Chapter 2
Maybe I was too carefree by nature, or maybe he was just that good at covering his tracks.
In all those years, I never spotted a single red flag.
I never imagined in my wildest dreams that he'd already set up a whole other family on the side—let alone with our former nanny, Lucy.
When she quit, she claimed she was heading back home to get married. I even slipped her some extra cash as a parting gift.
After that, her social media was full of posts about gold jewelry, fancy perfumes, and bouquets of flowers.
I assumed she'd landed a great husband and was thrilled for her, often hitting the like button.
Little did I know, I'd end up as the punchline to the cruelest joke of all.
Before I knew it, tears were blurring my vision, but Rickey just stood there with his arms folded, staring at me coldly without offering a single word of comfort.
Just then, his phone rang. He picked it up right in front of me, not even trying to hide it.
"Hey, baby, calling me now? You missing Daddy?"
His tone was so warm and affectionate.
Rickey didn't even bother putting on an act anymore, letting his fatherly love spill out unchecked.
"Daddy's tied up at the moment. You and your brother hang tight—I'll be home before you know it."
Home?
That word hit me like a jolt, sending shivers down my spine.
If Lucy's place with the kids was "home," then what did that make the apartment we'd shared for ten years?
In a rage, I snatched the kettle off the coffee table and flung it at him.
He sidestepped it without batting an eye, then strolled out to the balcony to keep talking.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, I could see him clearly, chuckling with genuine delight, his crow's feet creasing in happiness.
A short while later, his parents from downstairs arrived.
The entire family had stopped pretending altogether. Right there in my face, they gushed excitedly about heading over to see their darling grandson, with Rickey offering to drive them.
My mother-in-law, clearly anxious I might come along, plastered on a fake smile. "Tamra, you really ought to stay put. It'd just make everything awkward for us all!"
My father-in-law beamed like he'd won the lottery. "We are giving each of the kids 30 thousand dollars as a little welcome present—not bad, huh?"
The three of them prattled on about the other woman and the children without a second thought, as if I weren't even there.
Nobody noticed me trembling from head to toe, my face pale as a ghost.
A searing pain gripped my chest, and I slumped weakly to the floor.
They headed out as a merry group, chattering and laughing, without so much as a backward glance at me.
Once they left, the stress must have gotten to me—I suddenly came down with a raging fever. I didn't even have the energy to stand up and fetch some medicine.
I tried to cry, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out—not a sound.
This had to be what it felt like to wish for death.
Three full days passed without a peep from Rickey—no calls, no texts.
Lucy's social media was packed with cozy snapshots of her and Rickey, radiating that perfect couple vibe I could almost feel through the screen.
Me? I might as well have vanished from the face of the earth.
When footsteps echoed outside the door, I half-thought I was imagining them.
I figured Rickey had finally remembered I existed, but his first words on seeing me were, "Get up already and tidy the house. Lucy's on her way with the kids to move in!"
My fever still hadn't broken, and my voice came out raspy and weak, "I'm sick... I can't muster the strength..."
That was when Rickey finally took in my worn-out appearance. He leaned down and touched my forehead. "How'd you end up with a fever...?"
The moment blurred into echoes of memories from years past.
Back in the early days of my startup, I was infamous in our social circle as a relentless workaholic—the type who pushed herself to the limit, relying on her youth and never giving a second thought to self-care.
Every morning, Rickey would slip out of bed quietly at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast for me. Come lunchtime, he'd make the extra effort to swing by home, cook up a meal, and drop it off at my office.
No matter how late my business dinners dragged on, I'd always come back to a warm light glowing in the window.
He'd brew me a hangover pill without fail and refuse to let me crash until he'd seen me finish it.
Any time I spiked a fever, he'd fuss over me endlessly, lecturing away.
"How are you sick again? I've told you a hundred times—with this flu season raging, you need to mask up when you head out. Why do you never listen?
"Your body's your biggest asset; without good health, what's the use of chasing success? Skipped your pills again, didn't you? The bottle's barely touched—you clearly haven't been taking them!"
His nagging would drive me nuts, and I'd snap, "You're starting to sound just like my mom!"
But he'd never get upset; he'd just grin and carry on pampering me with that quiet, devoted attention.
In the thick of those years when his parents were pressuring us nonstop about kids, I reached my limit one evening. Hammered and sobbing, I pleaded with him to let me go—to divorce.
"In my world, divorce doesn't exist—only losing a spouse to death!"
His hand shook as he gripped the hangover soup, his eyes bloodshot and brimming with unshed tears.
Deep down, I knew he was suffering more than I was.
Those disgusting herbal brews—I couldn't stomach even a sip, but he downed them religiously for years.