I never understood how a man who rationed every syllable around me could have endless things to say to someone else.
Now, I no longer cared to understand.
The phone screen lit up in my palm. The transfer email sat in my inbox.
I tapped “Confirm” without hesitation.
That morning, it was Denys who woke me, out in the hallway.
He was humming some nameless lullaby for Cornelia, who had just gotten off the night shift.
A sudden, vicious cramp tore through my lower abdomen. I doubled over and bit down hard, riding it out.
Ten minutes passed before it eased. Sweat beaded across my forehead.
I exhaled slowly, swung my legs off the bed, and went to find something to eat.
Denys glanced at my face and hung up his call：
“Is it your period? Still hurting?”
I didn't answer him. I sat down at the dining table in silence.
A few minutes later, he came over carrying a bowl of steaming herbal chicken porridge：
“Made this just for you. Good for replenishing your blood. The doctor said your right hand took serious trauma, so you need consistent, careful nourishment.”
I was about to take a sip.
Denys reached over and gently pressed my hand down.
“Wait. Don't eat yet.”
He stepped back, adjusted the angle, and snapped a photo of the bowl.
His fingers flew across the screen, sending the picture to Cornelia.
I tightened my grip on the spoon：“Why are you sending that to her?”
“Cornelia just got promoted from intern. She's stressed, and her stomach acts up whenever she stays up late. She wants to learn how to make healthy recipes.”
Denys pocketed his phone, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact.
“She's fresh out of college, everything's new and exciting to her. Last time she saw your nightgown set, she wouldn't stop asking about it.”
My hand paused on the spoon.
“So you took her to buy one?”
Denys assumed I was just making conversation and kept scrolling through his phone：“Yeah. It was on the way.”
He didn't need to answer, really. I'd already seen it on Cornelia's feed from the night before.
In the photo, she wore an identical deep-V silk and lace nightgown, one bare shoulder slipping into view.
The background was her bedroom headboard.
And Denys' favorite tie was draped loosely over her nightstand.
Cornelia seemed to have an almost obsessive fixation on owning everything I owned.
My lipstick shade. My signature woody perfume.
Even the things I treasured most, she had to claim her share.
Last month, I spotted a hand-stitched leather journal on Cornelia's desk.
I had made it for our third wedding anniversary, back when my right hand still worked. I'd stayed up through the night, pushing a needle through stiff leather until my fingers bled, stitching it together for Denys myself.
On the inside cover, our anniversary date was embossed in steel-pressed lettering.
When I asked Denys about it, his explanation came out like it was nothing：
“Cornelia's been so scatterbrained lately. She saw me using it, said your craftsmanship was amazing, so I just let her have it for work notes.”
“It's just a notebook. Don't be so sensitive.”
“I don't like copycats.”
I stared at the porridge cooling in front of me. My voice didn't waver.
Denys frowned：
“Come on, really? She looks up to you. She thinks you have great taste and knows how to live well, so she copies you. You're not a kid anymore. Be the bigger person.”
Before, hearing that would have made me hurl the spoon across the room. I would have screamed at him until my throat gave out. I would have shredded that nightgown into ribbons.
But now, looking at this man I had loved for so many years, I couldn't summon a single ripple of feeling.
Still water. Not even the wind could disturb it.
“Fine.”
