“I’m married to you, not sold to you. Do I not get basic freedom to have a social life?”
“If Sophie and I really had something, our kid would be in middle school by now—would we still be arguing like this?”
The last taut string in me snapped.
“Right, it’s not my place—” my voice broke into a shout, “—but I’m done!”
Years of pent‑up anger burst free. I stared out the window, fighting back tears.
“Daniel, you remember her cycle, you remember she hates cilantro, and every time we eat out you play the servant—scalding her chopsticks and bowls with hot water again and again.”
My eyes burned; the tears still fell.
“But the one thing you never remember is my mango allergy. On my birthday you bought her favorite mango cake, and I almost died in the ER.”
“When you were starting the business, I was the one drinking with clients till my stomach bled. I was the one who put up my parents’ life savings to plug your holes. Where was your ‘brother’ then?”
“And now that you’re Mr. Carter, basking in success, she throws on the ‘brother’ mask and clings to you. You love it, don’t you?”
I exhaled, eyes closed.
“Daniel, let’s get a divorce.”
Silence. Only my muffled sobbing filled the car.
I turned my head.
He was slumped against the window, lightly snoring.
…
I sat alone until three in the morning.
Staring at the wedding photo on the coffee table, I called my attorney.
“Sorry to bother you. Please draft a divorce agreement.”
At dawn, the clatter from the bathroom woke me.
Daniel fixed his tie in the mirror, then looked down at his phone and grinned like an idiot.
My phone reminder blinked: Today is my birthday.
Seeing me awake, he came over and pinched my cheek with a smile.
“Babe, sleep a little more. I’ve got to head to Ethan’s Mountain View Campground to review a project.”
As if nothing had happened.
It was always like this.
Conflicts never resolved—if I didn’t bring them up, he’d just play dumb and move on.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he turned away, fingers flying over his screen.
A knock at the door.
Daniel set his phone down and went to answer it.
A bad feeling hit me. I picked up his phone.
The screen was still lit; a WhatsApp group called “Original Crew” was scrolling fast.
Princess Sophie: “I’m downstairs. Come greet your ‘dad.’”
I scrolled up, compelled.
Each message stabbed into me like a needle:
Friend A: “They’re fighting over this? Anna is so dramatic. Told you two wouldn’t last.”
Friend B: “She’s an outsider who’s been mooching off us for five years. Brutal. He should just dump her and be with Sophie.”
Sophie sent a hugging emoji: “I’m not mad anymore. Daniel said he’s buying me an amazing campground. Some people grind half their lives and still can’t beat having a good ‘brother.’~”
Daniel replied: “Riding with ‘dad’ got you the good life—now you see who treats you right.”
Friend C: “Muah—play day first! And we agreed—no partners allowed!”
Friend D: “Dan, you hear that? Sophie says if you dare to show up, she’ll share a tent tonight to properly thank you!”
A sheet of cold rushed over my scalp; my vision pulsed black.
How ridiculous.
Back then Sophie had invited me into their chat, even renaming it “Fantastic 6+1.”
Turns out they made a new group behind my back.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried to fit in.
