Every time my husband Ethan was about to leave the house, I would casually remind him: “Remember to take the trash out.” But he always forgot. Later, I discovered he was always helping our female neighbor Sophie take out her trash. I stood at the door watching him enthusiastically help the female neighbor. I said nothing, picked up the sour-smelling garbage bag myself, and went downstairs. From that day on, I stopped reminding him of anything. Some people are just like garbage—it was time for me to throw him away. …… Ethan came home at two in the morning. I wasn’t asleep yet. I was sitting on the living room carpet, sorting through our household expense records from the past few years. When I heard the door open, I didn’t look up. A faint scent of perfume mixed with cigarette smoke and alcohol drifted over. “Honey, still up?” Ethan’s voice carried a guilty, ingratiating tone. He was holding an elegant insulated container, crouching in front of me. “I passed by ‘The Ocean Grill’ on my way back and specially waited in line to buy you some seafood. It’s still hot.” He spoke while changing his shoes, looking at me with a smug expression. I was also sitting on the sofa reading a book. Hearing this, I looked up, my gaze falling on that container of soup. The Ocean Grill’s seafood was famous—generous portions, plump shrimp and crab. But because of those generous portions, even with the lid on, that rich, briny sweetness still seeped through the gaps. My stomach churned, and I frowned almost imperceptibly. “Thanks, just leave it there.” I said flatly. Ethan seemed somewhat dissatisfied with my coldness. He walked over, placed the seafood on the table, and tried to rest his hand on my shoulder, but I avoided it by pretending to turn a page. His hand froze in mid-air, then he awkwardly withdrew it, instead undoing his cufflinks and beginning to remove his dress shirt. “Oh, I need to wear this shirt to a meeting tomorrow. It’s a bit wrinkled—can you iron it for me? Remember to hand wash it first before ironing. This fabric is delicate; it can’t go in the machine.” That matter-of-fact tone, as if I were some high-end housekeeper he’d hired. I glanced at the shirt. It was a gift I’d given him for our wedding anniversary—Italian custom-made silk blend. It was indeed delicate. Before, every piece of clothing like this, I would personally hand wash in cold water, carefully smooth out every wrinkle with a steam iron, terrified of damaging a single thread. Looking at him, I suddenly found it a bit funny. “Ethan,” I pointed at the container of seafood, “did you forget? I’m severely allergic to seafood.” Ethan’s hands froze mid-motion as he was loosening his tie. A flash of shock crossed his face, followed by embarrassment and guilt. “Huh? Really? I thought you used to love eating fish…” “That was freshwater fish.” I set down the bills. “Last time I accidentally ate seafood, I was in the ER on an IV drip for two days. You’re the one who handled the hospital admission.” That happened just last year. At the time, he was playing on his phone while complaining about how hard the hospital chairs were, saying how careless I was, making him have to take time off work to stay with me. Looking back now, he really hadn’t taken it to heart. Ethan’s face alternated between red and white, his eyes shifting. “Well… maybe I got confused. I just wanted to nourish your health. Good intentions gone wrong. I’ll buy you something else next time.” As he spoke, he tried to take the seafood away, but I had already stood up. I picked up that expensive container of seafood, walked to the kitchen, and threw it—packaging and all—straight into the trash. A dull thud. Ethan’s expression changed completely. “Emma, what’s that supposed to mean? You’re just throwing away seafood worth hundreds of dollars? I haven’t even had dinner yet!” “I don’t want allergens in the house. Bad luck.” I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, my tone as calm as if I were commenting on the nice weather. Ethan was speechless. He took a deep breath, seemingly suppressing his anger, and pointed at the shirt. “Fine, the seafood thing was my fault. But can you at least take care of the shirt first? I’m hungry—I’m going to make some pasta.” He turned and headed to the kitchen, skillfully opening cabinets to find noodles. I dried my hands, picked up the silk shirt, and walked into the laundry room. Instead of filling a basin with warm water like I usually did, I opened the washing machine door directly and tossed the balled-up shirt inside. I poured in regular detergent, selected “Heavy Duty” mode, and started it. As the drum rumbled into motion, I knew that delicate shirt was done for. When Ethan came out with his pasta, he heard the spin cycle. He froze for a moment, then rushed to the laundry room. Seeing the high-speed spinning drum, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Emma! Have you lost your mind? That shirt cost over three thousand dollars! Didn’t I tell you to hand wash it?” He frantically stopped the machine and yanked out the shirt—now wrinkled like a dried pickle, the collar already misshapen. His face contorted with heartache. I leaned against the doorframe, watching his frantic display, feeling absolutely nothing. “I used to hand wash because I loved you. Because I thought you were worth it.” I met his furious gaze, a mocking curve forming at the corner of my lips. “Now? The washing machine works fine too. It’s going to get wrinkled on your body anyway—why waste the time?” Ethan stared at me in disbelief, as if seeing me for the first time. “You weren’t like this before. Emma, what’s gotten into you lately? Just because I helped Sophie take out the trash a few times, you have to keep making a scene?” Oh, so he knew everything. He knew exactly what was bothering me, yet he chose to play dumb and even turn it around, accusing me of “making a scene.” I looked at the wet wad of ruined fabric in his hands and said softly: “Ethan, when clothes get ruined, you can buy new ones. But some things, once broken, can never be fixed.”
Ever since the seafood incident, Ethan hadn’t spoken a proper word to me in two days. But his Instagram was plenty active. He’d blocked me but forgot to block my second account. Yesterday there was a photo of him in the hallway fixing a shoe cabinet, with the caption: Neighbors should help each other out. In the corner of the photo, a pair of feet in pink bunny slippers peeked into frame. Those were Sophie’s. Scrolling down, I found Sophie’s Instagram. Same angle, showing Ethan’s back as he crouched on the ground, screwdriver in hand, a cute Band-Aid on the back of his hand. Caption: The world’s best neighbor. He hurt his hand helping me fix my cabinet. So touched~ The two of them, playing off each other like they were flirting. I casually liked the post. Then I closed my phone and tossed the last shrimp on the dining table into the trash. Ethan sat across from me, his expression sour. “Emma, when did you become so selfish? You used to always peel shrimp for me too.” I sipped my tea leisurely, saying nothing, just watching him calmly. He stopped what he was doing and tossed a half-peeled shrimp onto his plate, frowning at me. “Why aren’t you answering? You won’t even peel shrimp for me? Before, you would’ve already peeled a whole bowl for me by now.” Before? Yes, before. Ethan used to say he was clumsy, that peeling shrimp always pricked his fingers. He said his hands were precious because he was a designer—they couldn’t get hurt. So every time we had shrimp, I would peel them one by one and feed them to him. Watching him eat happily, I even felt it was a kind of happiness. Even later, when my fingers became red, swollen, and peeling from handling spicy peppers, he’d only casually say “don’t peel them next time”—and then wait for me to serve him again the next time anyway. “Ethan,” I set down my teacup, my gaze falling on his slender, pale hands, “your hands really are precious.” He thought I was complimenting him and gave a smug hum. “Of course. These hands are meant for drafting designs.” “Yes, drafting hands.” I let out a cold laugh. “The other night in the hallway, when you were fixing Sophie’s shoe cabinet—how come you didn’t mention your precious hands then?” “That… Sophie’s cabinet was broken. She’s just a girl living alone, and she couldn’t move it herself. I happened to run into her—I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, right? I was just helping out.” “Just helping out? Looks to me like you brought a fully stocked toolbox.” I scoffed. “Ethan, you used to make me climb a ladder to change the light bulbs in our house because you said you had a fear of heights. What happened—did your fear of heights get cured when it came to fixing the neighbor’s cabinet? Or do your hands only count as ‘precious’ when you’re helping other people, while at home you just wait to be served?” Ethan’s face flushed red. “Can you stop being so passive-aggressive? What’s wrong with neighbors helping each other? Look at yourself right now—where’s any trace of the sweet, caring wife you used to be?” “Sweet and caring?” I set down my cup. “Ethan, my sweetness was for my husband. Not for an asshole. And since your hands are so skilled now, don’t expect me to call a repairman when things break around here anymore. Save some money—you can fix them yourself.” With that, I got up and started cleaning the kitchen. Ethan sat there, watching my efficient movements, probably realizing for the first time that the Emma who used to smile and agree to everything he said had truly changed. Changed for the better. After all, everyone has their moment of seeing reality for what it is.
Of course, Ethan wasn’t going to reflect on himself over something this small. In his mind, I was just throwing a tantrum and would get over it in a few days. He continued doing whatever he wanted. Every morning before leaving, he would make a point of going to the passenger side to adjust the position of the neck pillow. I never understood why. Until one day, I found a lipstick wedged in the gap of the passenger seat—one that didn’t belong to me. A bold, flashy shade with a sickeningly sweet peach scent. Nothing like my usual matte red. That evening when Ethan came home, I placed the lipstick on the coffee table. “Whose is this?” Ethan glanced at it, and for a split second, panic flickered in his eyes before he quickly composed himself. “Oh, probably Sophie’s. I ran into her this morning on my way out—she was heading to work and couldn’t get a cab in time, so I gave her a ride since it was on the way.” “On the way?” I raised an eyebrow. Sophie’s office was on the east side of the city. Ethan’s was on the west. That “on the way” could probably circle the globe. “Yeah, on the way,” Ethan said impatiently. “Can you stop being so paranoid? She’s a young woman working hard out here on her own. What’s wrong with giving her a ride?” “Is that so?” I didn’t ask any more questions. I just opened my phone and pulled up Sophie’s social media. Posted ten minutes ago. The photo was taken from the passenger seat of Ethan’s car, capturing his hands on the steering wheel and the perfectly positioned neck pillow. Caption: The best chauffeur service ever—not only is he a great driver, but he even prepared a lumbar pillow for me. Love it~ No more squeezing onto the subway after work! Ethan had liked the post. That passenger seat used to be mine. Ethan once said the passenger seat was reserved for his wife—everyone else had to sit in the back. Now it seemed “everyone else” didn’t include Sophie. I casually liked the post too, then shoved the phone screen in Ethan’s face. “Personal chauffeur? Ethan, is this what you call ‘on the way’? You’re driving her to and from work—did you two start working at the same company?” Ethan’s expression shifted. He reached to grab the phone. “She’s just joking! Young people talk like that these days—can you stop making a big deal out of everything?” I dodged him, letting out a cold laugh. “Fine. Since it’s just a joke, I don’t mind making one too.” Right in front of him, I called the real estate agent. “Hi, This is Emma. Yes, the downtown apartment—I want to list it for sale. As soon as possible. Price is negotiable.” That apartment was something I bought outright before we got married. Even though Ethan had been living here since we got married, acting like the man of the house, the deed only had one name on it. Mine. Ethan completely panicked. “Emma, have you lost your mind?! This place is perfectly fine—why would you sell it? Where are we supposed to live?” I hung up the phone and looked at his frantic face, feeling immensely satisfied. “It’s my apartment. I can sell it whenever I want. As for where you’ll live…” I looked him up and down, a mocking smile curving my lips. “Since you love being someone’s personal chauffeur so much, why don’t you ask your ‘passenger’ if she’s willing to take you in?” “You’re absolutely impossible!” Ethan stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Off to find Sophie again, I assumed. I didn’t care. The air in this apartment had been polluted long ago.
Over the next few days, Ethan gave me the silent treatment. He thought this would wear me down, make me apologize first like I always used to. Too bad he miscalculated. Not only did I not back down, I actually started living better than before. Without that man-child dragging me down, the air even felt fresher. Until my birthday. As usual, I invited a few girlfriends over for dinner. We were in the middle of chatting and laughing when the doorbell rang. Ethan went to answer it. Standing outside was Sophie, wearing a silk slip nightgown. In her hands was a plate of sloppily cut fruit. “Ethan, I heard how lively it is over here. It’s so lonely being by myself—mind if I crash and grab a bite?” Her voice was soft and syrupy, her eyes locked on Ethan, completely ignoring the room full of women. The nightgown wasn’t exactly revealing, but in a room full of guests, it was wildly inappropriate and dripping with innuendo. Ethan clearly hadn’t expected her to show up, but one glance at her outfit made his Adam’s apple bob. He stepped aside to let her in. “Of course, the more the merrier.” My friends’ expressions instantly became priceless. Ethan rushed to explain: “Let me introduce everyone—this is our neighbor Sophie. She’s here to celebrate Emma’s birthday too.” Goosebumps crawled across my skin. Sophie acted like she didn’t notice the side-eyes, squeezing in right next to Ethan and pushing the fruit plate toward him. “Ethan, I cut this just for you. Try it—is it sweet?” Ethan glanced awkwardly at me. Seeing I said nothing, he picked up a piece of apple and ate it. “Mm, pretty sweet.” “Hehe, I knew you’d like it.” Sophie giggled, her body casually leaning against his. “Ugh, the AC in here is so cold. Ethan, could you grab me a blanket?” Without a second thought, Ethan got up, went to the bedroom, and came back with my favorite cashmere throw to drape over her shoulders. At that moment, I heard one of my friends mutter under her breath: “What a pair of dogs.” My hand paused mid-slice on the cake, then steadied. “Come on, let’s eat cake.” I handed the first slice to my friend, completely ignoring the little love show happening beside me. Just then, Sophie’s phone rang. She answered it, and her face went white. She started whimpering: “What?! Really? That’s so scary! Ethan, I think the power went out at my place—it’s pitch black and there are weird noises… I’m so scared!” She hung up, eyes glistening with tears as she looked at Ethan, clutching his sleeve. “Ethan, can you come check it out for me? I really can’t go back there alone…” Ethan immediately stood up, full of concern. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll go take a look. Probably just a blown fuse—no big deal.” Then he turned to me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Emma, Sophie’s got an electrical issue. I’m going to help her fix it. I’ll be right back. You guys go ahead and eat—don’t wait for me.” I looked at him, still holding the cake knife. Red frosting clung to the blade. It looked like blood. “Ethan, today is my birthday.” I reminded him calmly. “I know, I know, but I can’t just leave her in trouble, right? Neighbors should help each other out! I’ll be quick—be good, okay?” He didn’t even wait for my response. With his arm around Sophie’s shoulders, he headed for the door. Sophie nestled against him and glanced back at me. That look in her eyes was full of challenge and the smugness of a victor. Slam. The door shut. The room fell into dead silence. One of my friends slammed her fork on the table. “Emma! You’re just going to take this?! She’s a total homewrecker! And your husband is blind!” I set down the knife and wiped the frosting off my hands with a napkin. “What am I supposed to do? You can’t stop a dog from eating shit.” I walked to the door, locked it, and latched the security chain. “Let’s eat. Don’t let some nobody ruin the mood.” That night, Ethan didn’t come home. My phone was full of messages from him. Honey, the wiring here is pretty complicated. Still working on it. Sophie was really shaken up. She won’t stop crying. I need to calm her down. I probably won’t make it back tonight. Get some sleep. … I didn’t reply to a single one. I tossed my phone aside, and my friends and I drank until dawn.
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