When I woke again, I was in the hospital.
The nurse told me I'd been unconscious for two days.
Two days, and Malcolm hadn't come once.
I picked up my phone and opened Lillian's Instagram.
Sunsets over the ocean. The deck of a yacht. Streetlights glowing in some foreign city.
Malcolm was in every single photo.
He was afraid the incident might have traumatized Lillian, so he'd whisked her away on a world tour.
The corner of my mouth twitched. Inside, I felt nothing at all.
The day I was discharged, the Hensons came.
They pressed the green card into my hand, their voices dripping with satisfaction, almost approval:
"Well done. You actually got Malcolm to care about Lillian this much."
"The divorce. Is it taken care of?"
My voice came out flat, without a single ripple: "Don't worry about it."
Only then did they leave, reassured.
Not one of them asked why I was in a hospital.
Twenty years I'd been their family, and not a single person asked about my injuries.
That was fine. It meant I wouldn't miss them when I was gone.
That evening, Malcolm finally called.
His voice carried the same cold, condescending edge it always did:
"Do you know what you did wrong?"
"If you do, come home and apologize to Lillian."
He paused, as if tossing me a scrap of explanation:
"The other night was just to scare you. I had people stationed outside. Five minutes, tops, before they would've come in."
"You were never in any real danger. Stop playing the victim in some hospital bed. You know I don't fall for sympathy acts."
I held the phone against my ear. The wound on my lower back throbbed.
The cold from the water still seemed to cling to my bones.
I let out a quiet "Mm."
Whatever Malcolm said, I agreed.
He must have sensed my compliance, because his tone softened. There was even a hint of amusement in it:
"Good that you've come to your senses. Lillian isn't here to break us apart. As long as you're willing to accept her, you'll always be Mrs. Delgado."
"If you hadn't refused to have children, things never would've gotten this far."
One simple sentence, and somehow every bit of blame landed on me.
"Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary."
"I'm giving you one last chance to choose. If you're willing to have a child, we go back to the way things were."
Right then, a message arrived from the attorney.
Ms. Henson, the divorce has been finalized.
I smiled.
A single tear slid from the corner of my eye, soundless.
I spoke into the phone, my voice soft and obedient:
"Sure. Tomorrow's our anniversary. Maybe I'll change my mind."
Malcolm's tone lifted with an unconscious pleasure:
"See? I knew you'd come around, sweetheart. I've already booked a candlelit dinner for tomorrow."
"It'll be an anniversary you'll never forget."
I answered quietly: "Okay."
Malcolm Delgado, you have no idea that I'm leaving.
I wonder if that counts as unforgettable.
I held my green card and the divorce papers, and three hours later I boarded a flight to the States.
I popped the SIM card out of my phone and dropped it into a trash bag.
Every asset had already been transferred to a new account.
Every tie had been severed, inch by inch.
Clouds churned outside the cabin window.
Malcolm Delgado, you and I will never meet again.
Those entangled loves and hatreds, that debt of upbringing—all of it has nothing to do with the free person I am now. And I will carry this new version of myself forward into a new life.
