“Mom, I’ve made up my mind. I’m coming back to take over the design institute and handle the bidding for the Nicholson Corporation’s project that opens in seven days.”
I hung up the phone, dumped the now-cold sweet-and-sour ribs into the trash, and applied ointment to the burns on my fingers.
To recreate my husband Liam’s favorite flavor, I tried three times. The oil splashed onto my hands, leaving blisters raised and angry, yet I only ran them under cold water for a moment.
This was the version of me Liam liked—gentle, tolerant, even pain silent.
And for all these years, I’ve tolerated enough.
The first time—Liam took my ski goggles to give to Vanessa and left me, cramping with my period, sitting in the snow. And I stayed gentle, tolerant.
The second time—Vanessa deliberately snapped the paintbrush Liam gave me the day he confessed his love. Liam accused me of making a fuss. He said Vanessa could bring in profit for the company, and I shouldn’t cling to such trivial things. And I stayed gentle, tolerant.
The countless times I lay bedridden after miscarriages, while Liam claimed “protecting business partners,” bringing Vanessa gifts while visiting the woman responsible for the loss of my children…
And then this time—our ten years together, three married, on our anniversary, because Vanessa made a call, he rushed away. Before leaving, he only remembered to order a chestnut cake. But I’ve been allergic to chestnuts since I was a child…
I want a divorce.
I can already imagine Liam’s defense afterward.
*A housewife always makes a fuss. So I ordered the wrong cake—divorce over something that small?*
But what crushes a marriage is never just something small.
This time, I’m done tolerating.
No one knows that this full-time housewife who has circled the kitchen for three years once had industry giants competing to collaborate with her.
——
The year my mother offered me the inheritance of her design institute, I was sitting beside Liam eating instant noodles when he first started his business. Just one sentence—*“You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll make a world big enough to shield you. I’ll take care of you.”*—made me lock all my honors and opportunities inside a metal box tucked in the farthest corner of the closet.
Inside that box, along with the awards, was Liam’s first project proposal. The truth is—I stayed up all night writing it, but he signed his name. It was that proposal that opened the door to his first investor.
For three years, not only did I keep our home spotless, I became Liam’s invisible support.
When he worked late, I organized his files by logic and order; when he hit a wall, sighing in frustration, I would casually say, “Maybe try a different approach,” breaking my ideas into subtle hints. But I never dared say they were mine—afraid that if I shattered the illusion of his brilliance, I would lose the so-called stability he promised.
Today is my birthday, and our third wedding anniversary.
I purposely put on the dress he gave me when he proposed, applied a light touch of makeup, and even set the table with our engraved bone-china plates—etched with our initials.
The candles burned out and were lit again, extinguished and relit, until wax pooled thick as sap.
At 9:03 p.m., my phone finally buzzed—but it was a text:
*“Vanessa’s project hit a major problem, the client wants to pull out, I’ll be with her all night.”*
I didn’t even have time to feel sad before another notification popped up—Vanessa’s private message, sent only to me. I was already used to it.
A photo—Vanessa sitting in a chair, Liam leaning over her shoulder, pointing at a design draft. His posture practically encircled her. They were close—too close. Tilt a head, and they could be kissing.
The caption:
**“Liam said only those who can fight side by side deserve to be by his side.”**
A moment later, her social feed refreshed with the same photo, caption changed:
**“Thanks to Liam for the late-night rescue lucky to have you.”**
My hand trembled, and the phone clattered against the table, the screen lighting up and fading, reflecting a pale version of me. I remembered last week at Liam’s company dinner. I attended as his spouse, wearing the “unobtrusive” plain dress he chose, sitting quietly in a corner.
Midway through, Vanessa walked by with a glass of wine and “accidentally” bumped into me. The red wine soaked through my dress.
When Liam rushed over, Vanessa teared up first. “Clara, I’m so sorry—really. I didn’t mean to. I’m just too careless.”
He didn’t look at my soaked dress. Instead, he frowned.
“How can you be so careless? Vanessa still has clients to accompany. You should go home and change, don’t create more trouble here.”
I pulled my skirt and walked out of the hotel. The night breeze hit me, cold like needles—yet not as sharp as his words: “create trouble.”
What cut deeper was the conversation I later overheard outside the break room—
A coworker asked, “Liam, you’re awfully protective of Vanessa. Aren’t you afraid Clara will overthink?”
Liam laughed—unfiltered, disdainful.
“Overthink? What qualifications does she have? Vanessa closes million-dollar deals. She stays up all night revising plans. And Clara? What can she do? Cook and do laundry? Without me, she couldn’t even support herself.”
“Then why did you marry her?”
“I was young. Thought being gentle and domestic was enough. Now I know—a woman needs to be capable. Like Vanessa. Someone who can stand at my level.”
Those words were needles dipped in poison, piercing endlessly.
I thought of our wedding day—Liam holding my hand, promising:
*“Clara, I’ll take care of you. Just be happy.”*
But now, being “kept” had become my original sin—his justification for belittling me.
I remembered bringing him a design draft, timidly asking to stand by his side, and he tossed it aside without looking:
“You haven’t been in the industry for years. Your work is outdated. Now you’re my wife. Just stay home. Stop thinking about pointless things.”
He completely forgot that the sketches that built his foothold were drawn by my hand. He forgot I became a housewife to support his work—not because I was incapable.
What I treasured, he deemed worthless.
Everything I sacrificed became his weapon to diminish me.
The phone rang again—Liam’s number. His tone impatient:
“Why didn’t you reply? Vanessa thinks you’re upset. Don’t throw a tantrum. I don’t have time to comfort you now. We’ll talk later.”
“Liam,” my voice was rough, sandpaper scraping. “Do you remember what today is?”
There was a pause—and then Vanessa’s voice faint in the background:
“Liam, the client’s rushing again. We need to go over this.”
Liam’s tone instantly shifted—perfunctory.
“Whatever it is, I forgot. We’ll talk.”
He hung up quickly. Only the busy signal remained.
He didn’t even remember our anniversary.
I slowly stood, walked to the closet, and opened the metal box hidden deep inside. The embossed gold on my top-tier designer certification gleamed coldly beneath the lamp.
I had planned to tell Liam this surprise today.
But now, the surprise had turned into a joke.
I picked up the box, walked to the window, looking down at the neon-lit street. Three years of patience, silence, and sacrifice collapsed all at once. I once believed love was a harbor, so I willingly sheathed my claws. But now I realize—I didn’t lay down armor.
I laid down dignity.
Liam will never know that the “ordinary” wife he scorns once carried him through his hardest years; that the “gentleness” he tramples was my entire youth offered in sincerity.
