Right below Joshua's post, a new update appeared from Brooklyn Winfield. The exact same photo.
Her caption read: Mommy and Daddy are both here. Coco looks so happy all of a sudden~
I stared at the screen, then tapped the like button and typed a comment with mechanical precision.
What an innocent family of three.
I turned off my phone. The moment the screen went black, the numbness in my chest shattered—a massive void torn open inside me, hollow and unfillable.
Only silence remained. And helplessness.
Once the tremors in my hands subsided, I unlocked my phone again. I needed to contact a lawyer. I needed a divorce agreement drafted immediately.
I navigated back to my social feed, only to find Joshua's post had vanished. Deleted.
In its place, a message from him popped up—an apology unprecedented in our five years of marriage.
"Paige, I spoke too harshly earlier. I apologize. But you know the reality—we're ten years apart. There's absolutely no possibility of anything happening between us. Why drag our names through the mud? What do you want Brooklyn to think?"
Before I could reply, a photo from Brooklyn arrived. Deliberately provocative.
She was wearing my silk pajamas, nestled deep in Joshua's arms.
"Paige, Joshua has liked me for seven years. You were right about one thing tonight: if I hadn't been underage back then, you never would have stood a chance."
"If you want to save face, be sensible and leave now."
"After all, in any relationship, the one who isn't loved is the actual third wheel. You don't want to be the mistress in my relationship with Joshua, do you?"
My fingers hovered over the screen. My vision blurred, hot tears distorting those cruel words.
Two minutes later, I wiped my face. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of my silence. I'd put a period on this farce myself.
I typed: "I'm withdrawing, but not because I admit defeat. I simply don't compete with animals for scraps."
The insult hit its mark. Brooklyn's composure cracked, and she flooded my phone with more intimate photos.
Joshua blow-drying her hair. Joshua cooking for her. Joshua kissing her...
A stinging soreness spread behind my eyes. I recognized these acts of service—the very things I'd done for Joshua over the last seven years.
I loved him, so I served him willingly.
Now the roles were reversed.
My mind drifted back seven years. Brooklyn Winfield was the bright-eyed girl I'd met while volunteer teaching in the mountains. She had grit and clarity in her gaze that I admired. Ignoring Joshua's objections, I'd taken half my salary to sponsor her education.
Joshua, cold by nature, disliked getting involved in other people's karma. His attitude toward Brooklyn had always been indifferent—neither warm nor cold.
Or so I thought.
Brooklyn was sixteen then. The moment she received the first smartphone I bought her, she posted a status saying she wanted to raise a cat.
That same year, Joshua—who supposedly hated pets—suddenly brought a cat home. Unprecedented. He'd offered only one short explanation.
"It's pitiful."
The realization hit me like a physical blow. He hadn't been talking about the cat.
I thought of Brooklyn's social media history. Every year, on the anniversary of Joshua adopting Coco, she posted an update. I'd never connected the dots until now.
Year 1: "One year old. You said the gap between us is too wide. Just wait—I'll catch up to you. Wait for me to grow up, okay?"
Year 2: "Two years old. He says it misses me. I don't know if he means the cat... or himself."
Year 3: "Three years old. He wants to give it a complete home, but I'm still too young. I can't give them a home yet."
Year 4: "Four years old. He came to find me. The night of my twentieth birthday... it hurt a little, but I was so happy."
Today marked seven years since he brought the cat home. Seven years since he and Brooklyn...
The memories crystallized. The subtle changes in Joshua over the years suddenly made sense—a dull, rusted knife sawing through my flesh, leaving me nowhere to hide.
My stomach lurched.
I scrambled to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet. I hugged the porcelain and dry-heaved until my throat burned with bile. Tears and mucus streamed down my face.
Only when the spasms stopped did a terrifying thought strike me.
My period was a week late.
I didn't sleep that night. Early the next morning, wearing dark circles like bruises, I headed out the door.
