While I was unboxing the packages I had ordered during Black Friday, I stumbled across something unexpected—Conrad had bought a luxury gift for his college sweetheart. The boxes in front of me were filled with discounted household goods: cleaning supplies, toiletries, and other mundane necessities. It hit me like a ton of bricks—my husband wasn’t clueless about romance, nor was he strapped for cash. He had the ability to pick out an expensive designer handbag worth half a month’s living expenses for me and our child. The handbag, nestled in a box of red roses, exuded a regal charm, while my thrifted canvas tote lay dirty and forgotten on the floor, a glaring contrast between royalty and rags. As I stared at the scene, lost in thought, Conrad walked in. His gaze landed on the mountain of delivery boxes, and his face darkened. With one swift kick, he sent them tumbling to the floor. “All you know is how to spend money! Is there anything else you’re good at?” he snarled. I stumbled back and fell awkwardly to the ground, staring up at the man who stood over me, yelling and pointing at my face. My vision blurred. Was this my life? Was I only ever meant to be the woman clutching a thrift store tote? Content
“Let’s get a divorce.” I struggled to push myself off the floor. Though Conrad’s kick hadn’t landed directly on me, the impact left me with a twinge in my lower back—a lingering pain from years of standing by him through thick and thin. Conrad looked down at me coldly, his eyes brimming with disdain. When he heard the word “divorce,” his lips curled into a mocking sneer. “You want a divorce over some kicked boxes?” I steadied myself, brushed off my clothes, and nodded firmly. “Yes. I want a divorce.” Perhaps it was my unprecedented determination, but the smirk disappeared from Conrad’s face. His tone softened, almost conciliatory. “Don’t be dramatic. We’ve been married five years, we have a five-year-old son. You want a divorce over something so trivial? What will people say?” It was precisely those five years of marriage that made me realize how much I’d endured. Time and again, I had swallowed my grievances for the sake of our family. My mom and Mrs. Mildred Whittaker often advised me to be patient, to understand how hard Conrad worked to provide for us. I treated their advice as gospel. Today, I realized it had only led to my unhappiness. “So what if people talk?” I shot back. “What they say doesn’t matter. But, Conrad, do you even see what’s in these boxes? Is there a single thing you bought for me?” Hearing that, Conrad glanced at the scattered packages. Men’s underwear, orthopedic supports, a foot spa for his mom—everything I bought had been for the family. Not a single item for myself, not even socks. He looked slightly embarrassed and reached out to steady me, but I brushed him off. After a few attempts to pacify me, his patience wore thin. “Fine. I was wrong to yell at you, but I’ve got reasons. Work has been a nightmare. I’ve got my boss breathing down my neck, endless overtime. Can’t you cut me some slack?” “If everyone divorced over small things like this, my parents would’ve split up a hundred times by now!” I remained unmoved. “Your parents are your parents. We’re not them. Yes, work is tough, but is being home, taking care of Landon, your mother, and this household any easier for me?” My voice wavered, and I fought back tears. But Conrad didn’t care. His face grew impatient, even annoyed. “You have no idea how hard it is to make money. I’d like to see how you’ll survive after a divorce.” With that, he stormed into the bedroom and emerged with a box filled with receipts and bills—water bills, HOA fees, school tuition, mortgage payments. “Look at this,” he declared, dumping the contents onto the floor like falling snow. “This is everything I’ve paid for. Do you see how much you’ve spent over the years? And now you want to leave me?” I stared at the pile of receipts with a calm that seemed to unnerve him. “Did I have our child alone? Did you not need a place to live and water to drink before we got married?” Conrad switched to his usual tactic—playing the victim. “You’re the one who wants a divorce, so we need to settle accounts. Or are you just some freeloader, using me for a free ride?” Anger surged through me. My hands trembled as I pulled the luxury handbag out from under a pile of delivery boxes and tossed it at him. “What about this? Is that in your ledger?”
The sight of the handbag drained the color from Conrad’s face. He snatched the box from me, carefully dusting it off as if the bag were a sacred relic. “Who gave you permission to touch this? Is it yours?” he barked. I let out a cold laugh. “You’ve admitted it’s not mine. You bought this ridiculously expensive handbag for someone else, not your wife. Aren’t you afraid of people laughing at you, Conrad?” His face alternated between red and white, his emotions shifting until anger finally took over. He pointed at me, yelling, “I can give it to anyone I want—anyone but you! Look at yourself. You don’t even bother to make yourself presentable. You make me sick.” Smack! My hand flew across his face. Instead of reflecting on his betrayal, he blamed me for everything. “Don’t know how to dress up? Really?” I scoffed. “It’s easy to spend money when you have it. But, Conrad, do you even give me enough to buy the scraps left over from that bag?” He rubbed his cheek where my slap had landed, anger flashing in his eyes. He lunged at me, hand outstretched to grab my hair, but the door creaked open before he could reach me. Landon stood in the doorway, frowning as his eyes darted between the mess in the room. “Dad, Mom, what’s going on here?”
When Landon walked in, Conrad immediately dropped his raised hand. He let out a derisive snort, turned on his heel, and slammed the bedroom door behind him with a loud bang. I sank to the floor, feeling utterly drained. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind spinning in fear and helplessness. Landon wandered over, glanced at the scattered delivery boxes, and muttered in an annoyed tone, “Mom, what are you throwing a fit about now?” As my heart rate began to slow, his words hit me like a hammer. I nearly lost my balance trying to stand up. Looking at him, I suddenly realized how much Landon resembled his father. “Who taught you to speak to me like that?” I asked sharply. Seeing my stern expression, Landon quickly shifted gears. He came over to steady me, guiding me to the couch and even bringing me a glass of water like a little adult. “Dad might have a bad temper,” he said as he handed me the glass, “but it’s because he’s so busy with work.” “Think about it—everything you bought with those packages came from Dad’s money, right? You two have been married forever, so why are you always fighting?” “And when you argue, everyone in the neighborhood hears. Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? The other kids will laugh at me!” I gripped the glass of water tightly, but my heart grew colder than the liquid inside. He was only five, yet he already spoke with such conviction, completely siding with his father. How much of this was his grandmother’s influence? I didn’t dare think about it too much. Placing the glass on the table, I walked straight into the bathroom without a word.
When Mrs. Mildred Whittaker returned, the kitchen was cold, the living room was a mess, and Landon was still in his jacket, playing with the dirty delivery boxes on the floor. She was furious. Storming into the bedroom, she yelled, “What are you doing in there?! No dinner, no care for your kid—is this how you plan to live?” But when she opened the door and saw Conrad lying on the bed scrolling through his phone, her demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, it’s you, son. Where’s Emily?” Mildred was always a sweet, doting mother in front of Conrad and a loving grandmother to Landon. But to me? She called me by my first name as if I were the hired help bound by some unspoken contract. Conrad shrugged. “She’s in the bathroom. I kicked over her delivery boxes, and now she’s talking about divorce.” Mildred’s face twisted with alarm. She marched toward the bathroom, ready to drag me out for a scolding. But before she could knock, Landon called out, “Grandma, I’m hungry.” At the sound of her precious grandson’s voice, Mildred’s anger vanished. She shuffled over to Landon, her wrinkled face breaking into a smile. “Grandma will make you something right away, sweetheart.” As she passed the bathroom, she couldn’t resist shouting through the door, “As if anyone cares for your cooking! You’re fighting over nothing, and it’s absolutely ridiculous. I’ve never seen such a petty wife in my life!” Inside, I paid no attention to her. My phone screen displayed pages of lawyer reviews and job listings. Half an hour later, I stepped out of the bathroom to find the family sitting around the dining table, their plates filled with unrecognizable dishes. Clearly, this was Mildred’s attempt at cooking. Her skills hadn’t improved since I married into the family. In fact, they’d gotten worse now that she assumed I’d always take care of everything. Landon, who was used to my carefully prepared meals, looked at the clumps of burnt food on his plate and scrunched up his nose in disgust. “I don’t want this! I want good food!” Mildred’s smile faltered. She picked up a forkful of food and tried to coax him. “This is good food, sweetheart. Grandma made it for you.” But Landon wouldn’t budge. He clutched his plate and moved away, his face lighting up when he saw me. He ran over and clung to my leg. “Mommy, Mommy, I’m hungry.” I smiled faintly and, for the first time, refused him. “Mommy has to go out. I won’t be cooking tonight.” “Are you serious?” Conrad shot up from his seat, glaring at me. “All this over a couple of boxes? Trying to starve everyone?” He turned to Landon, scooping him up. “Don’t bother with her. Dad’s taking you to Chick-fil-A.” I watched Landon cheer as he clung to Conrad’s neck. Mildred and Conrad both glared at me. Ignoring them, I checked my phone. A single unread message popped up: “I’m nearby. Do you need a ride?”
Marcy Caldwell brought me straight to Haven Dance Studio. After showing me around the space, she led me to the lounge downstairs, where she handed me a cup of coffee. “Emily, let’s be honest,” Marcy began. “We need a good dance instructor, and I know you’ve got the skills. But right now… your image isn’t quite there. Here’s what I can do. I’ll start you on a basic salary for two months. Once you’ve proven yourself, I’ll make sure you get top pay.” Taking a deep breath, I nodded. Five thousand dollars wasn’t much, but it was the best I could find at the moment. “One more thing,” I said hesitantly. When I returned home, the living room was eerily quiet. The boxes still lay scattered, untouched. I stepped over the mess and made myself dinner in the kitchen. That night marked a turning point. I no longer cooked for the family, no matter if they made their own meals or ordered takeout. I only prepared food for myself, Landon included. Conrad continued his routine of leaving early and returning late. Mildred, left to care for Landon, soon began to crack under the pressure. After a few days, she exploded, demanding that Conrad handle the morning school drop-offs and evening pick-ups. “Mom, how can I? If I take him to school, I’ll be late for work. And after work, where’s he supposed to wait for me?” Conrad snapped. For the first time in five years, he and Mildred clashed. I sat in the living room, deaf to their shouting match. The laundry had piled up in the bathroom, untouched. Late at night, Conrad crouched by the bathroom door, looking lost. When I walked by, he called out softly, “Emily, I don’t have any clean clothes left.” When I stopped, he launched into a pitiful tirade. “I can’t do this anymore. Three takeout meals a day—it’s disgusting. I can’t sleep without you beside me. I messed up, I know. Please, just give me another chance.” I turned to him, my voice firm and resolute. “I’ve already spoken to a lawyer and prepared the divorce papers. Just sign them.”
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