I found my son’s diary. He had written: [Mom and Dad fought again. I hope they don’t get divorced.] It seemed like a childish complaint, but I froze when I read the next line. [If they get divorced, people will call Ms. Hughes a homewrecker.] [Dad said he’d protect her, so let’s just put up with that nagging old lady a little longer.] At four in the afternoon, I arrived at the kindergarten, holding a Marvel action figure I had waited three hours in line to buy. This was the toy my son, Ryan Scott, had been dreaming about for ages. Thinking about the joy on his face when he saw it, I almost forgot the burning pain in my arm from standing under the scorching sun. The dismissal bell rang, and children poured out of the school one after another. I scanned the crowd for Ryan. Then, a striking figure caught my eye. Unlike the other parents dressed casually for school pickup, she was elegant and fashionable, her long hair falling smoothly over her shoulders. She wore a wine-red dress that flowed to her pale ankles. If Ryan hadn’t rushed into her arms with a big grin, I might have mistaken her for a youthful mom. The teacher hesitated before asking, “Excuse me, you are?” Before the woman could respond, Ryan cheerfully wrapped his arms around her neck and exclaimed, “Ms. Wilson, this is my mom. Isn’t she pretty?” His voice was loud, every word clear as day to me. I stood frozen, my body cold as ice. Joyce Wilson, doing her due diligence, asked again, “Then who was picking you up before?” Without a moment’s thought, Ryan replied, “That was our nanny. Don’t ask so much. Today is my mom’s birthday, and my dad has been waiting for her for a long time.” Joyce offered the woman an apologetic smile. The woman gently patted Ryan’s head, her tone soft but firm. “Don’t talk like that. Apologize to your teacher.” Ryan stuck out his tongue playfully. “Sorry, Ms. Wilson.” Then he tightened his arms around her neck. He had never shown such affection for me. From the moment he could remember, he had grown to resent me, just like his father.
The two of them walked away. Unsettled, I followed them and stopped when I saw the woman get into a sleek Mercedes. It was my husband’s car. The four o’clock sun was still blazing, but it couldn’t thaw the chill spreading through my chest. The toy in my hand, slick with sweat, felt impossibly heavy. Trembling, I pulled out my phone, intending to call Daniel Scott, but accidentally opened my social media app instead. There, a new post from his company’s receptionist caught my eye. The photo showed a lavishly decorated birthday party with fresh flowers, pink balloons, and long tables lined with delicate dishes. At the center was a three-tiered cake I recognized from an online store. It required a three-month advance order and cost a fortune. The caption read: [Our company’s top-notch perks—our boss throws birthday parties for employees.] In the corner of the photo, a sliver of a navy-blue tie caught my attention. It was the tie I had picked out for Daniel that morning. My phone rang for a long time before he finally answered. I hesitated, not knowing how to start. Only after his second impatient prompt did I ask in a dry voice, “Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” His tone was curt. “No. Something is going on at work. I’ve already picked Ryan up and brought him here. Just eat on your own.” My fingers shook so much I nearly dropped the phone. “Should I bring you something to eat?” “No need. Don’t embarrass me by showing up here. Have you forgotten how you got mistaken for a door-to-door salesperson last time you came to drop off a file?” With that, he hung up. I let out a bitter laugh. A childish voice broke through my haze. He asked, “Madam, where did you get that toy? Can I touch it?” I looked down and realized my vision was blurry with tears. “It’s yours,” I said. The boy bowed in thanks, holding the toy tightly and running his hands over it again and again. That joy was what I had hoped to see on Ryan’s face. But I had forgotten. No matter how many toys I gave him over the years, the most I ever got was a dry “thanks.” Suddenly, I felt exhausted. I began to doubt if my seven years of marriage were still worth it.
On the way home, it started to rain heavily, and my phone died. Maybe it was because I sweated a lot during the day and then got rained on, but soon after I got home, I started to feel feverish. I managed to take a shower and lay down on the couch in the living room. Before I knew it, I fell asleep. Memories of me and Daniel played in my mind like a slideshow. I had a brother who was two years younger than me. Our family was not wealthy, but we were close. There were no dramatic stories of favoring the son over the daughter. When my brother was in his senior year of high school, he was diagnosed with a malignant tumor. His condition worsened quickly. Our family’s savings were spent on hospital bills, and my dad’s hair turned gray overnight. When we were out of money, my dad decided to borrow from our relatives. He never came back. There was a tunnel collapse on the highway, and we lost the pillar of our family. My mom was heartbroken and ended up in the ICU. I had to be strong and arrange my dad’s funeral. Then I had to take care of my mom and my brother in the hospital. But soon, my brother passed away too. It was then that Daniel’s parents showed up. They said my brother’s kidney was a match for their son. If we agreed, they would take care of me and my mom financially. I understood their desperation to save their son. I went with them to Daniel’s hospital room. He was on a ventilator, his chest barely moving. My mom walked into the room. She looked at Daniel for a long time, shaking. Finally, she said, “We can agree, but I have one condition. “After the surgery, let him marry my daughter.” The sound of heavy rain and thunder woke me up from my dream. My headache hadn’t gotten any better. I found my fully charged phone. It was 10 PM, but my husband and son were still not home. I felt terrible, so I called Daniel. But no one answered. I checked the front desk’s social media updates. I saw a picture of Ryan with the woman I saw earlier and Daniel. They were kissing Ryan’s face. They were smiling and happy. The caption read: [Birthday party ended successfully.] I took a deep breath and decided not to call again. I got up to find some medicine. After searching for a while, I remembered I had left the medicine on Ryan’s desk when he was sick. When I finally found the medicine, I noticed a diary on the desk. I picked it up and read Ryan’s childish handwriting. [Mom and Dad fought again. I hope they don’t get divorced.] [If they get divorced, people will call Ms. Hughes a homewrecker.] [Dad said he’d protect her, so let’s just put up with that nagging old lady a little longer.] I couldn’t believe these words came from my son. When Daniel was rarely home and didn’t talk to me much, Ryan used to stick close to me. After marrying Daniel, I didn’t socialize much and focused on Ryan. I hoped that even if I didn’t get love from Daniel, at least Ryan would love me. But ever since Ryan turned five and found out about the circumstances of my marriage, he never looked at me the same way. He stopped calling me mom and broke all the crafts we made together. Whenever I sat at the dinner table, he would leave. I had to wait until he finished eating to have my meal. Even the maids talked about how pitiful I was, saying at least they got their meals. As the lady of the house, I had to eat leftovers. Daniel heard them but did nothing. Maybe the medicine was working, because my mind started to clear up. I flipped through the diary and saw more complaints about me. He hated me picking him up from school because he thought I was embarrassing. He hated me being in the house because he thought his dad didn’t care about him when I was around. He wished for a new mom, preferably Ivy Hughes. Both he and his dad liked her. After reading all this, I put down the diary. If they liked her so much, I would grant their wish. At two in the morning, I was woken by noises outside the room. When I got up, I saw Daniel lying on the living room sofa. On the floor, Ryan was already fast asleep. Daniel tugged at his tie, mumbling something. I moved closer and heard him say, “Emily, water… bring me some water.” Ryan looked exhausted. He usually wouldn’t sleep unless I read him fairy tales for two hours, but tonight, he slept soundly even on the cold floor. I went to the kitchen, filled a basin with water, added some ice cubes, and splashed it right on them. The icy water startled them awake immediately. Ryan screamed and slapped the water off his clothes. He shouted, “Are you crazy? Pouring freezing water on me. Aren’t you afraid I’ll get sick? “Do you even know how expensive this outfit is?” I glanced at him and sneered. The expensive clothes I dressed him in this morning had already been replaced by a cheap T-shirt with an Iron Man print. Daniel, usually calm and indifferent, now looked visibly angry. He barked, “Emily, what are you doing?” I spoke calmly. “You just asked me to get you water.” He frowned, confused. “I meant honey water, like always.” When we first got married, I asked a relationship expert how to maintain a marriage without love. She said love grew in the little details of life. So, I tried to be the giving one. Whenever Daniel came home late, smelling of alcohol, I acted like a housekeeper. I prepared his bath and brought him a warm cup of honey water. The next morning, I would cook oatmeal for him before he woke up. If I ever suggested he change his lifestyle, he’d resist silently. He’d pour out the oatmeal I made or come home even later the next day. Without love, our marriage was a struggle. When I realized this, I suddenly felt relieved. I heard myself say, “Daniel, let’s divorce. “I want the house and car. You can keep Ryan.”
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