Chapter 1
The door wasn't locked.
I stood at my own front door, suitcase in hand, my keys still tucked away in my pocket.
The door was left slightly ajar.
The living room light was on. On the coffee table sat a half-full glass of water, with streaks of milk clinging to the inside of the glass.
I'd been gone for three months on business. This apartment was supposed to be empty.
I heard a cry coming from the master bedroom.
A baby was crying.
I don't have a kid.
The crying stopped for a second, then a woman's voice came, soft and soothing. "Don't cry, don't cry. Daddy will be back soon."
Daddy?
I set my suitcase down, the wheels hitting the doorframe with a thud.
The woman's voice in the master bedroom suddenly fell silent.
*****
The shoe rack by the entryway was left open.
On the top shelf were the shoes I'd left before my trip—my sneakers, heels, and slippers. But now, they'd been shoved into the corner.
The middle two shelves were filled with shoes I'd never seen before.
All women's shoes. Pink slippers, red high heels, and some flats with cute little bows.
On the bottom shelf were baby items—tiny socks and soft-soled shoes, all neatly arranged.
I fixed my gaze on the pink slippers, feeling a strange sense of unease.
The soles were scuffed. Whoever wore them had been here for a while.
The master bedroom door swung open.
A young woman stepped out, cradling a baby. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore pajamas—the kind that had been washed so many times they were soft and faded.
She froze when she saw me.
"You're..." she said, trailing off in confusion.
I glanced at the baby in her arms. It looked like it had just been born, bundled up in a pale blue blanket.
The swaddling was new, but the small blanket covering the baby was one I recognized—it was a wedding gift from a friend, always kept on top of my closet.
"This is my home," I said.
She stepped back.
"Michael said... you two are already divorced," she murmured.
I stayed silent.
I walked into the living room.
On the coffee table, besides the half-full glass of milk, there was a can of formula, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle sterilizer. The sterilizer was plugged in, its power light glowing green.
There was the TV I bought, the sofa I picked out, and the bookshelf I spent three weekends putting together.
Everything was still here.
But it was not mine anymore.
I turned to look at the kitchen.
There was a piece of paper stuck to the fridge, held up by the magnets I'd bought.
It read: [Baby's meal schedule—7:00 AM: cereal, 10:00 AM: fruit puree, 12:30 PM: egg yolk...]
The handwriting was soft and bubbly, with a cute little sun doodled beside it.
I ripped the paper off the fridge.
The fridge magnets dropped to the floor.
The woman stayed by the master bedroom door, too nervous to step forward. And the baby began to cry again.
"When did you move in?" I asked.
She paused, then said, "April."
April.
I left for my business trip on March 15th.
Only two weeks.
Just two weeks—that was all he waited.
My phone rang. Michael Johnson's name flashed on the screen.
I didn't pick up.
The phone rang three times before the call was cut off.
Then a WhatsApp message popped up: [Honey, are you home yet? I'm working overtime, so I'll be back later.]
Honey?
Working overtime?
Be back later?
Which home is he coming back to?
I switched off my phone and stepped into the master bedroom.
The sheets had been swapped out. The gray-blue set I'd laid out before my trip was gone, replaced by pink floral ones. On the nightstand were a baby monitor, hand cream, and a box of postnatal vitamins.
I opened the closet.
The left side used to be where my clothes were.
But now, it was not my spot anymore.
All that hung there were things I'd never seen before—dresses, nursing tops, anti-radiation vests.
Where did my clothes go?
I pulled open the bottom drawer.
There they were.
My clothes were crammed into the bottom drawer, packed so tightly that some were already creased and wrinkled.
Pressed flat on top was my marriage certificate and some photos.
I took them out and flipped them open.
In the photo, Michael and I were leaning against each other, smiling.
My finger slid along the edge of the marriage certificate.
The paper was so thin.
It drew a thin line of blood across my finger.
I put away the marriage certificate.
In the living room, the woman was making a call, keeping her voice low. But I overheard her say, "She's back."
I stepped out of the master bedroom and walked out to the balcony.
Grown-up clothes and tiny baby ones were hanging in a row, crowding the whole rail.
I'd put up that clothesline myself.
I stood there for a while.
My phone rang again. It was Michael.
This time, I picked up.
"Wendy—" he said.
"When are you coming home?" I asked.
There was a pause on the other end.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
I stared at the row of clothes hanging on the balcony. Not a single one was mine.
"Let's talk when you get home," I said.
Then, I hung up.
Downstairs, I heard a car engine start up, then a car door slam shut—someone was definitely in a rush.
The elevator was coming up.
I sat down on the sofa in the living room. I picked it out myself—an IKEA one, cost me 899. I dragged it home from the warehouse all by myself, since he said he had to work late that day.
The door opened.
Michael stood at the entrance.
He looked at me, then at the woman by the master bedroom door.
Then he did something I didn't expect—He closed the door.
He closed the door quietly, as if he didn't want the neighbors to overhear.
"Wendy, let me explain," he said.
When he said that, he wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at her.
He shot her a meaningful look, as if signaling her.
I saw it.