Chapter 3

I walked into the bedroom and pulled a manila envelope out of the drawer. It was still sealed. I brought it out and set it on the dining table in front of Xavier.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Divorce papers," I said. "I've already signed them."

His fork clattered onto his plate.

He looked up at me. This time, he held my gaze for a long moment. "Are you crazy?"

"No, I'm not. I've thought it through all night. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Xavier stood up, pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape. He stared at me, his brows furrowed. "Just because I didn't come home last night? Just because I forgot our anniversary? Susan, when did you get so unreasonable?"

I looked at him, and memories of our wedding day eight years ago flooded back.

That day, he wore a crisp white shirt, standing at the hotel entrance, welcoming guests. The heat was relentless, sweat streaming down his forehead, but he never stopped smiling.

With every guest, he greeted them and proudly said, "This is my wife, Susan Smith."

That night, I asked him, "Why did you marry me?" He answered, "Because you're good to me."

Because I was good to him. Not because he loved me.

I never really understood what he meant by that. But by the time I finally did, it was already too late.

"Xavier," I said, "when will you realize that if you never take the initiative, it means you never loved me?"

He froze.

"In the eight years of our marriage," I continued, "have you ever just bought me a gift, without me hinting or asking? Have you ever told me you love me, just because you wanted to?

"Have you ever remembered our anniversary without me reminding you? Have you ever asked me how my day was?"

He stayed silent.

"No," I said. "Not once. Not ever."

"It's because I'm busy with work..." he started.

"I know you're busy," I cut him off. "You're so busy you don't have time to reply to my texts, pick up my calls, or even have a meal with me.

"But you have time to celebrate your assistant's birthday, post on Instagram, and you're wearing the sweater I made for you when you're with her."

His expression shifted. "That sweater—"

"I know," I said. "You really look good in it."

His lips parted, but he couldn't say a word.

"I saw the scarf, too," I added. "I searched all over the city for that limited edition, and I embroidered your name on it myself. And you gave it to her."

"Because she was cold."

"She was cold, so you wrapped the scarf I bought for you around her. She's alone in Blackroot, so you organized a birthday party for her.

"She needed someone to take care of her, so you went to be with her wearing the sweater I made for you."

I let out a bitter laugh and wiped away the tears I hadn't realized were falling. "Xavier, then who's going to take care of me?"

He didn't answer.

I pointed at the envelope on the table. "I've already signed. You can sign whenever you want. I don't want the house, I don't want the car, and you can keep whatever you want from the savings. There's just one thing I want."

"What?" he asked.

"The scarf. It was not for her."

I headed for the bedroom.

He called out to me, "Susan!"

I didn't look back.

On our wedding day, I must've said the name Xavier twenty-eight times. Every time, I couldn't help but smile, thinking how wonderful it sounded, how happy I was that he belonged to me.

But later, I learned that names were strange things. Say them enough, and one got used to them. Say them enough, and one stopped caring. In the end, it was only a name, merely letters, nothing more.

I closed the bedroom door and started gathering my things.

The sunlight outside was warm, the windows spotless. But inside, the room stayed dim; nothing could light it up anymore.

*****

I moved into a rented place near my office.

It was a one-bedroom apartment, about 530 square feet, with a monthly rent of around 1,500 dollars. One-month deposit, three months' rent upfront. About 5,600 dollars was gone in a flash.

When I swiped my credit card and saw the total on the screen, my heart skipped a beat.

For eight years, I never had to worry about money. Xavier would put 7 thousand into my account every month, calling it household expenses. I never spent it all, so I saved it. After eight years, there were over 330 thousand sitting in that account.

When I left, I didn't touch that account. I only took my own salary card.

I worked as an editor at a publishing house, pulling in a little over 2 thousand a month.

Xavier used to say my job was just a hobby, that I didn't even make enough to buy a handbag. I never argued with him. But now, I was glad I had that "hobby" job.