Seven years after my divorce from Julian, we met again at the school bus stop. He was dropping off his stepson for summer camp, and I was one of the teachers in charge of the event. I meticulously checked off his son’s registration details. He listened intently, like any responsible parent. It was only when I coolly addressed him as “Mr. Julian” that he seemed to flinch, a fleeting moment of lost thought. “Elara,” he said, “you’ve… changed a lot.” I focused on adjusting my microphone, offering no reply. Changed? Yes, a lot. At least, I wouldn’t waste my time waiting for him anymore. “Ms. Elara, what are you doing here? We’re just waiting for you to board!” Chloe, a girl with a high ponytail, jogged over from a distance. She was one of the students attending the summer camp, and also our class monitor. I smiled back at her. “Just finishing up with a parent. I’ll be there in a minute.” Chloe’s eyes followed my gaze, landing on Julian. A spark of admiration lit them up. “You must be Leo’s father, right? I’ve seen your pictures in financial magazines.” “They say you’re an outstanding entrepreneur in Maplewood, and you’re so good to him. We all wish we had a dad like that!” Leo was Julian’s stepson. The child he’d sworn to protect, no matter what. Julian offered a polite, strained smile, his gaze instinctively flicking to me. “He calls me Dad, so it’s only right that I’m good to him.” With the details confirmed, I neatly put the documents away. The zipper on my bag had corroded and was jammed in the fabric. I pulled out a small pair of scissors to snip it free, accidentally nicking my finger. Blood beaded and fell to the floor. Julian frowned. He grabbed my wrist, his voice tinged with a sudden worry. “Don’t move. Let me see the cut.” I glanced at him, then calmly pulled my hand away. “It’s fine. It’s not appropriate.” He paused, then said, “Wait here. I’ll go get you a band-aid.” I casually shook the blood off my finger, rejecting him flatly. “Seriously, it’s fine. I need to go.” As I turned, a single leaf spun down, landing at Julian’s feet. The bus to summer camp closed its doors with a heavy thud right in front of him. I settled into the passenger seat and took out a wet wipe, scrubbing at the spot on my wrist he’d touched. The driver, a nosy old-timer, chuckled. “That man in the suit, he looks like a big shot. Any woman who marries him would be set for life.” I smiled, completely agreeing. It had been seven years since my divorce from Julian. Seeing him again, I had managed to feel nothing. I’d resigned myself to us being parallel lines now. He chased his version of love, and I protected my peace. I’d almost forgotten. I once gave him everything. And he, in return, cost me child after child. He pushed me into the abyss with his own hands.
In the rearview mirror, the school bus stop receded into the distance. A memory flashed—this was also where Julian and I first met. Back then, he was desperately poor. He stood there, dirty, like a stray dog begging for scraps. In the biting wind, Julian hung his head, pleading bitterly. “My mom is sick. If you can just save her, I’ll do anything.” Everyone turned a blind eye, except for my dad, a doctor, who offered a helping hand. He arranged for Julian’s mother to be admitted, applied for the hospital’s benevolent fund, and even dipped into his own pockets, spending a fortune. Soon after, his mother’s condition improved. My dad took Julian in. “Elara, I found you a tutor.” Julian, six feet tall, clasped his hands nervously in front of him, his ears bright red. “I… I consistently rank in the top ten in my class. I’m pretty good at every subject.” He said that, but he was being modest. In truth, he wasn’t just good at academics. He was the kind of brilliant, all-around academic prodigy teachers raved about. Without the burden of his mother’s illness, he excelled even more. Soon, he was accepted into the top finance program at Maplewood University. And I, as my dad put it, rode on Julian’s coattails, barely scraping into Maplewood University as the last-place student. But no one could have predicted what would happen next. In Julian’s first year of college, his mother’s old illness relapsed, and she passed away. My dad, being a kind soul, felt awful about it. He said Julian had tutored me for so long, the debt of gratitude was already repaid. Now that his mother was gone, Julian wouldn’t have to carry that burden anymore. But Julian said, “Mr. Richard, this debt… it’s never fully repaid.” “You saved my mother’s life once, so I’ll take care of Elara for the rest of mine.” I traced the cut on my finger. It had stopped bleeding, but still throbbed. Looking back, I was so young then. He said that, and I believed him. I clung to Julian, shamelessly refusing to let go. We planned it all: we’d make enough money to buy a small place in Maplewood, then get married right after graduation. Live happily ever after, like most couples. But while Julian was good to me, his ambition burned brighter. That graduation year, he traveled hundreds of miles for a project. Those vows scattered like dust in the wind, all forgotten. He was so consumed by work, he was practically unreachable most days. On the rare occasion I did get through, before my joy could even settle, Julian said, “Elara, I’ve decided to stay here.” No apology. No mention of breaking up. Not even a single explanation. At that time, my elderly dad had retired from his job. He couldn’t stand seeing me cry every day. He advised, “You can’t force love. You have to let go when it’s time.” But four years of love—I couldn’t just give up. That very day, I packed my bags and boarded a train heading south. All the way there, I sent Julian messages. I poured out my heart, rambling on and on. “Julian, I’m coming to find you.” “So it’s fine if you stay, we won’t separate.” I sent him the train details, the arrival time. I wanted him to come. I wanted him to pick me up. But he didn’t. That day, it rained heavily in New Haven. I dragged my luggage, unable to find a single cab. I huddled there, crying for three hours as blood streamed down my legs. A sharp pain ripped through my stomach, and a terrifying realization dawned on me. It wasn’t my period. It was our unborn baby. It had come without me knowing and left just as silently. I looked up, panicked, desperate for help. That’s when I saw Julian approaching, shielded by an umbrella. A dark gray trench coat, gold-rimmed glasses—he looked impossibly polished, almost unreal. My legs were covered in blood, my clothes were bloody, my hands were bloody. I frantically grabbed Julian’s sleeve. “Our baby… I lost the baby.” His face was impassive, tinged with a flicker of annoyance. “Who told you to come?” Outside, the rain poured down. Julian’s face was like thunder. He asked, “Elara, who told you to follow me?”
The bus reached its destination, and I collected my thoughts, stepping off. There were dedicated staff to greet us at the summer camp, which made my job a lot easier. I was finally free to explore the area for a bit. My friend, Maya, came to pick me up, and immediately spotted Leo, who was holding a basketball. “That’s *her* son, isn’t it? You can tell just by looking at his eyes, he’s hers.” I nodded slightly, a silent confirmation. Maya, seeing my indifferent expression, got furious. Her anger simmered, then she started cursing Julian. “That scumbag is repulsive. How on earth did you ever agree to marry him?” It wasn’t really that complicated. After the miscarriage, I was admitted to the hospital. I was young then, fresh from losing my first baby, and terrified. Healing alone, a thousand miles from home, I hadn’t even dared to tell my parents. When I was at my most helpless, my most desperate for support, Julian proposed. I desperately clung to the idea, almost brainwashing myself that he wasn’t intentional. I just married him. After we got married, Julian was always busy, drowning in endless drinks and social engagements. Night after night, I’d wait, huddled over cold food, utterly drained. The constant emotional drain was agonizing. A sudden, unexpected pregnancy made my emotions incredibly volatile. I was at my breaking point. But that’s when Julian cheated. That woman was Seraphina. Not a business partner, not a socialite. Just a woman with a child, a widow. Their first meeting was anything but proper—in a private room at a club. Julian fell in love with her at first sight. It was just because she, with her 8-year-old son, had pleaded for his help, and it triggered something in him, reminding him of his own helpless past. He acted like he was possessed, bringing the child home. He lied to me, saying: “A friend’s son is sick and needs a quiet place to recover for a while.” I believed him, and I was even happy. Because of this child, he started coming home more frequently. Sometimes Seraphina would be with him. He introduced her to me: “This is Leo’s mother. Her husband was abusive, and she’d barely managed to escape with her child. Pitiful, really.” It left a bitter taste in my mouth, so I became even kinder to Leo. When he had a fever in the middle of the night, I stayed by his bedside, neglecting myself completely. If he wanted to eat something, I’d drag my heavy body out late at night to get it. But my kindness was met with cruelty. When I was seven months pregnant, Leo, upset with a meal he didn’t like, picked up a chair and smashed it into my stomach. Blood gushed out, a crimson stain spreading across the pale tiles. I frantically called Julian, but it was Seraphina’s voice I heard. She said, “Your man is sleeping with me. He’s in the shower right now.” I froze there, my heart went numb. All strength drained from my body. Leo, seeing the havoc he’d wreaked, opened the door and bolted. A passing neighbor discovered me and rushed me to the hospital. Predictably, the baby was gone. Smashed away by Seraphina’s son. And what was Julian doing then? He was sleeping with Seraphina. I’d been to hell and back. When I woke up, I was a madwoman. I smashed everything in the hospital room that I could get my hands on. I ripped out my IV, shredded my medical charts, and overturned the medicine cart. My eyes were bruised, my hair a wild mess as I frantically searched for Leo. I screamed hysterically, demanding he pay for my baby’s life. Doctors and nurses were at a loss; other patients scattered in fear. Julian appeared before me again. He grabbed my wrist, mercilessly pinning me down with all his strength. He asked, “Elara, are you done making a scene?”
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