Chapter 6
I walked around the studio and spotted a photo on the wall. It was Vanessa with a little girl, maybe five or six years old, her hair in two pigtails.
She looked just like her mom, and even at that age, she had that heartbreakingly adorable look.
Next to the photo was a hand-drawn card, the words scrawled in childish handwriting: [Daddy Quinn, thank you for My Little Pony. I love it. I love you.]
The handwriting was clumsy and childish, clearly written by a little kid.
Daddy Quinn.
My own son called Michael Daddy, because they were really related.
But another man's daughter called Michael Daddy, too, and she was even more attached to him than his own flesh and blood.
I took a quick pic of the card.
Vanessa noticed me checking out the photo and came over with a smile. "My daughter made that card. She loves doodling."
"That's cute," I said. "So, who's Daddy Quinn?"
She looked a little awkward for a moment, but quickly smiled again. "Oh, just a friend. My daughter gets along with him really well."
A "friend".
She actually called Michael "a friend".
But this so-called "friend" gave her 5,000 dollars every month, bought her an apartment, played the role of a father to her daughter, helped her flower studio get clients, and poured his heart and most of his money into her.
And yet, Vanessa casually called him "a friend".
Suddenly, I realized this woman was even scarier than I'd imagined.
She wasn't just enjoying Michael's kindness. She was training him, molding him to fit her needs.
She made him feel like he owed her, like everything he did was just expected of him, like he wasn't good enough for her, and the only way to stay in her good graces was to keep giving, over and over.
And Michael, the guy who could handle anything in the company, was nothing but a loyal pet at her feet.
I bought two bouquets—one for myself, and the other I asked Sophie to take back to the hotel for me.
As we walked out of the studio, Sophie asked, "So? Did you see everything clearly?"
"Yeah," I replied.
"How did it make you feel?"
I thought for a moment and said, "It was like watching a magic show. When you don't see how it's done, it's amazing. But once you do, all you see are the cheap props."
Back at the hotel, I opened the bouquet and found Vanessa's business card tucked inside.
On the back, in her elegant handwriting, she'd written: [Thank you for visiting. May happiness always be with you. —Vanessa.]
Her handwriting was neat and gentle, just like she was.
I slipped the card into my folder.
*****
Two weeks later, I went through the abortion.
As the anesthesia faded, I lay in the hospital bed, my belly aching. Sophie held my hand, her eyes rimmed with tears.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"No," I said. "It's nothing compared to how much my heart hurts."
Before the surgery, the doctor asked, "Is there a family member here to sign the consent?"
"No family member. I'll sign it myself," I replied.
The doctor glanced at me and didn't say anything else.
As I lay on the operating table, only one thought echoed in my mind: this baby shouldn't come into this world.
It was not that I didn't love it. It was that its father didn't deserve it. In fact, he didn't deserve to have any children at all.
A man who cherished someone else's kid like a treasure, but treated his own like a prop, didn't deserve to be a father.
A man who used his wife as a tool and put his mistress on a pedestal didn't deserve to have a family.
I closed my eyes, and as the cold instrument touched my body, silent tears slipped down my cheeks and soaked into my hair.
I felt sorry for this child since I couldn't protect it, but I wouldn't let it be used by Michael.
Goodbye.
*****
Three days after I was discharged, I arranged a time to discuss our divorce with Michael.
It was Saturday, and Oliver was at my parents' place. So it was just the two of us at home.
Michael sat on the couch, and I sat across from him, separated by a coffee table. On it was the coffee he'd just brewed, his absolute favorite.
I placed the folder on the coffee table and slid it toward him.
"Take a look," I said.
He shot me a puzzled look, but still reached for the folder, untied the string, and dumped out everything inside.
There were bank statements, shopping receipts, photo screenshots, transfer records, and a picture of that hand-drawn card.
He flipped through the pages, his face shifting from confusion to shock, then going pale, and finally turning livid.
The room was so quiet that I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
When he reached the last page, he looked up at me, his lips parted, but he hesitated.
"Erica..." His voice was rough. "Let me explain."
"Go ahead," I said, my tone as calm as if we were just talking about the weather.
He was silent for a long time.
I thought Michael would deny it, make excuses, or try to talk his way out of it. But he didn't. After a long silence, he said something I'd never forget. "You've already had my body and my company.
"So what if I give my money and my heart to Vanessa? Don't act like you're not satisfied. Honestly, I was always meant to be hers."
He said it like he was totally justified, like he had every right to say it.
Like I was being unreasonable. Like I'd already gotten more than I deserved, and still wasn't satisfied. Like the scraps of "body and company" he tossed my way were some kind of blessing I wasn't even worthy of.
I looked at Michael, the man I'd been married to for five years, the one who squeezed out my toothpaste every morning, the one who washed my underwear by hand every night, and the man everyone thought was the perfect husband.
Suddenly, I laughed.