My New Life

1 The first time I asked for a divorce, Buzz looked at me with those calm, reasonable eyes and said, “At least wait until our son finishes middle school.” I nodded, swallowing my grievances. The second time I brought it up, Buzz used the same gentle, unyielding tone. “At least wait until he graduates from high school.” Again, I nodded, letting another chunk of my life slip away. Now, our son had finally finished his college entrance exams. When I brought up the divorce for the third time, Buzz still refused to sign the papers. Suddenly, everyone in our social circle felt entitled to offer their opinion. “You’ve spent half your life together. Why are you suddenly making such a fuss about a divorce now?” “Exactly. Buzz is a successful businessman, and he still looks incredibly handsome in his late forties. Frankly, Vivian, you’re the one winning here.” Even my own son, Anson, came to lecture me. “Mom, I know Aunt Annette has always been a thorn in your side. But it’s been so many years, and everyone is getting older. Why can’t you just let it go?” But a thorn buried deep in the flesh does not simply disappear. It festers. It throbs with a quiet, agonizing pain with every single breath. Buzz could not pull that thorn out of my heart. So, I had no choice but to cut Buzz out of my life entirely. 2 Despite the overwhelming disapproval from everyone around me, my decision was final. Anson stood in front of the bedroom door, blocking my exit, his voice dripping with childish defiance. “Mom, if you actually go through with this divorce, I swear I won’t go to college.” I continued folding my blouses, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Anson, you are an adult now. You have to take full responsibility for your own choices. If you decide to throw away the last twelve years of your hard work, that is on you.” My blunt response caught him off guard. Flustered and speechless, he whipped out his phone to call his father for backup. “Dad! You need to get home right now! Mom is packing her bags!” I did not care what Buzz said on the other end. I only knew he hung up in a hurry, leaving Anson to throw a tantrum in our room. “Mom, please don’t leave. Please?” It was the same routine he had performed so many times before. In the past, my heart would have melted. Seeing the child I had carried for nine months cry was always my weakness. It was the anchor that had dragged me down, keeping me trapped in this suffocating house for years. But today, looking at his pleading, tear-streaked face, I felt absolutely nothing. I quietly continued packing my clothes, my jewelry, and my legal documents, placing them piece by piece into my suitcase. Suddenly, a large, firm hand clamped down on the rim of the suitcase, halting my movements. Thinking it was Anson trying to aggravate me again, I prepared to tell him to back off. But when I looked up, I met Buzz’s face. He was still as elegant and refined as ever. Time had been exceptionally kind to him; his face had barely changed from the day he had sweet-talked me into marrying him. Yet, his usually unshakeable composure was showing cracks. “Honey, please stop making a scene.” I stood up straight, meeting his gaze. “I am not making a scene.” I truly, deeply, could not live with him for another second. But to Buzz, this was just another minor domestic dispute that could be resolved with a bit of coaxing. He took a tentative step forward. “Are you still upset about Anson’s name?” Upset? I had been plagued by that name for almost two decades. Anson. Anson, which sounded so painfully close to Annette. Buzz had used the birth of our only child to permanently memorialize the woman who held his heart, his true “white moonlight.” How could I not be upset? 3 My introduction to Buzz had been arranged by a mutual friend, Penny. At the time, Penny had practically sworn on her life. “Vivian, trust me on this. He is the definition of a high-quality bachelor.” She had not lied to me. The young Buzz was incredibly handsome, wealthy, and charming. During our first meeting, he had swept me off my feet, and everything had progressed naturally from dating to a beautiful wedding, followed shortly by the birth of our son, Anson. In those early years, I had genuinely believed that God had blessed me with a perfect life. Until Anson’s first birthday party. That afternoon, many of Buzz’s childhood friends had gathered at our house. They were almost entirely men, and when men gather, the alcohol flows freely. And when they drink too much, secrets become impossible to keep. Buzz’s oldest friend, Greg, was the first to lose his filter. Slurring his words and hiccuping, he leaned over the table. “Hey, Buzz… did you name your kid Anson because you still can’t get over Annette?” It was the first time I had ever heard that name. Before Greg could elaborate, another friend scrambled to cover his mouth, trying to laugh it off. “What are you babbling about, Greg? Buzz obviously chose the name because it sounds noble and classic! It means ‘son of the divine’!” “Exactly! It’s a beautiful, literary name. Don’t listen to this drunk idiot.” But Buzz, who had just downed a glass of whiskey, sat beside me with a glazed, wistful look on his face. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice thick with a quiet melancholy. “I really can’t forget her.” The friends panicked, trying to shut him up, but Greg broke free from their grip, laughing mockingly. “Of course he can’t! Buzz spent twenty years telling everyone he was going to marry Annette, since he was eight years old. Then she goes and marries some starving artist. Who could possibly get over that?” The revelation hit me like a physical blow. It was a past Buzz had completely hidden from me. Before I could demand an explanation, Greg passed out face-first onto the dining table. Buzz let out a loud, drunken laugh. “Greg, you lightweight! You promised you’d help me win her back…” The rest of Buzz’s sentence was muffled as three of his friends practically tackled him to keep him quiet. The dining room descended into a chaotic scramble of excuses. “Vivian, don’t mind them. They’re just talking complete nonsense because of the alcohol. Buzz isn’t like that at all.” “Yeah, Vivian, that’s all ancient history. You’re the one who is his wife now.” It was a chaotic mess. That night, Buzz slept like a baby, his secret laid bare by his friends without a hint of remorse on his part. But I stayed awake. Under the cold moonlight, I stared at our infant son, then at Buzz’s sleeping face, until the sun began to rise. The next morning, Buzz woke up, clearly annoyed by his drunken display from the night before. He offered a brief, dismissive explanation. “Annette and I are in the past.” I was twenty-seven when I met the twenty-eight-year-old Buzz. I was not naive enough to expect him to have a completely blank romantic history. But I could not accept my son being named as a monument to his ex-lover. Yet, Buzz flatly refused to change the name. When I kept pushing the issue, his frustration boiled over. “It’s just a name, Vivian. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” But was it really just a name? The tension between us escalated. I took our son and went to the government registry to legally change his name myself, only to find out that Buzz had already blocked any unilateral changes. When I threatened a divorce, Buzz had looked at me and said, “Our son is too young. At least wait until he finishes middle school.” When I refused to back down, his tone had turned cold and threatening. “Vivian, you might not care about this marriage, but do you still care about your family’s business partnership with the Sinclair Group?” My parents’ livelihood depended on that partnership. Buzz’s grip on me was ironclad, ruthless, and terrifyingly effective. Over the years, I had tried to cope. I had even foolishly hoped that perhaps somewhere deep down, Buzz had grown to love me. But eventually, I realized I was nothing more than a clown in his grand romantic tragedy. From marrying me to having a child, to refusing to let me go, Buzz’s entire life was an elaborate performance designed to comfort Annette. He wanted to show her: Look, even without you, I am living a perfect, successful life. So, Annette, you go ahead and chase your happiness. You don’t have to worry about me. 4 Buzz yanked my suitcase behind him, his tone softening into a gentle, pleading murmur. “If it really bothers you that much, we can go and legally change Anson’s name tomorrow.” For nearly twenty years, I had begged for this. Now that he was finally offering it, I realized I did not want it anymore. Buzz watched me, his expression almost submissive. “What would you like to rename him?” Before I could answer that his offer was decades too late, Anson interrupted, his voice dripping with annoyance. “I’m not changing my name! My name is Anson, and I love it! Mom, why are you always so obsessed with Aunt Annette? Is it really that big of a deal?” A spark of anger flared in my chest. “It is not a small thing!” Anson raised his voice, shouting over me. “It is! You’re just incredibly jealous of Aunt Annette! That’s why you threw away all her old photos and gifts from our house, and now you want to ruin my name too!” Slap. Buzz’s hand struck Anson’s cheek with a sharp crack. “How dare you speak to your mother like that? Get out of here!” Anson clutched his reddening cheek in utter disbelief. “I only said what you always think! Mom is just a bitter, stubborn woman, and someone needed to tell her the truth!” Before he could finish his sentence, my hand flew across his other cheek, striking him just as hard. Anson stumbled backward, tears welling in his eyes. He glared at both of us before bolting toward the front door. “I’m going to Aunt Annette’s house, and I’m never coming back!” The bedroom finally fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Buzz rubbed his temples, trying to smooth things over. “He is just an immature kid, Vivian. Don’t take his words to heart. And please, let’s not talk about divorce anymore. Annette and I have been completely over for years.” “But Anson is eighteen,” I said, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. “Why do you think he is so incredibly attached to his ‘Aunt Annette’?” “Is it because you spent years singing her praises to him? Or is it because you constantly snuck him over to her house behind my back?” “Or was it both?” Buzz thought he had hidden his tracks perfectly. But every single time the two of them returned from their “father-son outings,” they would reek of a heavy citrus cologne, a pathetic attempt to mask the distinct lavender scent that Annette always wore. It had been going on for years. 5 There was a time when the sheer exhaustion of fighting had worn away my sharp edges. I had accepted my fate, resigning myself to a lifetime of quiet misery just to give my son a stable home. After Anson finished middle school, neither Buzz nor I had brought up the divorce again, maintaining a fragile, silent truce. When Anson entered high school, his grades began to slip. Buzz suggested sending him to a private physics tutor, and Anson had agreed, attending the sessions with an unusual amount of enthusiasm. I had assumed he simply had a charismatic teacher. Until three months later. Buzz was tied up with an important client, so I offered to drive Anson to his session. The moment I suggested it, Anson’s behavior turned incredibly bizarre. First, he claimed to have a sudden, agonizing stomach ache. Then, he complained of a migraine. He did everything in his power to avoid getting into my car. My suspicions were aroused. The following week, when Buzz drove him to his tutoring session, I quietly followed them in my own car. Their vehicle eventually pulled up in front of a gorgeous villa surrounded by blooming fields of lavender. Anson jumped out of the passenger seat, running toward the front door with a bright, genuine smile. “Aunt Annette! We’re here!” Aunt Annette. The name felt like a physical blow to my chest. A beautiful, elegant woman walked out of the villa, her face lighting up as she greeted him. Anson grinned, practically bouncing on his heels. “Aunt Annette, I want to eat your special short ribs today, and your roasted beef…” “I’ve already prepared everything,” she replied, her voice soft and maternal. Buzz stepped out of the car, carrying a brand-new Hermès shopping bag, which he handed to her with a familiar warmth. “Annette, you really shouldn’t spoil him so much…” The scene was picture-perfect, a warm, loving family reunion. And to me, it was the ultimate, cold-blooded betrayal. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I did not want to storm into her house and act like a hysterical, screaming wife demanding answers. I refused to give them the satisfaction of looking down on me. I quietly turned my car around and drove back to our empty house. I sat in the dark, watching the streetlights flicker through the window, hiding my humiliation in the shadows. It was late in the evening when Buzz and Anson finally returned. They walked through the door, practically radiating a thick, suffocating scent of lavender. I sent Anson up to his room, leaving me alone with Buzz. I tossed the photos I had taken onto the coffee table. “I thought he was going to a tutoring center. Since when does his physics tutor live in a private villa?” Buzz turned on the lights. When he saw the photos, the color drained from his face, and he looked momentarily panicked. “Annette was always excellent at physics,” he stammered. “I just thought she could help Anson with his grades.” His excuse was laughably pathetic. “I checked her records, Buzz,” I said, my voice cracking with years of unshed tears. “Annette was an art major. How on earth is she qualified to tutor our son in physics?” That night, our house erupted into the worst screaming match of our marriage, ending with my second demand for a divorce. But once again, Buzz found my weakness. “Anson is at a critical juncture in his life with his upcoming college entrance exams. Let’s at least wait until he graduates, Vivian. For his sake.” He knew exactly which strings to pull to keep me in line. I lost all my strength, and I agreed to wait one last time. But even after that confrontation, they continued to sneak over to Annette’s villa. They simply became more careful, drenching themselves in that strong citrus cologne before coming home to cover up the lavender scent. Over time, my heart simply went numb. I lost my weakness. I spent the remaining years counting down the days until Anson’s high school graduation. I was finally ready to leave Buzz and this toxic house behind. 6 Faced with my cold, unwavering stare, Buzz found himself completely out of excuses. But even if he had a thousand more lies, he could not stop me from leaving. I yanked my suitcase back from his grip, my voice deadly quiet. “Buzz, three strikes and you’re out. You need to let me go.” Buzz’s face darkened, but he realized he had no leverage left. The business partnerships between our families had been systematically phased out ever since I took over my family’s company. Any minor losses from a split would not affect us in the slightest. As for Anson, he was an adult now. He could no longer be used as a hostage to keep me trapped. Buzz opened and closed his mouth, desperately searching for something to say. Finally, he resorted to playing the emotional card. “Vivian, please. I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I used to love Annette, and I know I’ve hurt you deeply. But we’ve built a life together over the last twenty years. I’ve grown to care for you, and I swear, I have never physically cheated on you since the day we married.” It was almost comical. Did he truly believe that emotional infidelity was not a betrayal? He had treated me as a convenient shield to hide his failed romance, and he had named the child I carried for nine months to honor his first love. And he dared to claim he had never wronged me? Any lingering affection I had for him had died years ago, buried under a mountain of lies. “We are getting a divorce,” I said, my tone flat. “From now on, you can call me Vivian, or you can call me your soon-to-be ex-wife.” My absolute certainty seemed to terrify him. “Please don’t do this. We can talk about this.” “There is nothing left to talk about! I have spent two decades tolerating you and this hollow marriage. Let me go, Buzz. The divorce papers are on the kitchen island. I will see you at the courthouse at nine tomorrow morning.” Buzz tried to grab my arm, but I brushed past him, pushing him out of my way as I walked out of the bedroom. My shove was hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps before he regained his footing. As I walked down the grand staircase, the sharp click of my high heels echoed off the marble walls of the empty villa. Just as my hand touched the front doorknob, Buzz’s voice drifted down from the landing, sounding hollow and broken. “Are you really throwing me away?” I did not turn around. “Yes.” I pulled the door open, but his voice stopped me one last time. “Vivian… my chest hurts.” My fingers tightened around the metal handle, a faint tremor running through my hand. After so many years of resentment and cold silence, I had almost forgotten that there was a time when Buzz and I had been genuinely happy. When we first met, Buzz had pursued me with an intense, romantic fervor. He made sure every anniversary was special, and his proposal had been nothing short of spectacular. He had lied to me, saying we were attending a friend’s engagement party. In the middle of the crowded ballroom, he had suddenly gasped, clutching his chest and falling to one knee. “Vivian… my chest hurts.” He had played the part so realistically that I had panicked, throwing aside my purse and rushing to his side, terrified that something was terribly wrong with him. But then, he had pulled a diamond ring from his pocket, looking up at me with eyes full of a warmth that seemed entirely genuine. “Vivian, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” His words tonight were an exact echo of that memory. For a long time, I had been deeply moved by that proposal. I had believed I was stepping into a lifetime of happiness. But through the years, I had come to realize that his elaborate grand gestures were never truly about me. They were designed to reassure Annette, to show her that he was moving on so she could pursue her own life without guilt. Even his refusal to sign the divorce papers now was likely motivated by vanity, a desire to maintain his perfect public image, or perhaps a fear of what Annette would think if she found out his perfect family had crumbled. It was never about loving me. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” I said coldly, stepping out into the night and slamming the heavy oak door behind me. I walked forward, eager to step into my new life.

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