothing but spent ginger skins and greasy rinse water. "No thanks." Phoebe let out a cold, theatrical scoff from the couch. "Mom didn't make any for you anyway. Mom promised that her special care is only for me and Uncle Brett." Even though I had spent the entire walk home numbing myself, the words still landed like a dull knife between my ribs. "What happened to your hands?" Cherry’s breath hitched as she noticed the dark red scrapes on my knuckles. She moved toward the hall closet for the first-aid kit. I didn't want her charity. I opened my mouth to tell her not to bother, but before the words could form, a biting cloud of aerosol mist hit my skin. Cherry stood over me with a can of medical disinfectant, spraying it liberally over my hands and clothes while covering her own nose in disgust. "Brett’s immune system is delicate," she said briskly. "You fell into a storm drain—you're covered in bacteria. If you bring a fever into this house, I'm the one who'll have to stay up all night nursing everyone." Every word was a hammer blow, flattening whatever dust was left of my heart. I stood entirely still as she wiped down my arms with rubbing alcohol three times, then tossed a disposable sterile gown onto the entryway bench for me to wear. In the living room, Brett took a slow sip of his tea and clinked his mug against Phoebe’s cup in a victorious toast. Suddenly, he jumped up and jogged into my small home studio, re-emerging with three of my professional camera bodies clutched in his arms. "Jesse, give me one of these," Brett said with an easy grin. "I want to shoot some high-res travel aesthetic content on the flight tomorrow." Those cameras had traveled with me across the Arctic Circle, through the Rockies, and along the Pacific coastline. They were the silent witnesses to my entire youth. "No." Brett’s smile dropped into an exaggerated pout as he turned his eyes toward Cherry. Cherry shot me an impatient glare and shoved all three camera bodies firmly into Brett’s arms. "Take whichever ones you want. If he throws a fit, I'll buy him new ones." Brett smirked. His eyes darted across the gear before settling on the sleek, matte-black body of my vintage Leica. "I'll just take this one, Cherry. If I take them all, my big brother might cry." Cherry smiled warmly. "You're always so considerate, Brett." I stared at the Leica in his hands. The bottom plate was custom-engraved with the initials "J & C". She had forgotten that this was her wedding gift to me. Perhaps it was fitting. It saved me the trouble of throwing it away myself. Seeing that I remained silent, Phoebe’s face twisted into a cruel grin. She stepped up to the low table and, with deliberate force, shoved the remaining two cameras onto the hardwood floor. "CRASH." The heavy bodies shattered on impact. Precision glass lenses splintered, and the memory card door snapped clean off. My mind went completely white. I dropped to my knees, scrambling across the floor to gather the broken dials and loose screws, desperately pressing the power switches. Nothing. Dead silence. My dreams, my past, and my identity had just been smashed into scrap metal by my own daughter. A sudden wave of vertigo crashed over me. My temple clipped the sharp edge of the coffee table, and the pain left me paralyzed on the floor, unable to push myself up. Cherry let out an exasperated sigh, tapping the toe of her designer flat against my shin. "It’s just a couple of old cameras, Jesse. Are you really going to lie on the floor and play the victim?" "When you’re done with the drama, clean up this mess and pack our suitcases. Our flight leaves at nine tomorrow morning." With that, she ushered Brett and Phoebe toward the bedrooms. I lay on the icy wood floor for a long time, the silence of the house settling heavily over me. From the master bedroom, Phoebe’s spoiled voice drifted through the door: "Uncle Brett, Mom, come lay with me until I fall asleep!" I slowly pushed myself up. In the dark study, I booted up the backup laptop, connected the printer, and ran off two crisp copies of a standard divorce settlement agreement. I signed my name clearly on the final line and laid the document flat in the center of the kitchen island. The bedroom light clicked off. Nobody came looking for me. Nobody asked if I was still breathing. I packed my passport, my birth certificate, and my portfolio hard drives into a single duffel bag. A home that wasn't mine, a wife who belonged to someone else, and a child who wished I didn't exist—I left them all behind in the dark.