In the studio I was never allowed to enter, my husband kept a sculpture of a half-naked goddess.
Two months after I gave birth, he suddenly developed an obsession with painting statues.
He spent nearly every day—29 out of 30—in that studio. The floor was littered with discarded sketches like fallen leaves, and he never even came out to soothe our crying daughter.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I filed for divorce.
Everyone around me reacted with disbelief.
My father-in-law asked in confusion, “Is this just because Jason’s been painting every day in his studio?”
I corrected him calmly, “He’s not just painting. He’s painting goddess sculptures.”
My mother-in-law exploded. “My son works hard to support this family! Painting is just a harmless hobby after work. If he’s too tired to care for the child, then hire a nanny! Why make a fuss?”
I said nothing, but my decision didn’t change.
Jason Shaw, my husband, stared at me in stunned rage. His face was tight with disbelief. “Nicole Grant, I didn’t cheat, I never even talked to another woman. I just got caught up in painting and forgot to give you attention. Is this really worth a divorce?”
His eyes turned red with grievance.
People called me unreasonable. Controlling. Cold-hearted.
I gave a mocking smile, pointed toward the studio, and said with a blank face:
“You said that sculpture is the only thing that satisfies you now—fine. I’ll help you get what you want.”
——
I slammed the freshly printed divorce papers onto the table.
“Sign it.”
Jason looked at me, stunned, eyes bloodshot.
“Nicole!”
“What’s wrong with you? I’ve just been busy in the studio this month. I admit I’ve been neglectful. That’s on me. But can’t I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice low and strained, frustration barely held back.
“Do you really have to bring up divorce in front of everyone?”
I looked around the room.
Today was our fifth wedding anniversary.
Jason had invited both sides of the family for dinner. It was supposed to be a celebration.
But all evening, his eyes had never once lingered on me.
He even shared our wedding wine with Claire Monroe.
In that moment, I realized there was no point in dragging this out.
“If you’re so worried about making a scene, then just sign the papers quietly.”
I said coldly. I was done explaining.
A heavy silence fell across the room.
The guests exchanged shocked glances.
In the five years we’d been married, everyone thought we were the perfect couple—loving, close, inseparable.
Jason’s face turned pale, his brow deeply furrowed.
“Please,” he said, leaning in, voice hoarse with desperation. “Nicole, let’s talk this out at home. Don’t do this here. You’ll upset Mom and Dad.”
I shook his hand off without hesitation.
“Don’t touch me.”
The others’ faces instantly changed. They stared at me with visible disgust.
My father-in-law slammed his wine glass on the table. My mother-in-law’s face darkened like a storm cloud.
Jason stumbled as I pushed him away, collapsing straight into the arms of Julia Chase—his childhood sweetheart.
“Nicole, are you even human anymore?!”
Julia snapped.
She charged forward, hurling curses at me. “Have you forgotten that when you were pregnant, your belly was covered with stretch marks, and Jason still massaged it with oil every night, no matter how late he got home? He did that for a whole year!”
“Did you forget he once drove five hours just to get you fresh King Lychees during your pregnancy? And now, just because he spends time painting in his studio, do you want to divorce him? How can you be this petty and controlling?!”
