Chapter 3
Furious, I shoved him off me.
"Are you fucking insane?" I snapped, rubbing my neck. "Our daughter's still asleep. What the hell is wrong with you, going nuts like this?"
He stood up with a cold laugh, thrusting the laptop in my face. "You're saying I'm the crazy one?
"You've been planning this divorce for ages, haven't you? Otherwise, how could you have a complete divorce agreement ready in just a few minutes?
"Do you even realize our house and savings are worth 3 million dollars? You're really willing to walk away from all that, just to leave me?"
I paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."
It wasn't that I was being naive or blinded by love.
For the past ten years, he never took care of the family, and I'd already quietly transferred out millions of dollars; more than enough for me and our daughter to live comfortably for the rest of our lives.
Life was too short to waste chained to a painful relationship, just for money I would never even get to spend.
As for our daughter, there was no way I'd ever let him have her.
Sometimes I wondered if his whole performative 'loving husband' persona was just a tactic to seduce inexperienced young women.
I had no proof, but I just couldn't believe him anymore.
On the way back, I finally made up my mind, no more doubts, no more hesitation.
This marriage started with dignity, and I want it to end with my head held high.
Henry never let his feelings show. Whenever I used to argue with him about his coldness, about how he was physically repulsed by me, he'd just stare back at me with that frosty, unreadable look.
But now, his anger was written all over his bloodshot eyes.
Just when I thought he was about to get violent and I was desperately searching for something to defend myself, Henry suddenly smiled out of nowhere.
He put his gold-rimmed glasses back on, his eyes going flat and emotionless again.
"Olivia," he said, tossing the laptop into the fish tank without a second thought. "Divorce? Keep dreaming."
Henry slammed the door behind him, most likely heading straight for that girl.
Honestly, I just didn't get him anymore.
He was the one who couldn't stand to be near me anymore; even my touch made him sick, and just the thought of my kiss had him throwing up.
He was the first to stop loving me, the first to cheat.
So why was he suddenly so against getting a divorce?
What gave him the right to say no?
I slumped back on the couch, worn out, as memories just wouldn't stop crashing into me.
Why did it have to come to this?
Back then, he gave me his whole heart, so sincere, so full of youthful passion.
He was still a grad student, with barely any money to his name.
But somehow, he got me this awesome drum set.
He knew about the hobby I'd been hiding for years, the one my dad never let me touch.
When he heard me play my first song, he couldn't hide how excited and amazed he was.
The day he proposed was the same day he got his master's degree.
He was supposed to give the graduation speech, but he just ran over to me.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me up on stage, right in front of his advisor, classmates, friends, and the dean.
He confessed his love for me in front of everyone, not holding anything back.
He said, "I've never loved anyone like this before. I just want to marry her and spend the rest of my life with her, taking care of her.
"Everyone here is my witness. I hope that when we're old and gray, we can invite you all to our wedding anniversary celebration."
Even then, whenever I thought about it, I couldn't help but smile, remembering all the well wishes and happy tears from everyone there.
Love was something that could be felt, something shared.
Not loving was the same.
During our first year of marriage, I got pregnant, and he was working on his PhD.
He was so busy he barely had time to breathe, but he still made sure to come home every day and cook for me.
Even if he had work the next morning, whenever the baby cried in the middle of the night, he'd always tell me to keep sleeping and take care of her himself.
By our fifth year together, our daughter was in kindergarten, and he'd wrapped up his postdoc and landed a professorship.
I thought things were finally looking up for us.
But then he started coming home later and later; first it was seven, then eight, then ten.
Eventually, he just stopped coming home at night.
His work hours just kept stretching later and later.
He started coming home with all kinds of unfamiliar scents on him.
If I so much as asked about it, he'd blow up at me.
He said I just didn't understand him, that I was just dealing with postpartum depression, and that I was bored and had nothing to do at home.
I believed him and started thinking maybe it was all my fault.
I went back to work, started socializing again, hit the gym, and put more effort into my appearance.
Just when I started to believe we were actually getting better.
That night, I finally worked up the courage to be affectionate with him.
But he just stared at my waist, frowned, and said bluntly, "Your waist is huge."
No woman could hear her own husband say something like that and not go crazy.