Chapter 3
Emma moved into the small apartment.
Calling it an apartment was generous. It was a single room, barely 300 square feet, and cost her 1500 dollars a month.
The furniture was leftover from the landlord. They were old, but clean. The window faced north, so it never saw the sun, but at least it was quiet.
She unpacked her suitcase, hanging her clothes in the mini-wardrobe, lining up her skincare in the bathroom cabinet, and placing her old notebook by the bed.
Then, she took out her phone and sent a message to HR: [This is Emma Reed. I am submitting my resignation due to personal health reasons. Thank you for the opportunities over the past three years.]
She worked as an admin manager at a foreign firm. The pay wasn't high, but it was steady, and the office politics were minimal.
She had no intention of telling anyone about her illness; citing "health reasons" was vague enough to avoid questions while still being the gospel truth.
HR called almost immediately, asking if she'd found a better gig or if she wanted to negotiate. Emma declined, saying her health simply wasn't up to par and she needed to rest for a while.
The HR rep agreed, noting that the process would take about two weeks and suggesting she use up her remaining annual leaves first.
Emma hung up the phone and transferred three months' worth of rent to her landlord.
Next, she headed to the hospital to schedule her chemotherapy.
The doctor asked if she had any family members to accompany her. She said no and said she could manage on her own.
The doctor gave her a long look, like he wanted to say something, before finally signing off on the paperwork.
Her first session was set for Friday.
Emma did the math; she had four days. She decided to use that time to head back to her hometown, a small county that was a several-hour flight from Capital City.
She booked a ticket for the following day and went to the mall to pick up some gifts for her parent. She bought a cashmere sweater for her father and a silk scarf for her mother.
As she paid, she glanced at her bank balance.
She had saved 40 thousand dollars over three years of work, which, combined with her premarital savings, brought her total to about 50 thousand dollars.
Each chemo session would cost over 3000 dollars, and her insurance would cover a portion of it. She figured that as long as she didn't overdo the treatments, she'd have enough to get by.
It was enough. She didn't want a dime of Andrew's money. Not a single cent.
*****
On the day Emma flew home, Andrew worked late into the night.
When he finally returned, the living room was dark, and the kitchen lights were off. As he kicked off his shoes, he instinctively glanced toward the rack. Emma's slippers were missing.
Right, she was gone.
He opened the fridge, looking for a bite to eat. Everything inside was neatly organized. There were eggs, milk, fruit, and several containers filled with pre-prepped ingredients.
He pulled one out; it contained sliced potatoes, neatly paired with a small side of parsley and minced onions.
A sticky note was attached to the lid in Emma's familiar handwriting: [Soak the potatoes in water before sautéing to wash off the starch. They'll be crispier that way.]
Andrew stared at the sticky note and suddenly felt irritated.
He shoved the container back into the fridge, slammed the door shut, and pulled out his phone to order a pizza.
While waiting for the delivery, he sat on the living room sofa and noticed the divorce agreement was still sitting right where she'd left it.
He picked it up and looked at Emma's signature. The handwriting was steady. It wasn't the work of someone acting on a whim or in a fit of rage.
He paused at the property division section: [The wife voluntarily waives all claims to communal property.]
Andrew set the papers down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He picked up his phone, scrolled to Emma's number, hesitated, but didn't call.
He started drafting a text: [When are you coming back?]
He typed it, deleted it, and typed it again. In the end, what he sent was: [The housekeeper mentioned you quit your job?]
Emma didn't reply.
Andrew waited ten minutes, then thirty. His food arrived, but he could only manage a few bites before losing interest.
He tossed the box into the trash, went upstairs to shower, and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.
At 2:00 AM, he checked his phone again. Emma didn't reply.
He scrolled through her Instagram; her latest post was from three days ago, a photo of the landscape outside the hospital window with the caption: [March, sandstorm.]
No selfies, no complaints, nothing.
Andrew tossed his phone onto the nightstand and closed his eyes. He told himself it was no big deal. Emma just needed a few days to calm down. She'd come back.
She always came back.