Waverly's husband died years ago—crushed in a mining collapse. Back then, she was heavily pregnant, and she went into early labor when she heard the news.
Damian stayed by her side, running around the hospital to help her. It was understandable—just one neighbor helping another during a tough time.
However, no one expected that, right after her husband's death, Waverly would set her sights on Damian.
Ever since her kid was born, every little thing became Damian's problem. If the baby needed formula, if the clothes were too small, if the kid got sick—it was all on him.
Out of Damian's 500-dollar paycheck each month, 400 dollars went straight to Waverly and her child.
Our own home did not even have a single decent appliance. The old, rusty bike out at the front was part of my wedding gift.
I tried talking to him about it once, but he just sighed and called me heartless.
"You're a woman too. Why can't you show some empathy for Waverly? She lost her husband while pregnant, almost died giving birth, and now, she has no one. If we don't help her, who will?"
However, everyone in the neighborhood knew that Waverly had received a large payout after her husband's death. Meanwhile, in our home, I was the only one actually contributing to the household.
The old me would have lost my temper and caused a scene, but not anymore. I packed my suitcase, placed the divorce papers on the living room coffee table, and waited for Damian to come home.
He came back late, but I did not bother asking where he had been. The moment he saw me sitting on the couch, his eyes flicked to the documents on the table, and he tensed.
He asked, "Maisie, can we just stop fighting? I know my attitude's been bad lately, but divorcing over something this small? Isn't that too much?"
I chuckled bitterly. "Small? That kid is already calling you 'Dad', and you're still calling it a small matter? Damian, this divorce is happening—no discussion."
He instantly lost his temper. "Maisie Hale, stop being so unreasonable! The kid likes me because I'm a good person! What's so wrong with me being his godfather?"
I retorted, "A good person? Please. Is it really the kid who likes you, or is it his mother who's after you?"
His face darkened. "Maisie, you're impossible to talk to! I can't explain anything to a woman like you!"
I laughed softly. "Perfect. I'm giving you the chance to be with the kind of woman you can talk to. When I married you against my family's wishes, I thought you'd be good to me, but now? How could you expect me to sit back and watch you dote on another woman?"
I shouted, "Look around, Damian! The apartment belongs to my company. All the major appliances were part of our wedding gifts. I pay for the groceries, the water, the electricity—everything. Even the clothes you're wearing right now were bought with my money.
"What about your paycheck? You've been spending it on toys and snacks for Waverly's kid, on salon visits and pretty outfits for Waverly.
"Even when we visit my mom during the holidays, you never bring her anything, but Waverly's kid always gets a new coat or holiday gifts, courtesy of you."
I exhaled deeply, finally letting out the frustrations I had held inside for so long.
"Damian, your heart isn't here with me, so why drag this on? Let's end this. After the divorce, you can marry her properly and have that kid call you 'Dad' for real."
I stood up and walked to the bedroom. "This divorce is final."
Damian stood there for a long time, frozen. Then he followed me into the bedroom, his voice low and pleading. "Maisie, don't do this. Let's not get divorced, okay?"
I did not understand it. If his heart was already with Waverly, why did he insist on staying married to me?
Not that it mattered. In a week, I would be on a plane out of there. Whether or not he divorced me, Damian would eventually end up with Waverly.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of clanging pots and pans in the kitchen.
We had been married for five years, and in all that time, Damian had never once cooked for me—though he made soups and stews for Waverly when she was recovering from childbirth.
I ignored Damian and went to wash up. Then, I grabbed two hard-boiled eggs from the table and shoved them into my bag.
"Drink some hot soup before you go," Damian said softly, his tone unusually gentle.
However, it was too late for that. "No thanks. We're practically divorced—no need to sit down and share a meal."
I placed my bag over my shoulder and walked toward the door. "Oh, don't forget to leave the grocery money later. All the pots, pans, and groceries were bought with my money. If you want to eat here, pay up."
In our five years of marriage, Damian never spent a cent on me. I supported him, which meant I was, in fact, supporting another woman's household all along.
