"Are you sure about this, Mrs. Smith?" the lawyer asked, his voice steady but hesitant. "You've been married for twenty years. And according to the prenup agreement you both signed… you cannot file for divorce unless one of you dies."
I stared at him, blinking. The words echoed like bullets to my chest.
Unless one of you dies.
I let out a bitter laugh, pressing my fingers against my temples. “God, how stupid was I,” I muttered under my breath.
Twenty-five years ago, I was just a girl who thought love could fix anything. Roger and I had been sweethearts—young, wild, deeply in love. He was charming, ambitious, said he’d build a world for us. And I believed him. But I also had dreams of my own. I wanted to be a painter. I had a scholarship abroad. It was the only thing I had ever wanted before him.
So I left. Just for a year. That was the plan.
But halfway through that year, I received a message. An anonymous email. A grainy photo, probably taken from a distance, but I didn’t need clarity to recognize what it was.
Roger. Holding someone else’s hand. Leaning in. Kissing her. My vision blurred. I told myself it could be anything. An old photo. A mistake. A cruel prank.
But denial crumbled as I stared longer. I knew that jacket. I knew the way he tilted his head when he kissed.
It was real. My heart shattered.
I remember calling him immediately, hands trembling so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I could barely speak when he answered.
“Roger?” My voice was raw.
“Isa? What’s wrong?”
“I got a photo.” I swallowed. “Of you… with someone.”
A long silence stretched between us. I heard nothing but the dull thud of my own heartbeat.
And then he exhaled. “Yes.”
Just like that.
No excuse. No panic. No guilt.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, though his tone was detached. “I was lonely, Isabel. You left.”
I pressed my hand to my chest. “You said you’d wait.”
“I tried,” he murmured. “But it was hard. I needed someone.”
“And that makes it okay?” I whispered, crying now. “I trusted you.”
“If only you hadn’t left me…” he said, voice low. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
And I… like the lovesick fool I was, I believed him. I blamed myself—for loving my dream, for wanting something beyond marriage, for choosing art over him.
So I did the unthinkable. I came home. And I married him.
We held a quiet wedding. That was twenty years ago. I gave up everything—my brushes, my canvases, my freedom—because I believed that love required sacrifice.
But the cracks came back. Slowly, quietly, but surely. Roger grew cold, distant. Always busy. Always tired. I told myself he was just stressed. That he still loved me.
I never questioned how his gaze lingered too long when Paula was around. I never questioned how our son, Mateo, adored her—how he kept saying he wished she was his mom. Paula was my sister. She had lost her job. She needed help. I even suggested Roger hire her as HR.
I was the one who let her in.
Into our home.
Into our lives.
Into my marriage.
Yet she betrayed me.
“Mrs. Smith?” the lawyer repeated, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“I heard you,” I said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be dead in a week. File the papers and send them to him once I’m gone.”
I ended the call, my hand trembling.
I was about to lie down when my phone rang again. Mateo. My son.
“Where are you?!” he shouted the second I picked up. “You were supposed to attend Tina’s school event! You left her there, alone and crying!”
“I—what?” I sat up. My voice was weak. “I didn’t know. I was at the hospital. I collapsed last night. I—”
“Hospital?” he scoffed. “You’re just making excuses again. Come home now!”
The line went dead. I dragged myself back home. My head was throbbing. My heart heavier than ever. But the second I stepped into the house, my granddaughter Tina ran up to me—then threw something.
Mud. It splattered on my dress. And then came the toys. A sharp corner hit my arm. Bruised it.
“I hate you!” she screamed. “You left me! Aunt Paula was right! You’re evil! I don’t love you anymore! Get out!”
I stood frozen, blinking.
And then Roger stepped into the room, arms crossed. “See? Even the child sees what you are. Where did you even go last night?”
I looked at him, barely able to breathe. “Where did you go last night?”
His jaw tensed. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” I replied, my voice flat. “You just disappoint me.”
I turned, walking toward the kitchen.
“I’m not done talking to you!” he barked.
“I’ll prepare food,” I muttered without stopping.
I was slicing vegetables when I heard Paula’s humming. That familiar tune. The one from the concert.
She leaned against the doorway, grinning. “Oh, sorry. I can’t get the song out of my head. It was amazing, the concert last night. You saw the video, right? Or do you want me to send it to you?”
That was it. I had enough of her sweet facade.
I turned around and threw the bowl of water straight into her smug face.
She gasped, soaked and speechless.
“You disgust me!” I snarled, my voice shaking from the rage I had held in for too long.
