Chapter 1

On my birthday, my husband took our son to see his first love, and they were gone far longer than expected.

After multiple calls, our son finally picked up.

"Mom, enough already. We're in the middle of dinner. Can you just relax?" he snapped.

It was well past midnight when they finally returned, bringing a mango cake with them.

My husband said impatiently, "Why make such a fuss? We didn't forget to get you a birthday cake."

I smiled bitterly without a word—they had forgotten I was allergic to mangoes.

I ended up in the hospital that night after eating all the mango on that cake out of pure spite.

When I woke up, I found myself alone in the hospital room.

I remembered how neither my husband nor my son had shown any concern when my allergic reaction started the night before.

My husband, Joseph Yates, had looked down at me with indifference as he said, "What's the drama now? If you're sick, go to the hospital yourself. I've got work tomorrow."

My son, George Yates, still half asleep, had muttered impatiently, "Can you stop being so dramatic? I've got classes in the morning."

In the end, I had to gather all my strength to call a cab and get to the hospital by myself.

The nurse who came by to remove my IV drip softly reminded me, "That was a serious reaction. Make sure you're extra careful from now on. Avoid anything that could set it off."

"Got it," I replied. I wasn't about to make that mistake again.

The moment I got home, both of them started in on me.

Joseph shot me a glare, his tone sharp. "You know you're allergic to mangoes. Then why did you eat it?"

I kept my voice low but steady. "You knew about my allergy too. Then why did you buy a mango cake in the first place?"

"Dad's been swamped," George said, jumping to his father's defense while looking at me with obvious contempt. "At least he remembered to get you a cake. It was an honest mistake, and you're the one who decided to eat it."

I turned to look directly at George, a hint of disappointment creeping in. "And you? You really don't remember what I'm allergic to?"

"With all my schoolwork and everything else I need to remember, I can't keep track of every little thing," George said, as if it were the most natural excuse in the world.

As I looked at the boy I'd devoted myself to raising, a cold sense of disappointment washed over me.

I simply turned to Joseph and said calmly, "I want a divorce."

"Divorce? Over a cake?" Joseph said with a scornful laugh. "Let's be honest, Yvette. This is on you. You're an adult. So why did you eat something you're allergic to? That's just irresponsible."

"This isn't just about the cake," I replied, keeping my tone steady.

"Then what is it?" Joseph shot back, instantly defensive. "Because we couldn't show up on time for your birthday? Or are you imagining things again? George was with me all day yesterday—what could I possibly do?

"I've told you before to stay out of my business. I have my own career, my own social circle, and my own commitments. I can't make you my priority."

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly at Joseph's self-righteous words. He always made himself sound so perfect while making me seem difficult for not simply accepting everything.

But it felt like all the pain suddenly disappeared last night while I sat there eating those mangoes through my tears.

Now, his words didn't hurt me anymore.

"I know, so I'm done meddling in your life. Let's get a divorce," I said calmly, steady as ever.

George cut in, looking disdainful, "If you get divorced, I'm not living with you."

I gave him a mocking smile. "Did I ever ask you to live with me? Even if you wanted to, I wouldn't accept it."

"Enough," Joseph said sternly. "Yvette, cut it out. I don't have time for this."

After he went back to his study, my anger faded, and I quietly applied medicine to my rash.

George glanced at my red, irritated skin with disgust. "Gross," he sneered, striding past and purposely bumping my leg on his way.

I watched him walk up the stairs, struck by the bitter irony of it all.

It was almost laughable. I could hardly believe this was the same man I had loved for so many years, the same boy I had raised with all my heart.

That night, I crashed in the guest room, and by dawn, I left that miserable house behind.

*****

I went back to my parents' place, the same old apartment I had grown up in.

I once bought them a new apartment, but they just wouldn't move in.

They said they didn't want people to think they were benefiting from my marriage to Joseph, worrying it would reflect poorly on me.

I knew my parents meant well, and it never used to bother me before. But now, I felt deeply frustrated about it.

People assumed I'd married Joseph for money, but the truth was I'd bought that apartment with my own savings. Throughout our marriage, aside from basic household expenses and raising our son George, I never took any financial advantage of him.

Despite this, everyone acted like I somehow benefited from this marriage more than Joseph did—even my own son shared this opinion.

I remember once when I brought George back to visit my parents, he glanced around their simple home and remarked, "Your family doesn't have much. You were lucky Dad chose you."

Back then, I thought he was just being a careless child, but now I realized that he had already learned his father's disrespectful ways.

Joseph never got over his first love, and his growing contempt for me taught our son to see me as just an unimportant housewife.