Grandma was in the final stages of lung cancer. As she lay on the hospital bed, clinging to the last threads of life, she kept murmuring his name.
In her hands, she tightly gripped a pair of shoe insoles—a birthday gift she had stitched for her grandson-in-law with her own trembling hands.
Weeping, I called Mason Gilbert over a dozen times, begging him to come to the hospital. Just once. Just to see Grandma one last time.
When the call finally connected, my husband's voice dripped with impatience.
"Fiona's pig has a fever," he snapped. "We're rushing to the vet. Don't bother me."
The moment the call ended, the heart monitor flatlined.
Grandma died with her eyes open, waiting for a visitor who never came.
——
I dragged myself through the next three days, handling the funeral alone. By the time I returned to the villa, I was hollow.
I sat on the sofa in a daze, staring into darkness until midnight. Finally, the lock clicked. Mason Gilbert stepped inside.
He bent to change his slippers, not even glancing up.
"Naomi. Water."
I didn't move.
In the past, I wouldn't have waited. I'd already be at the door with warm water, ready to take his coat, offer a massage. Eight years of marriage had carved servitude into my bones.
I couldn't change it before. Hadn't wanted to. I'd been desperate for even a sliver of affection from this man—even a perfunctory smile. I loved Mason Gilbert enough to lower myself into the dust for him.
But starting tonight, I was done.
When I didn't spring into action, his gaze turned cold. Irritation flickered in his eyes.
He pulled a designer bag from his suitcase and tossed it at me. "I know you've wanted this for a long time. Had someone bring it from abroad."
His tone was indifferent—like a wealthy patron flicking a coin to a beggar.
I glanced at the bag in my arms.
It was indeed a style I'd wanted once—so long ago I couldn't remember if it was the year before last or the one before that.
As for why it was appearing now, I didn't need to guess. Fiona Fletcher had used it and tossed it aside.
The evidence was right there: a distinct lipstick smear on the leather near the zipper.
Mason was always like this. He indulged Fiona's games, let her provoke me openly and secretly.
In the beginning, I'd fought back. But the consequence was Mason not coming home for half a month. Eventually, I'd break. I'd run to his company, apologize, admit my "mistakes," swear never to be jealous again.
Only then would Mason Gilbert deign to return.
So I learned to behave. As long as Mason brought it back—even if it was Fiona's trash—I accepted it with a smile. I'd become a recycling station for his mistress's discards.
I set the bag aside on the sofa.
Then I picked up the document from the coffee table and handed it to him.
"Sign it." My voice was steady. "And this—this is what Grandma wanted to give you."
I placed the insoles on top of the divorce agreement. The same insoles Grandma had been clutching when she died.
Mason barely glanced at the papers. His eyes landed on the handmade insoles. Without hesitation, he picked them up and tossed them into the trash.
The disgust on his face was visceral.
"Naomi, how many times have I told you?" His voice was ice. "I will never use this cheap trash. Don't bring it into the house again."
I stared at the insoles lying amidst the garbage.
I thought of Grandma's hands. The needle pricks riddling her fingertips. The bloody calluses she'd earned sewing through thick fabric, just to make something comfortable for him.
An invisible fist squeezed my heart until I couldn't breathe.
