Once again, my distant husband and son forgot my birthday. The bullet comments floating across my vision rushed to defend them, just like they always did: [This was definitely an accident.] [They already have a surprise waiting for her!] [It’s just that Thomas’s grad student was harassed tonight. As her doctoral advisor, of course he had to deal with it right away.] [Distant men are just bad with words. He hasn’t learned how to set boundaries or say no.] [She needs to give them more time. Don’t ruin it by making a scene.] I let out a soft sigh, choosing to compromise once again. I lit the single candle by myself and celebrated another year of my life alone. Eight years of marriage to Thomas, and not once had he or our son been there for my birthday. I never understood why. But tonight, just as I blew out the candle and closed my eyes for a final, desperate wish, my mother arrived, looking worn out from her long journey. Seeing me sitting alone in front of a table of cold food, her eyes welled with tears before mine even could. “Jennifer, have you really been happy all these years?” I froze. I stared at the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. And in that moment, I realized: genuine care leaves a mark. It isn’t invisible. … A sharp, stinging ache hit the bridge of my nose. During the first two years of our marriage, Thomas was always too busy, always tied up with some urgent project. The comments always excused him. “It’s good that he’s driven,” they wrote. “He just doesn’t care for empty rituals. He’s just quiet.” So I swallowed it. Then I got pregnant with our son, Justin. The comments assured me that a baby would melt Thomas’s frozen exterior, that he would finally shift his focus to our family. And I believed them. But after Justin was born, nothing changed. Even Justin, whom I nearly died giving birth to, slowly grew to replicate his father’s chill. He followed in Thomas’s footsteps, ignoring my birthdays and shutting me out, becoming what the comments affectionately called “the little iceberg.” I couldn’t comprehend it. I spiraled into self-doubt, and more than once, I thought about walking away. But the comments kept insisting they loved me. “They just have emotional blocks,” they wrote. “Have some patience. Give it time.” [Thomas cares about you. Look, even though he’s busy, he always tries to make it up to you later.] [Aside from his communication issues, he really is a good man.] [Little Justin is just naturally quiet. What son doesn’t love his own mother?] Over the years, there were only fleeting moments—fractions of a second—where I actually felt cared for. Most of the time, I was just picking through broken glass, searching for a stray grain of sugar. I had grown used to the taste of blood. I had learned to accept it. But now, my mother’s question echoed relentlessly in my mind. Was I really happy? I looked down at the dinner. It had gone cold during the hours of waiting. It wasn’t inedible, but it had lost all flavor. If I ate it, my heart would only grow as cold as the plate. That was how the days went. “They say a mother always knows,” my mom whispered, her voice cracking. “Every year on your birthday, my chest gets so tight I can barely breathe. But every time I called to ask, you told me everything was fine.” She stopped speaking abruptly. Her eyes fell on my frame, swallowed up by the oversized sweater I wore. She gasped slightly. “How have you lost so much weight?” She quickly brushed away a tear, trying to hide it from me. “You’re still the same little girl who keeps everything bottled up inside. Jennifer, if you’re not happy here, just come home with me.” I glanced down at my phone. My text thread with Thomas lay open. The last message was still my own, asking when they would be home. In that quiet space, the memories flooded in. I thought about how our chat history was essentially a monologue—me sharing little pieces of my day, and him replying with a single “K” or an occasional thumbs-up emoji. I thought about the time I tried to take Justin to the amusement park, only for my seven-year-old to look at me with a cold sneer: “Mom, you’re an adult. Can you stop being so childish?” I thought about my shopping apps, filled only with things for them, while they had never once surprised me with anything. I looked up, meeting my mother’s gaze, and suddenly, the fog cleared. I didn’t want to eat this cold dinner anymore. I didn’t want to live this cold life. So, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. The moment the word left my mouth, both my mother and the stream of comments fell silent. My mother hadn’t expected me to agree so decisively. But the comments across my vision began to scroll at a manic pace. [Don’t do anything rash! Thomas and Justin are already on their way home!] [Is she seriously running back to her mother just because they missed one birthday?] [I really don’t get her. Why can’t she just have a little more patience?] [She’s probably just throwing a tantrum. Once Thomas sweet-talks her a bit, she’ll be fine. After all, he hasn’t actually done anything unforgivable, and Justin is still so young. How could she possibly leave him?] My mother asked hesitantly, “Are you sure, Jennifer? You’re not just saying this because you’re hurt?” I shook my head. Once, a tiny spark of hope might have remained. But eight years had successfully ground every ounce of anticipation into dust. I had listened to the comments for so long, forgetting the simplest truth: if someone truly cares about you, you don’t have to search for the proof. My mother didn’t ask another question. She walked straight into my bedroom and began packing my bags. She had barely crossed the threshold when the front door clicked open. Thomas and Justin stepped inside, finally home. Behind them stood a young woman—one of Thomas’s graduate students. The rims of her eyes were red, as if she had just been crying. The comments immediately provided an explanation: [Don’t get the wrong idea! Clara, his student, was harassed by someone tonight. Thomas is just awkward with words and didn’t know how to comfort her, so he brought her back where it’s safe.] [Wait, Thomas actually bought her a cake this time! He really is trying to change.] I glanced at the bakery box in Thomas’s hand. Through the clear plastic lid, I saw the topping: fresh mangoes. I am severely allergic to mangoes. I pulled my gaze away, my expression completely flat. The student immediately began to stammer an apology. “Hi, Jennifer. My name is Clara. I really didn’t mean to impose on Professor Dalton tonight. I really hope we didn’t miss your birthday dinner.” She bit her lower lip, glancing up at Thomas. There was timidity in her eyes, a touch of shyness, and a clear, unmistakable adoration that I recognized instantly. Over the years, I had seen plenty of girls look at him like that. It wasn’t a surprise. But Clara was the first one Thomas had ever brought across our threshold. I remained silent. Thomas set the cake down on the dining table. “Let’s cut the cake. Consider it your birthday celebration. Give a bigger slice to Clara. She likes sweet things; it’ll help cheer her up.” Our son, Justin, immediately chimed in. “Yeah, Clara had a really bad night. Eating something sweet will make her feel better. Mom, hurry up and cut it.” He reached out to pull my hand, but I quietly stepped back, letting his fingers slip through the air. “I already had cake,” I said calmly. “If you want some, cut it yourselves.” Justin’s face immediately fell. He glared at me, his small brow furrowing. “Are you throwing a fit? We literally rushed all the way back to be with you. Besides, Dad was busy handling an emergency. He was only a little late.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. In their eyes, every other person and every other task took precedence over me. Not once in eight years had they ever made me the priority. Just then, my mother wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom, her face set in a hard, frozen mask. “Jennifer,” she said, her voice like steel. “We’re leaving.” Thomas stared at my mother and the suitcase, a flicker of confusion crossing his dark eyes. “Mom?” Then he glanced at Clara. A brief wave of embarrassment washed over his features before he turned a harsh frown on me. “What kind of scene are you making now?” The comments were still typing frantically, defending his ignorance. But I looked him straight in the eyes, my voice steady and quiet. “Thomas, I want a divorce.” The words hung in the air. For a few seconds, the room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Justin was the first to break it, his face twisting with irritation. “Mom, are you serious? Just because Dad and I were a little late for your birthday, you’re divorcing him? Since when did you get so petty? If you’re going to be like this, I’m staying with Dad.” Across my abdomen, the faint scar from my C-section began to throb with a phantom ache. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a sharp, irritated breath. “If you’re angry because I missed dinner, I apologize,” he said, his voice cold. Clara looked completely mortified, her eyes wide with tearful distress. “I’m so sorry, Jennifer,” she stammered. “This is all my fault. Please don’t ruin your marriage because of me.” The comments erupted in outrage against me: [Is she losing her mind?] [Demanding a divorce over a missed birthday? She’s literally willing to abandon her own child over this.] Thomas subtly stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with his frame. When he spoke to her, his tone softened with a rare, clumsy gentleness. “This has nothing to do with you,” he murmured. “This is between Jennifer and me.” Watching them, a bitter realization settled deep in my chest. The great iceberg, Thomas Dalton, was indeed capable of melting. It just wasn’t for me. “What on earth have I been holding onto all this time?” Once he was sure Clara was calm, Thomas turned back to me. His eyes were devoid of any warmth. “Have you actually thought this through? Honestly, I don’t care either way. If you want a divorce, fine. It’s up to you.” Having witnessed him defending the other girl, my mother’s temper boiled over. She pointed a trembling finger at Thomas’s chest. “You’re damn right she’s divorcing you!” she cried. “You couldn’t even bother to show up for my daughter’s birthday, and now you have the nerve to bring your mistress straight into her home? I raised my daughter for over twenty years, cherishing her, only for you to treat her like garbage. How dare you!” At the word “mistress”, Clara’s face went pale. Shock and humiliation flashed across her features. “Ma’am, it’s not like that between Professor Dalton and me!” she whimpered. “I would never…” Realizing her words were useless, she burst into fresh tears and ran out the front door. Thomas tried to grab her arm but missed. His face darkened to a thunderous shade. “Mom, you’ve completely misread the situation,” he snapped. He immediately pulled out his phone to text Clara. As he unlocked it, I caught a glimpse of his screen—it was a solid wall of blue text bubbles. In just one evening, he had written more words to her than he had sent to me in an entire month. The comments rolled by, blaming my mother for overreacting: [Clara is so innocent. She literally just got called a home-wrecker for no reason.] [Our girl’s mother is way too rash. What kind of mother encourages her daughter to get a divorce? Life as a divorcee isn’t easy.] [I wish Jennifer would just open her eyes and stop misunderstanding him.] I watched the irritation and disgust swirling in Thomas’s eyes. For the first time in eight years, my mind felt perfectly clear. Seeing Clara run away crying, Justin panicked. “Grandma, why are you bullying Clara?” he yelled. “You’re just as awful as Mom!” My mother’s hand, which had been holding mine, flinched. Her eyes filled with hurt. “Justin Dalton, you can hate me all you want,” she said, her voice trembling. “But you do not speak to your mother that way! Do you have any idea how much she suffered just to bring you into this world?” I stood frozen. Perhaps the memory was too painful, but I realized I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy in years. I only remembered the doctors telling me my body was too weak, that the risk of complications during delivery was dangerously high. I had to endure endless hormone injections to save the pregnancy. My stomach had been covered in dark, bruised needle marks. Every time my mother came to visit, she would break down in tears. She would ask me if it hurt, while Thomas had simply looked away and said, coldly: “Maybe we should just forget about the baby.” Back then, the comments had praised him. “Look how much he loves you,” they wrote. “He cares about your pain so much he’d rather not have the baby.” Now, looking back, I saw it for what it truly was: complete indifference. He didn’t love me, so he didn’t care about the child we were creating. But Justin was stubborn, inheriting his father’s cold defiance. Before I could stop him, he lunged forward and shoved my mother. “It was her choice to have me!” he screamed. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t want her as my mom anyway!” My mother lost her footing. Her back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the sideboard with a sickening thud. Anger flared hot in my chest. I slapped Justin’s hand away. “Why did you push your grandmother?” I roared. “You don’t want me? Well, I don’t want you either!” At seven years old, Justin clutched his hand, staring at me in absolute disbelief. His eyes welled with tears. He turned and bolted out of the house. Thomas locked his phone, his voice dropping to sub-zero temperatures. “Are you satisfied now? If you want a divorce, fine. We’ll get the paperwork started.” Without another word, he walked out after our son. My mother was clutching her lower back in agony. I helped her up and took her to the hospital alone. The ER doctor said she had severely strained her lower back and needed strict bed rest for a few days. I got her admitted to a room, and then I went straight to a family lawyer to draft the divorce papers. “I don’t want custody,” I told the lawyer. “And I’m willing to take less of the marital assets as long as it covers child support.” During the three days I spent by my mother’s hospital bed, Thomas didn’t send a single text. Not a word. It wasn’t until the afternoon I received the final draft of the agreement that Thomas and Justin finally showed up. “Your mother spread rumors at the university, didn’t she?” Thomas demanded the moment he walked in, his voice tight. “Telling everyone Clara is a home-wrecker who destroyed our family?” I stared at him, confused, but the comments quickly caught me up: [Poor Clara. She got branded as a home-wrecker, and now the whole campus is talking about it.] [She couldn’t handle the shame and actually drank pesticide to end her life. Thank god Thomas got there in time to save her.] [Jennifer’s mom went way too far this time.] I looked at my mother, who was sitting up in bed with a bewildered expression. I stepped into the doorway, blocking them from entering. “My mother would never do that!” I hissed. Thomas let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Your mother is the only one who called Clara a mistress. If it wasn’t her, then who? Do you realize this is ruining Clara’s reputation? It could end her career before it even starts. Jennifer, your mother doesn’t understand academia, but you do.” I stayed quiet, which only fueled his impatience. Then, his tone did something unexpected—it softened into a plea. “Clara and I are innocent,” he said. “I’m asking you, Jennifer. Please, just issue a statement and clear her name.” I stared at him, stunned. In all our years together, Thomas had been a man of immense pride. He never bent, and he never, ever begged. But now, for Clara, he was willing to lower himself. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “Thomas, can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel a single thing for her?” He went quiet. “We are professor and student,” he said finally. “I know where the line is.” I laughed again, the sound hollow. “You know where the line is? You missed my birthday to spend the evening with her. You send her more texts in a day than you’ve sent me in a month. And now, you’re dragging me to her defense just to save her reputation. Thomas, she already means more to you than I ever did as your wife.” How pathetic I had been, waiting for this iceberg of a man to slowly thaw for me. I had forgotten that when someone truly loves you, they don’t need to be forced to change. They just do. His face tightened, embarrassment morphing into defensive anger. “That’s absurd,” he snapped. “You’re projecting. Jennifer, why are you suddenly keeping score? You never used to care about any of this.” “Ah. So all my silent compromises, all my swallowed hurts—to him, they were just proof that I didn’t care.” He had known all along, yet he had let my heart shatter, piece by piece, without lifting a finger. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I turned to walk away. But Thomas grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron, and dragged me down the hall toward Clara’s room. “Jennifer, she tried to kill herself because of what your mother said. You are going to clear her name right now.” I fought back, pulling with everything I had, but his fingers were locked tight. Even Justin threw his weight against me, grabbing my leg so I couldn’t move. Inside the room, my mother heard the scuffle. She tried to get out of bed, but her back gave out. As I was dragged into Clara’s room, I heard the dull, heavy sound of my mother falling from her bed. Panic seized me. “Thomas, please! Let me go check on my mother first, and then I’ll write whatever you want! Please!” I begged, tears finally spilling over. Thomas didn’t even flinch. “Clara can’t wait,” he said coldly. “There are nurses here. Your mother will be fine.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Thomas had grown up an orphan. In the eight years we were married, my mother had loved him like her own son. She had cooked for him, cared for him, worried about him. And this was how he repaid her. When we entered Clara’s room, she whimpered at the sight of me, burying her face beneath the hospital blankets. Thomas rushed to her side, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Don’t be scared. She’s here to clear things up.” My mind was entirely on my mother, so I apologized mechanically, reading the words they wanted to hear. I penned the retraction letter exactly as Thomas dictated. The moment it was done, I pulled the folded divorce papers from my bag and laid them on the bedside table. “I did what you asked,” I said, my voice dead. “Now sign this, just like we agreed.” Thomas stared at the papers, his body freezing. “Jennifer, you know I didn’t actually want this,” he muttered. “We have Justin to think about. And with everything that just happened with Clara, a divorce right now would look terrible…” I wanted to laugh at the sheer irony. Even now, his primary concern was how a divorce would affect Clara’s reputation. “Do you honestly think we can keep living like this, Thomas?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Thomas noticed, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. Justin, seeing how pale and hollow I looked, murmured a quiet, hesitant, “Mom?” But before he could step closer, Clara suddenly grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on her nightstand, aiming it at her wrist. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “I’m the one ruining everything!” Thomas, who had taken half a step toward me, veered away instantly. He threw his arms around her to wrest the knife away. When he looked back at me, his eyes had returned to their usual, icy indifference. He signed the papers with one hand while holding her down with the other. “I hope you don’t regret this,” he spit out. A massive weight lifted from my chest. Ignoring the frantic comments screaming across my screen, I smiled. “I won’t,” I said. “Never.” I turned on my heel and walked out. I could feel his and Justin’s eyes burning into my back, but I didn’t look back. Not even once. I ran back to my mother’s room. Fortunately, the doctor said the fall hadn’t caused any permanent damage. I let out a shaky breath of relief. I showed her the signed papers. She stared at them in shock for a moment, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “My poor girl,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you better.” I shook my head. If it hadn’t been for her, I might have spent the rest of my life letting those online comments trick me into staying. I booked two one-way plane tickets home that very night. From this moment on, their lives had absolutely nothing to do with mine.
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