I Put On Makeup For the First Time After Divorce

On my birthday, Ricky Carpinelli said he'd bring his friends over to celebrate.

Everyone was drinking when Ricky's childhood sweetheart suddenly pointed at my face in shock. "Oh, my gosh! That scar looks so gross!" she exclaimed.

Ricky scolded not her but me.

"Christina! How many times do I have to tell you to cover your face in front of my friends?!"

But that scar… I got it saving his life.

My heart ached under the weight of my husband's words, but I held my ground, demanding an apology from him and his childhood sweetheart.

But all I got in return was their mocking laugh.

That left me nothing but to slam the door and storm out. Behind me, I heard his friends urging him to go after me.

But instead, he scoffed. "Come on, she'll come crawling back in 10 minutes to apologize. You saw her fucking face—who else would even get attracted to her, right? You know, if I didn't feel like I owed her, I definitely wouldn't have married her either!"

I stopped at the hospital entrance, stroking my still-flat belly.

"My poor baby… I can't let you grow up with an asshole dad like him."

——

The cold night wind was biting through my thin clothes. I rested my hand on my belly, where a tiny life—just over a month old—was growing.

"Mrs. Carpinelli, are you sure you want to go through with this?" the nurse, who registered my information, asked gently. I must have looked hesitant and absent-minded because she asked again, "Does the baby's father know?"

"He doesn't need to," I said firmly.

The nurse didn't push further.

After all, hospital staff don't interfere with patients' personal decisions. She'd probably seen plenty of women in my situation—women like me who are unhappy in their marriages.

"Your appointment is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at four in the afternoon. Is that okay?"

I nodded.

As I left, the nurse ran after me with my ID card. "Mrs. Carpinelli! You forgot this! Oh, and… happy birthday!"

I forced a thank you, then returned home in a daze.

As soon as I opened the door, chaos greeted me. Red wine and beer were spilled everywhere, the birthday cake was smashed on the floor, and the "Happy Birthday" sign was stuck under someone's tread patterns.

"Christina, what took you so long?! Hurry up and clean all this mess already!"

The sound of a glass smashing on the floor echoed through the room. It felt like my heart was shattering too.

I took a deep breath and mustered the courage to calmly say, "Ricky, let's get a divorce."

His drunken stupor seemed to evaporate as he shot up and yelled, "What did you just say?! Divorce?! Are you nuts?!"

"All because Miley said your scar was gross?!"

"What's wrong with that? It's really gross!"

That made me grab a plate and throw it at him.

"Ricky, this scar—this gross scar—is what I got saving your life! And now you say something so heartless?!"

Seeing me fight back, his face darkened, and he grabbed me by the collar, his voice cold and threatening.

"I married you, didn't I?! What more do you want from me, huh?!"

"Heartless? If I'm heartless, your parents wouldn't be able to sell you! Do you really think you're worth 70,000 bucks?!"

I struggled, shouting back, "So I'm not worth 70,000 bucks, huh? If I hadn't saved you back then, you wouldn't even be alive to pay anything!"

When he refused to let go, desperation took over, and I slapped him hard across the face.

"You dare hit me?" he roared. "How dare you hit me!"

His retaliation came swift and brutal—a slap that left me dizzy, my cheek burning with pain.

"Ah!"

A startled gasp came from the master bedroom's doorway. I turned to see Miley, standing there.

"I-I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice trembling as she approached with a frightened expression. "I-I didn't know you two were fighting."