3.
“What did you say?”
Alex's furious voice split my eardrum.
“Say it again.”
“You want a divorce?”
Five years of marriage. I knew him too well.
Any time a female coworker asked him for help, he'd cling to it for days, offering himself up, telling her that if she ever needed anything she could come to him.
Those women got so unnerved by how needy he was that they drifted away from him one by one, and only then would it fizzle out.
But this time, after he met Daisy, she praised him more than once. Told him his cooking was delicious. Told him he was a man who took responsibility.
It gave him back that feeling of being needed, of being a man.
He started floating on it, so drunk on Daisy's flattery he couldn't find which way was up.
Alex was still roaring into the phone.
Before, I would have scrambled to explain, terrified he'd read too much into it.
But now.
Now every extra sentence I said to him felt like wasted time.
All the resentment I carried toward Alex, all the bitterness and the swallowed grievances of these years, rose to the tip of my tongue, and in the end I swallowed them down again.
It wasn't that I wasn't angry. It wasn't that I wasn't hurt.
I just didn't see the point.
With someone who doesn't care about you, no amount of words changes anything.
When I still didn't speak, he acted like I'd insulted him, his voice jumping a notch louder.
“Beatrice, I'm talking to you. Do you hear me?”
“Have you gone mute?”
I took a deep breath. My voice came out soft.
“It's nothing.”
“I'm a little tired. Let's just leave it here.”
I didn't wait for him to answer. I hung up, then deleted both him and Daisy and blocked them.
In the car.
I saw the posts Daisy had put up to smear me. They were trending.
There was a video in the link.
The video was shot inside the apartment I'd rented for her. A pipe was leaking, and my husband was there fixing it, his clothes soaked through.
I remembered it perfectly.
That night was my birthday.
The food had just been set down when Alex answered a call and shot up out of his chair.
“Daisy's pipe is leaking, I'm going to go check on it. Finish eating and go home on your own, don't wait up.”
He didn't even give me a chance to say anything. He just turned and left.
That night, I sat alone with that whole table of food until the restaurant closed.
The pity in the waiter's eyes as I left, I still can't forget it.
I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and only then did I notice the screenshot attached below the video.
It was my profile picture.
But those words didn't sound like anything I'd said to Daisy.
The screenshotted chat showed me interrogating her.
“Your pipe is leaking, so why couldn't you call a plumber? Why did it have to be Alex? Do you even know it's my birthday today?”
“Be honest with yourself. You've got your eye on my husband, don't you, you slut!”
Then came Daisy's replies, over and over, explaining to me that the pipe had burst late at night, that it was an emergency, that she hadn't known what else to do but ask Alex for help.
Below that screenshot, Daisy had added a caption.
She'd dressed herself up as the victim, saying I'd smeared her again and again, that I'd even gone to her parents' house to cause a scene, that I'd sent her father into the hospital with a heart attack.
At the end she'd added one more line “I only hope she can believe that there's really nothing going on between me and her husband.”
She was the one tangled up with my husband, and now she was dumping the filth on my head.
I couldn't imagine it.
When her own marriage was betrayed, when she drank until she threw up, I'd taken care of her through all of it.
Even after her divorce, when she said she wanted to come to my city for a while, maybe find a job, get a change of scenery.
I felt for her then.
I knew the divorce had hit her hard, so I'd rented her an apartment near mine so we could see each other easily.
I never thought.
I'd let the wolf in myself, and with my own hands watched the happiness I'd pieced together shatter across the floor again the moment she walked in.
I didn't confront her. I didn't comment. I didn't call.
I just stared at that photo for a long time, then cleared my browsing history and shut off my phone.
My fingers were cold.
Through the car window I watched the traffic go by, and couldn't help letting out a sigh.
I asked myself, did I hate them?
I did.
I just didn't fall apart, didn't tear off the mask and scream it all out at them.
Instead it felt like leaving was the best ending there could be.
Knowing Alex the way I did, if I asked for a divorce, he would never let me off easily.
But I wasn't afraid.
For whatever was left of my life, I no longer wanted to please anyone. I only wanted to be myself.
