When the doctor told me I might never be able to have children again, Julian’s first reaction was pure agony: “How could this happen to Scarlett? She wants a child so badly!” Scarlett. She was the one he’d always yearned for, the unattainable ideal. Even my five-year-old son ran up to me, his voice sharp with accusation: “Mommy, did you do this on purpose? Daddy says if Aunt Scarlett could have a baby, she’d be way better than you!” A cold realization hit me. In this house, my worth, even as a potential mother, couldn’t measure up to the ghost of his past, the shadow of a woman who wasn’t even here. I was done. I left a divorce agreement and vanished from their lives. I gripped the thin, yet ton-heavy diagnosis – “Unlikely to conceive again.” My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. The sterile white of the hospital corridor blurred, the world spun, leaving only those crushing words, like ice picks tearing through my heart. Why me? Fighting back the torrent of tears, I floated home like a phantom. He glanced up as I walked in, casually asking, “How was the check-up? What did the doctor say?” His tone was light, dismissive. My movements froze. I took a deep, shuddering breath, walked up to him, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “Julian, the doctor said… I might… I might not be able to get pregnant again.” His smile shattered, freezing on his face. After a few seconds of stunned silence, his brows furrowed, tightening into a worried knot. Then, almost a reflex, the words burst out, a bombshell that rocked my world: “How can that be? What about Scarlett? She wants a child so badly…” Scarlett. Scarlett Davies. The woman he’d held in his heart for years, the unattainable ideal he always craved. My blood seemed to turn to ice, chilling me from head to toe. My fingertips quivered uncontrollably. I stared at the man before me, disbelief clawing at my throat. “…What did you say?” My voice was raspy, like sandpaper, every word a struggle to force out. Julian seemed to realize he’d spoken out of turn, but there wasn’t a trace of apology in his eyes. He just turned away, his face etched with annoyance, avoiding my piercing gaze. He tried to backtrack, his voice clipped and stiff: “That’s not what I meant… It’s just… Ugh, this is so sudden, I…” Here I was, just delivered the devastating news that my hope for more children was almost gone, my body and soul in tatters, desperate for comfort and support. And his first reaction wasn’t to worry about my health, or to share my pain and despair. No, it was for Scarlett Davies, a woman who had absolutely no place in our family – *she* wanted a child? So, my inability to conceive again, was first and foremost a betrayal to *his* unattainable ideal? My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The man before me, so familiar yet utterly a stranger, sent a chill so profound it settled deep in my bones, alongside an absurd, cutting irony. These past five years, a colossal, cruel joke. I watched him pace irritably in the living room, then walk onto the balcony, pulling out his phone to make a call. His voice was low, but I clearly caught a few phrases: “…Don’t even ask. My wife’s body isn’t cooperating… Yeah, it is… Ugh, such a hassle…” My body isn’t cooperating?
The next morning, the house was a frozen wasteland. His attitude towards me was noticeably colder, his eyes holding an unspoken distance and a barely disguised disappointment. On the wall hung our family portrait, the three of us. In the photo, my smile was radiant, nestled beside Julian, who held little Leo. The scene was as warm as a meticulously painted oil canvas. Now, looking at it, all I felt was bitter irony. I silently picked up the toys scattered on the carpet, Leo’s masterpiece from last night. Just as I bent to grab a Transformer, Leo’s bedroom door opened. “Mommy!” My five-year-old son, Leo, dashed out. He ran up to me and delivered a blow that felt sharper than any knife: “Mommy! Why can’t you have a baby sister anymore? Daddy says Aunt Scarlett would be better than you if she could have a baby!” My brain exploded. Spots danced before my eyes, my ears rang, and I swayed, almost losing my balance. Aunt Scarlett… Scarlett Davies… He didn’t just feel sorry for Scarlett himself; he’d poisoned our innocent five-year-old son with such vicious, twisted ideas! My face went ashen, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. “Leo…” My voice was horribly hoarse, like an old bellows. “Who… who taught you to say that? Tell Mommy, who was it?” Leo was startled by my pale face and trembling voice. His little lip trembled, and tears welled up, threatening to spill over. “Leo!” Julian’s voice boomed from the study, laced with obvious impatience and a hint of… guilt? He strode over quickly, yanked our son away from me, pulling him behind him as if shielding a precious treasure, cutting off my view of Leo. He didn’t even spare me a glance, only addressed our son, but his words were clearly a “defense” aimed at me: “What does a child know? Don’t scare him!” His eyes were cold as ice, his tone scathing: “It’s the truth, your body isn’t well, so why blame others for saying it? Leo just spoke the truth, why are you so upset?!” He stood on a pedestal of moral superiority, mercilessly judging me. In that moment, I clearly felt the chasm between me and my son being forcibly widened by the man I once loved so deeply.
It felt like my heart had died; there was no greater sorrow. Just as I thought I would slowly numb in this silence, a message from Scarlett arrived, unexpected. “Clara, I heard you’re not doing well? How are you lately? I’m a bit worried about you, thought we could grab coffee and clear your head.” Her tone was gentle, oozing with “concern” and “sisterly affection.” *Ha*. Worried about me? More like eager to see me suffer. Julian’s words, “What about Scarlett?” still echoed in my ears. My instinct was to refuse this hypocritical invitation. But then, a perverse curiosity took hold. I wanted to see what kind of game this “white moonlight,” whom Julian cherished above his own wife and son, was planning to play. “Sure, Scarlett, you’re too kind. Just tell me where.” I replied with a calmness that surprised even myself. The café she picked was a chic, expensive, trendy spot. Scarlett was already there, seated by the window. The afternoon sun filtered through the glass, softly outlining her perfectly delicate profile. She was impeccably dressed today, radiating an air of delicate charm. A brand-new luxury designer bag lay casually beside her. Seeing me approach, she instantly stood, gracefully stepping forward. “Clara, you’re here. Please, sit.” She took my hand. Her fingertips were warm and soft, making my own, cold and stiff from days of shock and heartbreak, feel even more pathetic. “Clara, I’m truly sorry to hear… Julian told me. Don’t be too sad. It’s tough for a woman, you know, if you can’t have children anymore. It’s quite a shame.” A flicker of triumph, quickly masked, danced in her eyes. Beneath that seemingly sincere expression of regret, her schadenfreude was unmistakable. Three pleasantries in, and her real “performance” began. “But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Julian… he still cares about you, you know.” Her voice held a seemingly “innocent” sigh, yet every word was designed to wound. “It’s just, you know how Julian is; he’s always loved children. He always said he wanted a bustling home, preferably three or four kids. If it hadn’t been for your ability to have children back then…” She paused deliberately, lifting her gaze to me, her eyes filled with feigned sympathy: “Ah, what a pity… He so desperately craved a complete family with children around him. If only back then…” She let the sentence hang, unfinished. If only what? She was blatantly implying that my body’s failure had left an irreparable “void” in his life. And she, Scarlett Davies, was the one who could fulfill his dreams. My heart was cold, my blood seeming to cease its flow. Yet, I struggled to maintain a semblance of composure and dignity. She elegantly raised her hand, gently stroking the exquisitely delicate, diamond-studded bracelet on her wrist. The bracelet shimmered, catching the afternoon sunlight in dazzling, almost blinding flashes. She noticed my gaze on the bracelet, explaining with a touch of coy bashfulness: “Oh, this? Julian just gave it to me. He said he specifically got it from a renowned spiritual retreat; it’s called a ‘fertility bracelet’ and brings good luck for conception… he said it would surely help me realize my dream of becoming a mother.” She continued, turning her “sympathetic” gaze back to me: “Ah, I was going to offer to get you one if you liked it. But it’s a shame, now that you… probably wouldn’t need it.” At the very moment I was diagnosed with a potentially barren future, Julian, my husband, bought *her* a “fertility bracelet”? And he wished *her* to “realize her dream of becoming a mother soon”?
So, Julian didn’t just feel for his unattainable ideal with words; his actions had already been this “thoughtful” and “far-sighted.” Enough. Just *enough*. The last shred of illusion I held for this marriage shattered, completely and utterly, under Scarlett’s meticulously orchestrated “performance.” I placed my water glass down. It hit the polished tabletop with a sharp, clear *clink*, successfully cutting off whatever more “dramatic” lines Scarlett had planned. I tugged at the corners of my mouth, forcing out a cold, hollow smile, staring directly into her eyes, which were brimming with hypocrisy: “Miss Davies, you’ve gone to great lengths. But my affairs are none of your concern. As for your ‘fertility charm,’ keep it and enjoy it all to yourself.” “You can finish that coffee on your own.” With that, I grabbed my bag from beside me and walked out of the café without a backward glance. Outside, the sunlight was intense, almost blinding. I returned to the place I called “home,” which felt more like a cage now. The sprawling house was empty. I didn’t turn on any lights, walking directly to the living room sofa and sinking down. Darkness gently enveloped me, amplifying the emptiness and resolve within my heart. My husband’s slip of the tongue, my son’s accusation, the “white moonlight’s” sickening display… The scenes of the past few days replayed in my mind, slow-motion, painfully clear. Every image, every word, felt like a thousand cuts to my soul. I sat in the dark for a long, long time, until the sky outside the window began to show the first hint of dawn. I stood up, still no lights on, and walked straight into the master bedroom. I only took a few casual outfits from college, comfortable though rarely worn now, along with essential undergarments and basic toiletries. My movements were frighteningly calm, as if I were merely packing for a short trip. But now, I was saying goodbye to that identity, forever. From the dusty depths of a drawer in his study, I pulled out a long-forgotten document – the divorce agreement. I’d actually printed it out a long time ago, in a fit of impulse after a furious argument with Julian about Scarlett. Back then, I just wanted to force Julian to make a choice, or perhaps, to childishly scare him into realizing I had boundaries. Laughably, when he saw the agreement, he merely scoffed, dismissively asking what “drama” I was causing now, then casually tossed it into the bottom of the drawer and never mentioned it again. Looking back, he must have been utterly convinced from the start that I couldn’t leave him, couldn’t abandon this privileged life, or the prestigious title of “Mrs. Julian Harrison.” I picked up the pen. Without a single hesitation, I signed my name, Clara Bennett, clearly and firmly, on the “Wife” line at the bottom of the dusty agreement. Next to it, I took off my wedding ring and gently placed it on the document. Finally, I took one last look around the house I had called home for five years. Pulling a simple suitcase, I silently walked out of that house, out of that suffocating marriage. I blocked and deleted Julian and everyone in his circle.
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