Emmanuel was an expert in giving me the silent treatment. Whenever he got even a little upset, he’d slam the door and disappear for ten days, sometimes two weeks. I had grown used to adjusting my emotions, smiling through the pain while taking care of Oliver. Until one day, I was helping him with his homework when I saw his wish. “Wish Mom would disappear. “The way she freaks out at Dad is terrifying.” That was the moment I woke up. Sunday nights were always the hardest. Oliver was dragging his feet, crying as he tried to finish the homework due the next day, while Emmanuel, drowning me out with his headphones, was fully immersed in his game. Nobody cared about me. Oliver cried harder after I scolded him, glaring at me with frustration, while Emmanuel pretended not to notice us, clearly annoyed. I stood at the dining table, gathering up the leftover scraps, silently convincing myself that everything was my fault. But inside, my heart ached. It was late. Emmanuel had retreated to his study to sleep, Oliver had cried himself to sleep with tear stains still on his face, and I stood in the bathroom, staring at my weary reflection. This marked the third month of Emmanuel’s silent treatment. Three long months. Long enough for me to forget why our cold war had even started. Living under the same roof, he hadn’t spoken a word to me, and I had stubbornly refused to back down. He was the one in the wrong. I wasn’t going to apologize. But I couldn’t sleep. I walked to Oliver’s room to tidy up his backpack. That’s when I saw it. In his notebook—his brand-new diary that I had bought him—his wish was written in small, childish handwriting. “I wish Mom would disappear.”
I rubbed my eyes, thinking I had made a mistake. I picked up the diary and walked into the living room. I read the words again. “I wish Mom would disappear. “She’s so scary when she freaks out at Dad. She made him leave.” I collapsed onto the couch, numb from the pain. For the first time, I understood what it felt like to be so hurt that you’re beyond feeling. The light in Emmanuel’s study clicked off as he strolled out, his face cheerful—until he saw me. Immediately, he reverted to his cold, distant self. Without saying a word, he grabbed the car keys off the coffee table. As he passed by me, I smelled the familiar scent of sandalwood. That was the cologne I had picked out for him back when we were dating in college. Back then, he was just a nerdy guy with black-framed glasses, a white T-shirt, and shorts—someone who had no idea how to dress. I’d gradually updated his style, choosing my favorite cologne for him. “Wear cologne when you’re meeting girls—it’ll make them like you more,” I’d teased him. He’d said he cherished anything I chose for him. And he’d worn it ever since. The familiar scent unlocked a flood of memories, and suddenly, all the beautiful moments from our past came rushing back. I thought about our ridiculous standoff, about our son, whom I loved more than anything. The pain my son had caused me was overwhelming, and I desperately needed something to hold onto. Once again, I caved in and swallowed my pride with Emmanuel. I couldn’t stop myself from standing up and grabbing his arm. “Emmanuel, let’s talk.” I cried silently behind him. He shook my hand off. That’s when I noticed the call still active on his phone. It was late. Who was he talking to? And why had he put on cologne before going to meet them? “Emmanuel, are you on your way? I’m waiting downstairs. I’ve been craving BBQ for ages!” A girl’s playful voice came through the phone. That soft, sweet voice reminded me why we were fighting in the first place. I spun around to leave, but Emmanuel grabbed me back. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Beg me, and I’ll stay with you and Oliver.” Emmanuel always loved seeing me bend, watching me beg for his forgiveness—especially now, with another woman vying for his attention. It felt like he was offering his presence as some sort of royal gift.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Beg you? Was I the only one responsible for having this child? Isn’t he your son too? “Is raising him my responsibility alone? Don’t you share it? “Do you even know how messed up Oliver’s mind is right now?” Emmanuel’s expression shifted. He pursed his lips, looking at me like I was some kind of crazy woman. Then he grabbed his coat and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Oliver’s diary—his wish for me to disappear—was still lying on the couch. Emmanuel hadn’t even bothered to turn off the light in the study as he left. This was his pattern. Whenever a problem needed to be addressed, he’d either throw a single careless comment to light my fuse, enjoying the sight of me going crazy, or he’d storm out without a second thought. The slamming door woke Oliver. He padded barefoot out of his room, staring at the direction his father had left. He walked over to me and picked up the diary I had thrown on the couch. Unbothered by the fact that I had seen its contents, he frowned and chastised me. “Mom, why’d you make Dad mad again?” I didn’t respond. I heard the engine start up downstairs. The car revved a few times, then drove off into the night. Guess I’ll be biking Oliver to school again tomorrow. I looked at the diary still clutched in Oliver’s hand. And at his eyes, which looked so much like his father’s. For the first time, I realized just how deeply I was trapped.
I dragged myself to bed. As soon as I closed my eyes, the words “Mom disappear” flashed across my mind. To be honest, I had never truly lost control in front of Oliver. In fact, I had done everything possible to avoid conflict, going as far as humiliating myself to keep Emmanuel happy. I’d begged him to come home, begged him to hold his own son. But I couldn’t sleep. The phone on my nightstand lit up. It was a message from Serena Cortez, my neighbor. “I heard Emmanuel storm out again. Did you guys fight? Are you okay?” I had met Serena through selling DIY projects on Craigslist. At the time, Emmanuel had cut off my allowance to force me to apologize during one of his silent treatments. Desperate for money, I had taken up whatever odd jobs I could find. That’s how we discovered we were neighbors. She had even bought some of my crafts, supporting my little side business and checking in on me. I heard Oliver’s door close behind me, so I replied: “Thanks, Serena. I’m okay.” The next morning, I woke up feeling drained, my eyes puffy and swollen. Emmanuel came home, the scent of sandalwood now mixed with alcohol. He glanced at me, his eyes barely resting on my face before turning away. This time, he wasn’t silent. He frowned, heading to the bathroom, muttering under his breath. “Don’t know who you’re trying to scare, looking like that.” I knew he was waiting for me to react, to lose it and scream so he could leave again. But I was too tired. I stayed quiet. He looked at me, surprised. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he walked into Oliver’s room with a cheerful tone. “Come on, buddy. Daddy’s taking you to school today.” Two completely different attitudes, like two different people. They left the house hand in hand, laughing and talking. No one spared me a second glance. Like two knives piercing straight into my heart.
I was throwing out the trash when I ran into Serena. She didn’t give me a choice and pulled me into her apartment. With a tender touch, she rolled an egg over my swollen eyes, her gaze soft and filled with concern. “Does it hurt?” Her care reminded me of Emmanuel when we had first gotten married. Back then, we had nothing. In a place as expensive as Savannah, Georgia, we could only afford to live in a run-down basement apartment. We shared a tiny bed, and the bathroom and kitchen were communal. The distance from the kitchen to our room felt like miles. One day, I bumped into someone while rushing back with a hot dish. I instinctively turned the tray toward myself, burning a large patch of skin on my hand. When Emmanuel got home from work, I had put on gloves to hide the burn, not wanting him to worry. But he noticed right away, and I quickly tried to laugh it off, saying it didn’t hurt. Emmanuel fussed over me, tears falling from his eyes as he applied ointment. He cried so much, like the tears would never stop. I remember laughing at him. “How can such a big guy cry so much?” He wiped his tears and said, “Vivian, I swear I’ll give you the best life anyone’s ever had!” That night, he held me and made promises until the early hours. “Vivian, I’ll never let you get hurt again.” Even now, I believe he truly loved me back then. But when did he change? Now, we’re like two ticking time bombs, tied together, ready to explode at any moment. But Emmanuel is a dud. He never makes a sound. He’s just this creeping smoke, filling every corner of the air. Suffocating me. Making me scream until I’m hoarse. When I got home, they were already gone. The kitchen was cold, and Oliver’s wet clothes were left on the bathroom floor. Dirty footprints marked the living room carpet. I sat on the couch and opened my laptop. I started drafting the divorce papers. My education was just as good as Emmanuel’s. Before I became a stay-at-home mom, I graduated from a top university, passed the bar certification, and worked as a licensed attorney for two years. I had once earned over $7,000 a month, representing clients in court and shining in my career. But then, I got pregnant. Emmanuel convinced me to quit my job to take care of Oliver. At first, he said: “Once you’ve recovered and Oliver gets a little older, we’ll hire a full-time nanny. You can go back to work then.” Later, he changed his tune: “Oliver’s so used to you now, and my career’s taking off. If you go back to work, we’ll have to hire a nanny. Her salary will be more than you’d make—it wouldn’t be worth it for us. “Let’s wait until Oliver is older.” Oliver clung to me, babbling “Mommy” in his baby voice. I caved. I should’ve held my ground. Looking back, I realize that’s when Emmanuel’s silent treatment started, little by little.
By the time I finished drafting the divorce papers, it was late afternoon. Emmanuel still hadn’t brought Oliver home. I instinctively started worrying about Oliver’s homework, but I snapped myself out of it with a harsh slap to my own face. “As a mom, you’ve got to be tough. Like his dad.” Then, I got a call from Emmanuel. Except it wasn’t him on the line—it was that girl from the other night. “Vivian, hey, it’s Lena. Emmanuel’s had too much to drink, and he can’t get home on his own. Can you come pick him up?” “You take him,” I said, “Aren’t you two close?” I glanced at the divorce papers on the table and changed my mind. “Actually, never mind. I’ll come.” Hanging up, I rushed to The Rustic Oak as fast as I could. The private lounge was filled with a mix of men and women I didn’t recognize, except for Lena, the girl who had called me. The rest were strangers. But they all stared at me, their eyes full of judgment. It was like they were blaming me for not being a proper housewife. Emmanuel sat at the head of the table, his face flushed red, still raising an empty glass as if to drink. Oliver sat right next to him. Oliver’s backpack had been carelessly tossed on the ground. A scantily dressed woman held him in her lap, chatting with him like it was no big deal. So this is how he took care of our son. No wonder a few outings with him could undo all my years of effort. I hadn’t even stepped into the room when Oliver shrieked. “Dad, I’m not going home with Mom! She’ll make me do homework!” He ran around the room as if he’d seen a ghost. Emmanuel finally pretended to wake up. “Don’t worry, buddy. Dad’s here.” Then the others chimed in, trying to “reason” with me. “Vivian, don’t be mad at Emmanuel. He’s been hiding out at my place for two months because of you.” “Same here. He’s been at my place for nearly a month. My wife’s starting to get fed up.” Even the girl sitting next to him spoke up. “Vivian, he talks about you and Oliver all the time. He really cares about you guys.” It dawned on me that this call wasn’t about me picking up Emmanuel. They wanted me to break down, cry, and beg him to come home. I laughed bitterly. “He’s full of excuses. What, he can’t walk home on his own? His legs don’t work anymore? “I’ve been raising our son by myself—does that not count as suffering? But one argument, and he walks out the door like he’s the one in pain. “If being ‘free’ is so hard, why don’t we switch places? Emmanuel, stop pretending you’re drunk. “What you’ve done—you want me to talk about it privately, or should we air it out here?” The girl clinging to his side turned pale instantly. “It’s all a misunderstanding.” A misunderstanding? You almost crossed the line in a drunken fling, and when I confronted you, you couldn’t even answer me. So you started this cold war. Emmanuel’s face hardened. He didn’t say another word. His expression darkened as he looked at Oliver. Oliver, defeated, trudged toward me, still glancing back at his dad, hoping Emmanuel would call him back. So he could continue playing, avoiding his studies. This was Emmanuel’s way of telling me to leave—to take Oliver and go—so he could keep enjoying his night. Why should I always be the one to leave? I had had enough. I stood my ground, pulling the divorce papers from my bag.
“Emmanuel, I want a divorce.” The lounge went silent. Emmanuel finally looked up at me. His eyes were surprisingly clear. Seven years of marriage, and no matter how bad things got, I had never once mentioned divorce. Emmanuel knew my personality—once I made up my mind, there was no going back. He hurried off the leather sofa and rushed over to me. “You’re serious?” For the first time in a while, he looked me in the eye and spoke to me like a normal person. He glanced down at Oliver, then let out a bitter laugh. “Vivian, if we divorce, you won’t get custody of Oliver. He’ll stay with me. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He was certain I would fight for Oliver. He wasn’t blind—he knew exactly how much I had endured for our son, how much I had sacrificed. Oliver clung to his dad, glaring at me like he was terrified I might take him away. “I don’t want you, Mom. I want Dad.” The girl from the lounge sauntered over, giving me a smug smile. “Vivian, you’re at that age, with no job and no home. You won’t win custody of him. “Just take him home. No fight between a married couple lasts forever.” I clenched my teeth, gripping the divorce papers tightly. I had known this would happen. But seeing everyone’s disdain for me, their lack of support, made me falter for a moment. But I couldn’t afford to be weak. I pinched myself hard. Reminding myself that as a woman, I had to be strong. No more tears. Tears were only magic to someone who loved you. To someone who didn’t, they were just a joke. “Emmanuel, don’t worry. “I don’t want the house. I don’t even want Oliver. Let’s divorce.”
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