Kevin's face darkened. "Roberta. Apologize."
Every last shred of reason I had left went up in flames.
I was right back in that hotel room, catching them in the act. I lunged at him, fists pounding his chest, nails raking his face. "Go to hell! Kevin, are you even human? You and that whore deserve to rot! Both of you!"
Kevin shielded his face and shoved me back, seething. "Roberta, are you deaf? Didn't you hear me say goodbye to her just now? Keep acting crazy and I swear I'll fly to Harbor City tonight!"
By the time he spat out that last sentence, I saw it—a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. He wanted to go to Adela.
But he still had to play the martyr. The reasonable man making sacrifices.
Which made me the villain. The psycho who'd driven him to this.
I laughed, cold and hollow. I stormed into the bedroom, grabbed the clothes he'd just packed, shoved them into his suitcase, and hurled it at his feet. "Get out!"
"Kevin, just looking at you makes me sick."
"Fine, Roberta. You asked for this." A thin, cruel smile curved his lips. "Let's see how you manage raising a daughter alone."
He picked up the suitcase and walked out.
The apartment went silent. My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor, arms wrapped around myself, tears streaming down without a sound.
I didn't move until my daughter started crying again. Somehow I dragged myself up, finished mixing the formula I'd abandoned halfway, and carried it back to her room.
I held her small, warm body against mine. I didn't sleep all night.
I was the one being pushed to the edge.
By him. By Adela.
On the surface, this past year since Kevin "recommitted" to our family had seemed almost normal.
But I was falling apart.
Every night, the same nightmare—that hotel bed, those two pale bodies tangled together.
I started crying for no reason. Shaking uncontrollably. Screaming. Throwing things. Dragging a knife across my own wrists.
If Kevin came home even slightly late, I'd pick a fight over nothing.
I questioned everything. Was he seeing someone else again?
At first, he'd explain himself patiently. Eventually, he just moved to the guest room.
The distance between us froze solid.
Then one day, I found myself standing on our balcony—eighteen floors up—holding my daughter, ready to jump.
That's when it hit me.
I had nearly died.
I'd become exactly what Kevin called those "dramatic" and "hysterical" new mothers. I was depressed. Clinically.
Standing on that rooftop, the cold wind slapped me awake.
I started fighting back. Doctor after doctor. Pill after pill.
But today, the man who did this to me had shoved me right back to the edge.
This rotten, suffocating excuse for a marriage—it ends here.
I lay awake until dawn. Kevin never came home.
His parents showed up instead.
Darrell Swanson looked me up and down, then started in. "Fighting with Kevin again? Roberta, if our son really wanted that Adela girl, you think he'd have married you?"
"I'm not trying to be harsh, but you've always been petty. No vision. If you'd just kept your mouth shut back then, Kevin wouldn't have lost his job. He'd still be collecting dividends every month instead of working himself to the bone."
Jemima Swanson pulled out her phone with a theatrical sigh. "Roberta, a man as successful as Kevin is bound to attract attention. That's just how it is. You need to give him a son—lock down his heart. Otherwise, you'll really have something to cry about."
She shoved the screen in my face.
Kevin had posted on social media last night, after he left.
In the photo, he had his arm wrapped tight around Adela, wiping her tears, his face soft with tenderness.
