Chapter 5
Chapter 4
I was halfway through packing when Michael called.
I picked up.
He sounded anxious.
"What did you mean by what you said earlier?" he asked.
There was the sound of wind outside, and Emily's sobs drifted up from downstairs.
I said, "I meant it, literally."
"Can you stop making a fuss? Her hand is hurt," he said.
"Is it serious?"
He paused.
"No, but she's scared," he said.
I laughed.
"Michael, do you remember when I cut my hand chopping vegetables last month?" I asked.
He didn't say anything.
I went on, "That day, you were downstairs fixing her light. I called you three times, but you told me not to bother you.
So, I went to the pharmacy alone to get something for the bleeding, and when I came back, I left a trail of blood in the elevator."
There was silence on the other end for a couple of seconds.
Emily's voice came through at the right moment.
"Michael, don't worry about me. Go back to Sophia. She must be upset," she said.
I could totally picture her through the phone.
Band-Aid on her hand, tears not too many, not too few, enough to look pitiful.
Michael said, "I'll come back once she's calmed down."
I said, "No need."
"Sophia," he said.
"You won't be able to get in even if you come back. I've changed the password."
"Are you out of your mind?"
I didn't bother listening to him anymore. I hung up on him.
That night, he banged on the door for half an hour.
He went from pissed off to trying to explain himself, and finally sounded completely worn out.
"Sophia, open the door.
"I know you're not asleep.
"There's really nothing going on between me and me, I promise.
"She's really sensitive," he said.
I stood inside, listening through the door.
Back then, I used to get anxious whenever he was outside.
I was afraid he'd get cold.
I was afraid the neighbors would laugh at us.
I was afraid we'd end up making a mess of our lives.
But that night, I found it funny.
He was worried about Emily being upset, scared, and not being able to handle things on her own.
But he didn't care that I was stuck inside, letting my last bit of hope slowly burn out.
At one in the morning, he finally left.
I peeked out through the peephole.
Emily was standing at the end of the hallway.
She had his jacket draped over her shoulders; her face buried in her scarf.
When she saw him, she stepped back.
Like she was afraid of being a burden to him.
He walked over and spoke to her.
She shook her head.
He tried again.
Only then did she slowly follow him downstairs.
At that moment, I finally saw the truth.
It wasn't that she was playing him.
He wanted to feel needed.
The next day, I didn't go to work.
I sorted his stuff into three piles.
The things he needed most, I left by the door.
The things he could do without, I packed up.
I took my things and left.
The apartment was mine, bought before we got married.
When he moved in, he only brought a suitcase and an old laptop.
Back then, I thought it didn't matter.
When two people lived together, they couldn't pick every little thing.
But now, thinking back, if one didn't sort out their feelings, someone else would.
At noon, my mother-in-law called.
She directly said, "Sophia, why did you kick Michael out?"
I put her on speaker and kept packing boxes.
"He left on his own," I said.
"What couple doesn't argue? You're a woman. Don't be so stubborn."
"He went downstairs to comfort another woman in the middle of the night, and you expect me to let it go?"
She paused.
"I've heard him mention Emily before. Poor thing, she's really had a tough time," she said.
I laughed.
"So, you know about her too?" I asked.
"Michael told me she's from out of town, not in great shape, and nobody's around to help her out. As his real wife, can't you cut her some slack?" she said.
I stopped taping the box.
"His real wife?" I said.
"Yeah," she said.
"So, you do remember I'm the one he's actually married to."
She went quiet.
I continued, "Maybe you should remind your son what time a real husband is supposed to come home."
She got annoyed.
"What's with that attitude? Men are supposed to be out there, helping people and making connections. As long as he still cares about his family, that's all that matters," she said.
I asked, "If he really cares about his family, then why did I have to change the door code?"
She was stumped, so she tried a different angle.