When awareness returned, it felt like waking beneath a mountain — every breath thick, my limbs weighted, my skin burning as though fever and exhaustion were wrestling inside me. The tiles beneath me were still unforgivingly cold, my clothes soaked and clinging like a second skin. Every joint screamed.
I tried lifting my body, but my palms slipped, arms trembling until I collapsed again. A fiery sting crawled down my spine, and swallowing felt like dragging sandpaper through my throat.
I’m sick… The thought drifted through me, too faint and too small for what my body felt like — like something inside me was failing, shutting down.
“Jo–Adrian…” The whisper scraped out, raw and broken. “Please… help me…”
Silence answered at first. I forced my voice louder, desperate, until footsteps finally approached. Soft. Confident. Sabrina.
“Oh? You’re awake now,” she said, a cheerful lilt masking the pleasure dancing beneath it. “Should we take her to the hospital? Poor thing looks like she’s burning up. Rain does awful things to the weak.”
Then his voice cut through the air like ice. Adrian. “Don’t bother. She’s exaggerating. This is her consequence for yesterday — abandoning Noah so Sabrina had to step in again.”
A rustle. A scuff of his shoe. Then something sharp collided with my ribs. Pain exploded through my side, forcing a choked cry from my lungs.
“Get up,” he snarled. “Clean the water you dragged in. Noah could slip. And where’s lunch? Lying there won’t cook it.”
My fingers clawed at the floor, trying again to rise. My vision swam, my elbows buckled. “I… I can’t… I’m sick… please…”
“Pathetic,” Adrian spat. “You were supposed to make this house easier to run — not become dead weight.”
Sabrina’s perfume hit me before her voice did. “Maybe I should take her place for now,” she offered sweetly, voice dipped in artificial pity. “She really does look unwell.”
He snapped instantly. “No. You don’t do chores. That’s her duty. She wants to call herself ‘wife’? Then she should act like one, not lie around.”
Footsteps approached. Julian. My son. His voice as bitter and sharp as theirs. “Can we eat already? I’m starving. She can’t even handle meals anymore. What’s the point of her?”
Their laughter rolled over me — especially Sabrina’s tinkling, poisonous giggle — before they walked away, dismissing me like trash.
When they were out of sight, Sabrina returned. She crouched beside me, nails tracing my shoulder like a threat dressed as concern. “I’ll bring you something later,” she whispered, breath brushing my ear. “Rest, okay?”
Then, in a tone soft and venomous, “You don’t belong here. Why keep clinging? People like you should disappear quietly.”
I opened my mouth but only a thin breath escaped. She stood, smoothed her dress, and left as if she hadn’t just carved those words into me.
I lay unmoving, time stretching like eternity. It felt like lying at my own grave.
Eventually, I forced my body forward — dragging myself inch by inch toward my room. My knees burned against the floor, arms quivering with each push. When I finally reached my bed, I collapsed, drenched and shaking, letting sleep swallow me whole.
Silence greeted me when I awoke next. Silence and pain. My throat was a desert, my bones screaming. I reached for my phone, hands trembling.
The screen lit up — and there it was.
A post from Julian.
A photo: Adrian, Julian, Sabrina, and little Noah — arms linked, smiles beaming, a Ferris wheel glowing behind them. Warm lights. Happy faces. My family.
The caption:
“Best day with real family. Nothing beats this.”
Real family. Not me. Not even a memory of me.
My vision blurred. Then — a knock.
I dragged myself to the door. A delivery man handed me a slim envelope, uninterested in the wreck I must have looked like.
I slid down to the floor, ripping it open with shaky hands.
Inside — glossy papers.
Luxury travel itinerary.
First-class seats.
Five-star accommodations.
Cherry blossom tour routes.
Their names.
Adrian. Julian. Sabrina. Noah.
Mine nowhere.
I stared and stared, tears cooling against my cheeks until they dried. Then came stillness — a strange, deep calm settling into my bones.
I lifted my phone. Scrolled for a number dusted in years of silence. When the line connected, my voice was steady — firm, carved from finality.
“Hello. This is Samantha Villaruel,” I said clearly. “I’d like to start divorce proceedings. Immediately.”
