Chapter 2

The air inside the car was so heavy on the way home that it felt like I could barely breathe.

James gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, tearing down the road at a speed that made my heart race.

I clung desperately to the door handle.

Finally, James couldn't hold it in any longer. He slammed his fist onto the steering wheel with a dull thud, his voice bursting out in fury.

"Helen, were you trying to humiliate me today? I'm a department manager now, and you should be on my side like before!"

I leaned against the car window, watching the neon lights streak past outside. Those wild, shifting colors reminded me of our marriage, chaotic and dazzling.

I pulled my gaze back and replied in a chilly tone.

"Remind me, James, weren't you the one who said that husband and wife should keep their distance, cling loses spark? I'm just doing what you asked, or is it still not enough for you?"

James was left speechless, his breath coming in short, angry bursts, his face twitching with rage.

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel again, the dull thud making the car jolt.

I watched him lose it, but inside, I felt nothing, just a dead calm.

This was just the beginning.

From that day forward, I fully embraced James Brown's so-called distance, and made sure he felt every bit of it.

I was no longer the kind of wife who orbited his life, putting his needs ahead of my own in everything.

I stopped waking at five after twenty years, no more making his favorite pasta or setting his plain sides.

Instead, I just left a note, saying whole wheat bread in the kitchen, milk in the fridge.

I knew he'd feel unsettled without a steaming hot breakfast, but isn't this exactly what he asked for?

This was what keeping my distance looked like.

That night, when James was working overtime, he gave me a call, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

He said, "Helen, I need that document urgently. Bring it over now, will you?"

Back then, I would've grabbed my coat without hesitation and headed out into the night for him.

But tonight, I caught my reflection, just finished with yoga, relaxed, and with a fresh, healthy glow.

I calmly answered, "Sorry, my yoga isn't finished. I can't leave. Ask your assistant or take a cab. Weren't you the one who said married couples need space? I have my own plans."

There was a long, heavy silence on the other line. I could just picture his face, dark and thunderous with anger.

Even more, that day, James Brown's mother turned seventy.

Of course, he expected me to pick out the perfect gift and tag along with him.

I'd already chosen a beautiful, custom tea set, expensive, thoughtful.

I just handed it over to James.

I said calmly, "I've got a final project due for my design course, so I won't be able to go. Let your mom know I'm sending my regards, okay?"

I watched him, completely stunned by my response, but honestly, I didn't feel a thing.

Two weeks went by, and James finally snapped.

One night, he hurled the gift onto the entryway cabinet. The tea set smashed into pieces, shards scattering across the floor with a jarring crash.

He roared at me, with a deafening voice.

"Helen, what the hell are you trying to do? Do you even care about this family anymore? Do you even see me as your husband?"

I ignored his outburst, calmly pulled out my phone, found a social media post he'd made last year, and held it up for him to see.

There it was, saying the best marriages are those where you give each other space; don't hold your partner hostage with family obligations.

I met his eyes, my voice totally flat.

"These are your words; I haven't forgotten a single one. I'm just doing exactly what you asked for, giving you space."

He stared at the words he'd posted himself, his face flickering between shock and disbelief, lips moving but unable to form a single word.

It never occurred to him that one day, those golden words he was so proud of would turn out to be my sharpest weapon against him.