Chapter 1
The night his first love, Clara Hart, came back to town after her divorce, my husband, Michael Bennett, didn't sleep a wink.
He sat on the balcony, smoking, and said, "Raising a kid all by herself that's gotta be rough for any woman."
I, Sarah Shaw, deliberately poured the warmed milk down the sink and said, "Why don't you go take care of her, then."
He thought I was being petty.
The next day, I packed his bags and dropped him off outside Clara's building.
He stood by the car, holding the suitcase I'd packed for him.
"What's this supposed to mean?" he asked.
I rolled down the window and handed him the bag of his usual stomach meds from the passenger seat.
"Your stomach's always acting up, so don't drink cold water. And if her kid throws a fit, don't get annoyed. Didn't you say it's tough for her?"
He stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time.
Upstairs, the curtains moved.
Clara was on the balcony, holding her kid, dressed in white, her eyes red from crying. Even from here, I could tell how vulnerable she looked.
He looked back without thinking.
That look made me smile.
"Go on," I said.
He frowned. "Don't make a scene."
I said, "I'm not causing drama. I'm giving you the life you wanted."
His face fell.
I didn't look back. I hit the gas and drove off.
In the rearview mirror, he was still standing there, not moving for a long time.
Clara came downstairs.
She didn't even glance at the suitcase. Her eyes went straight to the back of my car.
Then she pulled him into a gentle embrace.
He didn't resist her.
Alright.
From this moment on, his past, his regrets, his first love were not my concern anymore.
When I got home, the first thing I did was toss his slippers into the trash.
Next, I cleared out the fridge and dumped all his favorite dishes.
Then I ordered in some spicy crawfish with extra heat, extra garlic, and extra cilantro.
For the past three years, because of his weak stomach, there wasn't a single spicy dish in the house.
He didn't like cilantro, so I never bought any.
He couldn't take anything spicy, so I always used half a packet of seasoning in our instant noodles.
Now, as I sat at the dining table, peeling my first crawfish, my phone rang.
It was him.
I answered.
He spoke in a low voice, "Did you really send all my stuff over?"
I took a bite of crawfish. "Otherwise, what was I supposed to do? Send half and look petty?"
"What are you really after?"
"I want to help you get what you want."
There was a brief silence on the other end.
Then Clara's soft voice floated over. "Is she mad? Maybe you should go back. I really don't want to cause any trouble between you two."
He jumped in, "This isn't about you."
I couldn't help but laugh.
He heard me.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
I said, "Nothing, thinking you two are a perfect match. One's always acting, the other's always buying it."
His voice turned icy. "Don't talk like that."
"If you don't like it, hang up."
I hung up.
That night, I slept better than I had in three years.
No more staying up late waiting for him to come home.
No more warming up his dinner.
No more listening to him vent about work at 1 AM, then making him a glass of honey water.
No more watching him sit on the edge of the bed after his shower, spacing out, and then ask, "If she hadn't left back then, would things have been different?"
I used to act clueless, pretending I didn't understand what he was really saying.
But in the end, I learned the hard way: playing dumb only hurts you the most.
The next morning at eight, he showed up to grab some files.
I had stepped off the treadmill, hadn't even wiped off the sweat yet.
He froze for a moment when he saw me in my workout tank top.
"When did you start working out?" he asked.
I wiped the sweat from my neck with a towel. "Right after you left."
His brows furrowed. "I didn't move out."
"Oh, so what is this? Recycling your youth?"
He was left speechless.