Chapter 1

After four years of taking care of my paralyzed mother-in-law, my husband slapped a divorce agreement on the table while I was ironing his shirt.

He expected me to cry. He expected me to beg. Instead, I picked up the pen and signed it before he could even blink. Outside the courthouse, he caught up with me. "Why didn't you even put up a fight?"

I smiled. "Did you really think all I did these past four years was clean up after your mother?" There was a lot he didn't know.

*****

When Michael Grant slapped the divorce agreement onto the coffee table, I was standing there ironing his white shirt.

The collar needed two passes with the steam, and the cuffs had to be folded perfectly. He had a project presentation tomorrow. This was the shirt he planned to wear.

"Evelyn, take a look at this." He stood behind me, his tone as casual as if he were telling me to pay the utility bill.

I switched off the iron. When I turned around, I saw the A4 sheets on the coffee table with two bold black words, "Divorce Agreement," staring back at me.

"Take a look at the terms. If there's anything you don't like, we can change it." He slipped both hands into his pockets and tilted his head slightly.

He looked completely at ease. He had probably rehearsed this moment in his head countless times.

I didn't touch the agreement. Instead, I picked up the freshly ironed shirt, gave it a quick shake, and hung it on the hanger. "Put it on tomorrow. It'll be fine for the meeting."

"Aren't you going to look at it?" Michael pressed.

"I'll read it later. Margaret needs her medicine."

The door at the end of the hallway was open. The TV was blaring inside, playing some health and wellness program.

Margaret Grant was slumped against three pillows on the bed, the entire right side of her body completely paralyzed.

When she saw me walk in, the corner of her mouth drooped as she mumbled, "Medicine."

"Coming." I opened the pillbox on her bedside table and took out four different kinds of pills. I crushed them, mixed them into water, and brought the spoon to her lips.

She swallowed slowly. Half of it dribbled down the corner of her mouth, over her chin, and onto her bib.

I grabbed a tissue and wiped it clean. I'd done this for four years. I could have done it with my eyes closed.

"Where's Michael?" Margaret mumbled.

"He's in the living room," I replied.

"Get him."

"He's busy right now. Let me finish giving you your medicine first."

"Not you. Your medicine tastes bitter." She suddenly slapped the bed hard with her left hand. "You're doing this on purpose. You want to poison me. Michael!"

Her shrill, cracked voice carried down the hallway.

A moment later, I heard Michael's slippers dragging across the floor. He came over at an unhurried pace and stopped in the doorway. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"She gave me poison." Margaret pointed at me, her hand shaking badly.

Michael glanced at me. He wasn't defending or blaming me. He looked tired, like he'd heard the same thing too many times.

He walked over and took the spoon from my hand. "Mom, let me do it."

Margaret immediately settled down. She opened her mouth and swallowed each spoonful obediently.

It was the same medicine. The same bitter taste. But when it came from a different pair of hands, it wasn't poison anymore.

I stood to the side and watched them.

Michael was out of practice. He spilled quite a bit onto the blanket. He frowned and started feeding her faster.

Margaret choked on one mouthful and coughed until her face turned bright red.

He set the spoon down beside the bowl. "Evelyn, you do it."

I took the spoon back. I patted Margaret's back and waited for her breathing to settle before continuing to feed her.

Michael stood up, brushed off his clothes, and headed back toward the living room. He took two steps, then stopped. "Evelyn."

"Yeah?" I replied.

"Take a look at the agreement tonight. I'll be free tomorrow morning. We can go and get the paperwork done."

With that, he shut the study door.

I finished giving Margaret her last spoonful of medicine and wiped her mouth and chin clean.

She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly grinned. "Good. Get a divorce. Let you get out of here."

I pulled the blanket up over her. "Get some sleep, Margaret."

When I returned to the living room, the divorce agreement was still spread out on the coffee table.

I sat down and picked it up. The house would go to him. We had 40,000 dollars in joint savings from our marriage, so we'd each get 20,000.

On top of that, he would give me another 6,000 dollars as compensation, with the note: [In appreciation of the other party's contributions to the family during the marriage.]

That came to 26,000 dollars in total.

I did the math. Four years and more than 1,400 days came out to less than 20 dollars a day, which wasn't even enough to hire a live-in housekeeper.

I turned to the last page. The signature line was still blank. I picked up the pen from the coffee table and uncapped it. "Fine."

No one answered from the other end of the couch. Michael was still in the study.

I signed my name in the section for Party B. It took me only a few seconds.

When I finished, I put the pen back where it had been.

Something loosened inside me. It felt like I'd finally unclenched a fist I'd been holding tight for four years.