At two in the morning, the living room downstairs erupted again with my husband’s booming laughter as he played online games with his friends. I suffer from severe nervous exhaustion, and waking up abruptly like this always leaves me with a splitting headache. Clutching my temples, I threw a cardigan over my shoulders and walked downstairs to ask him to keep it down. Gary just waved me off impatiently, calling me dramatic before turning right back to his microphone to shout at his teammates. But the very next morning, Lindsay—his college junior who was temporarily crashing at our house—slept in late after pulling an all-nighter. Gary didn’t just shut off every gaming console; he practically tiptoed around the house. When Martha, our housekeeper, accidentally dropped a glass, his face immediately darkened. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “She’s a light sleeper. If you wake her up, are you going to deal with it?” He even turned to me as I was about to head out for work, warning me coldly: “Close the door gently. Don’t startle her.” In that moment, standing in the entryway, watching his tiptoeing silhouette, I suddenly let out a quiet, bitter laugh. We’d been married for three years, and not once had he ever remembered my sleepless nights. He wasn’t naturally careless or oblivious. His tenderness was real; it just never belonged to me. I set my keys down, deciding to leave this house—and this life—completely behind. 1 I turned around and went back upstairs to the bedroom. I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet, the harsh rasp of the zipper cutting through the quiet house. From the living room, Gary immediately hissed, “I told you to be quiet! Are you doing this on purpose?” I didn’t bother replying. The closet was filled with clothes I’d bought around our wedding three years ago. Most were worn and dated, but still functional. I folded them one by one. Reaching the very bottom drawer, my fingers brushed against a soft, crushed cardboard box. Inside was a dusty-blue cashmere scarf—Gary’s birthday gift to me last year. Lindsay had been there that day. After opening her own presents, she had tossed this scarf onto the sofa, complaining that the color looked too old-fashioned. Gary had casually slid it over to me, saying, “You have pale skin, Faith. It’ll look good on you.” And back then, I actually believed him. Looking back, I realized he hadn’t even erred on the side of making his lies convincing. I dropped the scarf onto the floor and kept digging through the drawers. My ID, bank cards, insurance documents, medical records, and the antique gold pocket watch my mother had left me. Its casing was worn smooth and bright from the decades she had carried it. Our wedding photo sat on the nightstand. I stared at it for two seconds, then left it where it was. Once my suitcase was packed, I dragged it down the stairs. The wheels rattled loudly against the hardwood steps in the silent house. Gary finally stood up from the sofa. He pulled off his headphones, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “What are you doing clattering around this early?” he muttered, his voice hushed but sharp. “Lindsay is still asleep.” Last night, when my head throbbed so intensely I could barely stand without holding onto the wall, he had told me I was overreacting. Now, for Lindsay’s sake, he was practically holding his breath. “I’m leaving,” I said quietly. “That way, I won’t disturb her.” He blinked, startled, before his lips curled into a mocking smirk. “And where exactly do you think you’re going? Stop threatening to walk out every time you don’t get your way.” He sank back into the sofa, sighing heavily. “How many times are we going to play this game, Faith? Aren’t you tired of it?” “Gary?” The guest room door creaked open. Lindsay stepped out, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing the silk robe my late mother had bought for me. Her hair was slightly messy, her eyes red, the picture of an innocent, startled child. “Faith, did I do something wrong by staying here?” Her voice trembled, sounding as though she was on the verge of tears. “I can leave. I’ll pack my things and find a place today.” Yet, even as the words left her mouth, she swayed, clutching the banister before leaning heavily to the side. Gary bolted up the stairs to catch her. When he looked back down at me, his eyes were filled with the kind of disgust you’d reserve for an abusive partner. I stared at the robe Lindsay was wearing. It was a delicate ivory silk, bought by my mother a month before she passed. She had dragged herself to the boutique, insisting that a woman should always have one beautiful piece that made her feel valued—that I shouldn’t always settle. Pinned to the collar was a small silver butterfly brooch, the very one I had searched for in vain last night. “That robe belongs to me,” I said, my voice flat and empty. Lindsay’s face went pale. She immediately reached for the buttons, but before her fingers could undo the first one, Gary caught her hand. Pulling her behind him, he glared down at me. “It’s just a robe, Faith. Do you really have to humiliate her over a piece of fabric?” “Just a robe.” I met his gaze. “If someone else were wearing your late mother’s belongings, would you still say it’s just a piece of fabric?” Gary’s expression froze. He opened his mouth, but no apology came. Instead, he looked away, muttering, “Go back to your room, Lindsay. I’ll handle this.” “Handle what?” I asked him. “Are you going to handle me, or the robe?” “Faith!” he barked, his voice hushed but sharp. “That’s enough.” I didn’t argue. As I dragged my suitcase to the front door, Gary suddenly reached past me and pressed his hand against the brass handle, blocking my way. “My mother’s birthday dinner is tonight,” he said, staring at my luggage. His tone wasn’t a plea; it was a directive. “Don’t embarrass our family.” I laughed quietly. “Do you actually need a wife, Gary, or do you just want an accessory for your family photos?” He went quiet for a beat before letting go of the door. “Stop being dramatic,” he muttered coldly. “I’ll pick you up tonight.” Behind him, Lindsay’s timid voice floated down: “Gary… maybe I should go with you instead. It really seems like Faith doesn’t want to deal with this anymore.” I didn’t turn around. I pulled the door shut behind me. 2 I checked into a boutique hotel near my office. I had just stepped out of the shower, my hair still dripping wet, when my phone rang. It was Gary’s mother, Donna. “Faith, what on earth is wrong with you?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the speaker. “Gary tells me you’re playing your moving-out games again. He’s under so much pressure at work, and he has to come home to this? Can’t you be a little more mature?” The towel froze in my hands. “So what if he’s helping out his college junior? Men work hard to build a career, and they deserve a peaceful home. Stop being so petty about every little thing.” Before I could answer, Donna shifted to her social voice. “Be early for the dinner tonight. Don’t make us wait. I had my personal shopper pick out a dress for you; come try it on.” After the line went dead, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floor. On our wedding day three years ago, Donna had taken my hands and told me that Gary was emotionally distant, and that he needed someone gentle like me to warm him up. She said she would treat me like her own daughter. I guess this was what daughters were for. I still went to the birthday dinner. Not for Gary, but for his father, Charles. When my mother was in the oncology ward, Charles had pulled strings to get her into a specialized clinical trial. I owed him that debt of gratitude. When I walked into the private dining room at the restaurant, I saw Lindsay already seated beside Gary. She was adjusting his tie, her fingers hovering near his collar, laughing at something he said. The extended family watched them, exchanging knowing glances. I caught the low murmur of an aunt nearby: “Honestly, Lindsay looks like a much better fit for Gary. Faith has always been so cold, hasn’t she?” The glass of water in my hand trembled slightly. Donna spoke up, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of a command. “Faith, Lindsay is struggling to find her footing since returning from her study abroad. Your firm has an opening in marketing, right? Put her there. You’re family now; you should look out for her.” “Our hiring process is strict,” I replied. “I can’t just bypass HR.” Lindsay’s eyes immediately downcast, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. “Are you still angry with me, Faith? I don’t mind starting from the bottom. I’m not afraid of hard work.” Gary placed his fork down, the silver clinking sharply against the porcelain plate. “Faith, don’t bring your domestic grievances to a family dinner.” “Everyone is watching,” Donna added, offering a polished smile to the table. “Just give her a chance.” I was pinned under their collective gaze, cast once again as the petty, jealous wife. Suddenly, Charles set his glass down. He looked at Lindsay, his tone casual but discerning. “Lindsay, didn’t you mention last week that you had a recommendation from Oxford’s prestigious research group? If you’re that qualified, why are you looking to start at the bottom at Faith’s firm?” Lindsay’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly recovered, though, offering a sweet, deferential nod. “Mr. Caldwell, I just want to learn the practical side of things. Working under Faith would teach me so much more than any academic program.” Gary jumped in to smooth things over. “She’s young. She’s still finding her footing.” Watching Gary defend her so smoothly, so instinctively, felt like a slow, dull blade carving into my chest. Before the dinner ended, Donna pulled me into the ladies’ lounge. She reached into her Chanel bag and slid a folded document across the vanity toward me. “This is your health assessment from the family clinic,” she said, her voice dry and matter-of-fact. “You and Gary have been married for three years. It’s time for a child. You can’t keep using your insomnia as an excuse to avoid it.” I stared at the medical report. My doctor had explicitly warned me that with my level of nervous exhaustion and the heavy dosage of sleep aids I was taking, my body was in no condition to carry a pregnancy. But Gary had never accompanied me to a single follow-up. He didn’t even know what prescriptions sat in our medicine cabinet. I crumpled the paper in my fist and remained silent. Donna let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Stop acting out, Faith. Go home and set up that position for Lindsay. A woman’s most important asset is her dignity. You surely don’t think you can survive without the Caldwell name, do you?” When I walked out of the lounge, I saw Lindsay trip near the end of the corridor, collapsing onto the carpet. She clutched her ankle, tears already pooling in her eyes. Gary bypassed me entirely to get to her. His elbow slammed hard into my lower back as he rushed past, throwing me against the sharp edge of a console table. Pain flared up my spine, blacking out my vision for a second, leaving me breathless. He scooped Lindsay up into his arms, heading straight for the exit without a single backward glance. I leaned against the wall, trying to steady myself through the blinding ache in my back. From down the hall, Lindsay’s muffled sob echoed: “Gary, does Faith hate me? I only wanted to apologize to her…” 3 I didn’t go back to the house for two days. Gary didn’t call. He only sent a single text: “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home and get Lindsay’s onboarding paperwork ready.” I stared at the screen for a long time before letting out a soft, hollow laugh. To him, my packing up, my injury, and the agonizing nights I spent staring at the ceiling were completely insignificant compared to Lindsay’s onboarding file. At our next quarterly project meeting, Lindsay showed up unannounced. She slid into the seat directly opposite me, offering a sweet, eager smile. “Gary suggested I shadow you today to learn the ropes. You don’t mind, do you, Faith?” I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, ignoring her. The presentation started smoothly enough. But as I flipped to the key financial projection slide to explain our risk model, Lindsay spoke up, cutting me off. “Faith,” she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence, “isn’t that model incredibly risky? Gary mentioned last night that your mental state hasn’t been stable lately. Are you sure these numbers are safe?” The entire conference room fell into a dead silence. Every eye pivoted to me. She wasn’t just being naive. She was deliberately linking my professional competence to my personal struggles, attempting to tear down my credibility in front of my peers. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to finish the pitch. The project had been on the verge of approval, but by that afternoon, the board sent it back for “re-evaluation.” My assistant, Becca, closed my office door and lowered her voice. “Someone leaked anonymous files to the board. They claim your heavy medication makes you mentally unstable.” My fingers froze over my keyboard. “There’s also this,” she added, placing a manila folder on my desk. I opened it. Inside were clear, high-resolution photographs of my medical records. The prescriptions for my sleeping pills and the doctor’s recommendation to “reduce high-stress activities” stood out in sharp focus. The angle of the photos was unmistakable. They had been taken from directly above the drawer in our home study. Staring at those pages, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I packed my things and took an Uber back to the house. The lock on the study door showed clear signs of tampering—two fresh, jagged gouges in the wood from a screwdriver. I pushed the door open to find my desk drawers completely disarrayed. The velvet box holding my mother’s pocket watch was missing. Laughter drifted up from the living room. Downstairs, Lindsay was curled on the velvet sofa, looping the gold chain of my mother’s pocket watch around her neck. The watch face caught the light, clicking open and shut between her manicured fingers. “Faith! Look at this, it’s so vintage,” she smiled, looking up at me. “Gary said you never wear it anyway, so I thought I’d borrow it. You don’t mind, right?” I walked toward her, my pace quickening. She gasped and suddenly let go. The heavy gold watch slammed onto the marble floor. The casing popped open, the glass face shattering into a web of fine cracks. Underneath, the black-and-white portrait of my mother as a young woman fractured into pieces. Gary rushed down the stairs. His eyes went straight to Lindsay first. Seeing her welling eyes, his tone dropped into immediate accusation. “Faith, what the hell are you doing now?” I knelt down, trying to pick up the broken pieces. A shard of glass sliced into my index finger, and a drop of dark blood fell onto my mother’s picture, seeping into the cracks. Gary frowned. It wasn’t out of concern for me. “You’re getting blood on the rug,” he said. He reached down, grabbing my arm to pull me up. “It’s just an old watch. I’ll buy you a new one.” I looked up at him. “Gary,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet holding every ounce of weight I had left, “there are some things you can never afford to replace.” Something in my eyes seemed to pierce through him, but only for a second. He looked away, guiding Lindsay toward the kitchen to find an ice pack for her wrist. He left me kneeling on the floor alone. The blood dripped steadily from my finger, staining the dusty-blue cashmere scarf that still lay discarded on the floor. I pulled out my phone, desperately wanting to talk to someone. I scrolled through my contacts twice, found no one, and locked the screen again. Later that night, Gary’s name flashed on my screen. I picked up, only to hear his exhausted voice. “Lindsay is hysterical because of what happened. You need to come home and apologize to her.” There was a brief pause on his end. Then, I heard Lindsay’s soft, fragile voice in the background: “Gary… do you think Faith is never coming back because of me?” 4 The hospital waiting room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. My physician, Dr. Choi, a woman in her mid-forties, stared at my test results with a deepening frown. She set the folder down and remained quiet for a long moment before speaking. “Your nervous exhaustion has progressed to the point where it’s severely affecting your heart rate and sleep patterns,” she said, tapping her pen on my charts. “The palpitations, the migraines, the memory lapses—these are serious somatic responses to prolonged trauma. I strongly recommend checking yourself in for observation.” I held the papers tight. My first reaction wasn’t fear; it was a profound sense of absurdity. I had endured three years of this, pushing through until my physical body began to fail. And in that house, all they ever called me was dramatic. I didn’t check in. I couldn’t. The situation at my firm was spiraling. The proprietary project models that Lindsay had shadowed were leaked to our main competitor. Every trace of the upload pointed to my IP address, with timestamps linking directly to my user account. The competitor used our data to undercut us, stealing our two largest clients. When Gary arrived at the office, he bypassed security and barged into the boardroom without knocking. The entire executive team was present. Standing at the head of the table, he looked at me in front of all my colleagues and said, “Faith, given your current emotional instability, we are placing you on administrative leave immediately.” There was no “is there an explanation?” No “I trust you.” Only those clinical, damning words: “your emotional instability.” I stood in the center of the room, my colleagues’ eyes scanning me like searchlights, as if seeing me for the very first time. I didn’t say a single word. I unclipped my ID badge, set it on the mahogany table, and walked out. But the truth came out sooner than expected. Our IT department retrieved the external access logs and discovered that the IP address used to upload the proprietary data was located inside our home. I thought that maybe, just once, Gary would suspect her. Instead, his expression remained closed off. “There are multiple devices on that network. We can’t convict someone just based on an IP address.” Lindsay stood right behind him, her eyes red, looking like a wronged martyr. “I only borrowed Faith’s laptop that evening to look up some research articles. I don’t know anything about corporate databases.” Gary turned to me instantly. “You knew she was unfamiliar with the company systems, and yet you’re trying to shift the blame to her?” Without waiting for my reply, he took her arm and guided her away. On the day my suspension became official, Donna came to see me. She asked to meet at the cafe downstairs. She didn’t order anything; she simply slid a bank check across the table. “A public scandal isn’t good for anyone. Gary is at a critical juncture in his career. You need to be understanding.” She pushed the check closer to my hand. “A woman’s priority should be her reputation, Faith. Don’t make things so difficult that you end up losing your place in the Caldwell family.” I stared at the check. On my wedding day, she had held me close, promising I was her daughter now. It turned out that daughters had a very specific price tag. That evening, I returned to the house to pack my final suitcase. When I opened our bedroom door, I found the sheets had been replaced, the diffusers swapped out, and the vanity cleared. Lindsay’s belongings had been moved in from the guest room. Her bags were laid out, her designer coats hung in our master closet, pressing against the few things I had left. Gary stood by the doorframe, offering an indifferent explanation. “She’s been terrified since the incident. It’s easier to look after her if she’s close.” I stared at the bed I had slept in for three years. A sliver of lace from Lindsay’s nightgown peeked out from under the duvet. Her hand cream sat on the nightstand. When I remained silent, his annoyance flared up. “If you had just come home earlier instead of playing games, no one would have touched your things.” I turned around and headed down the stairs. Suddenly, my chest tightened. My heart skipped a beat, then began to race frantically. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, and my ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, drowning out all sound. My foot slipped, and I fell down the hardwood steps. My back collided heavily with the stairs, a dull numbness spreading through my limbs. Before I lost consciousness, I heard Gary shouting my name. His voice sounded frantic, terrified. But then, Lindsay’s fragile voice cut through like a needle: “Gary… my chest feels so tight, I can’t breathe—” The frantic footsteps turned and moved away from me. Lying on the cold marble of the foyer, the distant, wailing siren of an ambulance was the last thing I heard. The final trace of warmth inside my chest turned to ice.
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