Chapter 2

Before bed, I glanced at the text from his buddy and grinned to myself, feeling oddly satisfied.

As dawn crept in, I realized that, for once, I hadn't spent the night haunted by dreams of the broken, frantic wreck I was eighteen years ago.

The day I was about to give birth, I waddled over by myself to bring Andrew some food.

But what I saw next nearly knocked the wind out of me. Andrew had his arm around a hot chick in a micro-mini, heading straight into a salon.

I just froze for a second. All I could think about was barging in there, dragging Andrew out, and screaming at him, "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

But as I tried to cross the street, a bike came out of nowhere and knocked me down.

My water broke, mixed with blood, all over the ground.

I screamed Andrew's name, desperate and terrified, hoping he'd hear me.

But all I could see was his figure moving around in the upstairs window.

Right before I passed out, I saw him—shirtless—glance outside in shock, then just turn away and go right back to his business inside.

All I felt was the pain in my belly, the fear of childbirth, and a wave of hopelessness crashing over me.

And deep down, disappointment and rage gnawed at my soul.

At that moment, I couldn't help but think that maybe dying was the only way I'd ever be free of all this mess.

The contractions were so brutal that it felt like I was being ripped apart. But when my son finally cried out, it was like a sliver of hope pierced through my darkness.

Andrew didn't even bother showing up at the hospital until after I'd already had the baby.

He was all smiles, holding our baby like he was the happiest man alive.

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, his face lit up with excitement in that exact moment.

That was when I saw a hickey right there under his collar.

My head was spinning, and a wave of nausea crashed over me.

Before I could stop myself, I puked all over him.

Andrew's excitement vanished in an instant, replaced by pure disgust.

The second I saw that look of disgust in his eyes, all my urge to confront him just died.

I just closed my eyes, feeling completely numb and dead inside.

Back when I was pregnant, he snuck off to hook up with a whore. I made a huge scene, yet he just apologized and begged me, swearing it was just a stress-relief massage, not what I was thinking. He promised he'd never do it again.

But turned out that was just the tip of the iceberg.

After that day—when I was giving birth and he was off screwing another woman—I just stopped making a scene.

From then on, I pretended to be an idiot, blind and mute.

If I saw lipstick on his collar, I just added a little more bleach when I did the laundry.

If he stayed out all night, I just made sure to lock the door a little tighter.

If I overheard him flirting with someone on the phone, I just tuned it out.

As long as he handed over enough of his paycheck to keep me and our son fed, I didn't mind keeping an extra spot for him at the table.

After our son was born, we started sleeping in separate rooms.

At first, he just wanted to dodge taking care of the baby. Once, he tried to have sex with me, but the sight of all my stretch marks sent him running.

There were plenty of nights when I tormented myself with doubts, but over time, I started to love the freedom of having someone else pay the bills while I got to live life on my own terms.

But these past couple of years, he's got that old man vibe. Maybe the women outside didn't want him anymore, so he started trying his luck with me every now and then.

I managed to dodge him a few times, but honestly, just the thought of it made my skin crawl.

Now that our son's grown up, whether his dad was around or not didn't really matter anymore.

Plus, since he was out of work, I had zero reason to keep putting up with him.

Now the trap was finally starting to tighten.