Chapter 3

My phone buzzed. Laura had sent over a file.

Laura messaged: [Here's the first draft of the divorce agreement. Take a look and let me know if you want to change anything.]

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the file. The terms were straightforward. I wasn't asking him for anything. The house was his before we got married, the car was his, and we'd each keep our own savings.

The only thing I added was a clause that neither of us would pursue any claims of wrongdoing.

It wasn't because I was being generous. I just didn't want to waste another day on legal proceedings.

I replied: [Okay. Have the lawyer draft the official document today. I need it by tomorrow.]

Laura messaged back: [Tomorrow? When are you planning to give it to him?]

I replied: [The day after I get out of the hospital.]

Laura messaged: [Why are you in such a hurry? You haven't even recovered yet.]

I didn't reply.

I set my phone down and dug out a small box from my closet. Inside were my passport, ID, and a few bank cards.

I flipped open my passport. The last stamp was from three years ago.

Three years ago, I went down south to check out some baking suppliers. I was gone for a month. That was the last time I traveled alone before marrying David.

After that, I was stuck in this city.

David wasn't a cage.

But he made me believe I had to stay.

I closed my passport and opened the drawer of my nightstand. Inside was a laminated medical certificate.

"Eight weeks pregnant. Threatened miscarriage, now a missed miscarriage."

The hospital had given it to me today.

I placed it with my passport.

At eight in the evening, David showed up at my bedroom door, knocking softly with a bowl of chicken broth in his hands.

"Emily, the soup's ready," he called out gently.

"Just leave it at the door," I said, my voice flat.

"Come out and eat, okay? It's not good for you to stay cooped up in there all by yourself," he tried again.

I stayed silent.

After a while, I heard the sound of the bowl being set down outside, followed by his footsteps fading away.

I waited five minutes, then opened the door, picked up the soup, and brought it inside.

I drank half the bowl, then poured out the rest.

At eleven, I heard David talking on the phone in the living room. His voice was low, but I could still catch bits and pieces through the door.

"She's okay now. She's resting," he said.

"Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault," he added.

"Get some rest," he said.

He was talking to Sophie, trying to comfort her.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Three months ago, the day I found out I was pregnant, I was so happy I danced around the kitchen. I called David, but he said he was working late and sounded impatient, telling me to wait until tomorrow unless it couldn't wait.

The next day, I wanted to tell him face-to-face. But he left early, saying he had to help Sophie move.

After that, I never managed to find the right time.

He was never home.

He was gone more and more often.

Now the baby was gone.

Now I didn't have to look for the right time anymore.

I rolled over and closed my eyes. There was still a lot to do tomorrow.

Early the next morning, David left the house.

He left a note on the coffee table.

The note read, "Heading to the office to sort out the insurance for the company retreat. I'll be back around noon. There's some oatmeal in the fridge, just heat it up when you're hungry."

I tossed the note into the trash.

Then I pulled a medium-sized suitcase out of my closet.

I didn't pack much. Just some clothes, my ID and travel documents, my laptop, and the deep blue planner that's been with me since day one of my business.

Inside the planner was a copy of the business license for the very first Summer Lane Bakery location. The copy was already yellowed.

After packing my suitcase, I took two documents from the printer.

One was the divorce agreement, just two pages, the terms clear, and my signature already on it.

The other was the medical certificate for the miscarriage.

I put both documents into a brown paper envelope, addressed to David at the front desk of his design firm.

Then I called a courier to come pick it up.

By the time the courier arrived, I'd already dragged my suitcase to the door.

"Will it get there today?" I asked.

"It's a local delivery, so it'll be there before 3 PM," he replied.

"Okay," I said.

The courier scanned the package, took a photo, and stuck on the label.

After he left, I stood in the middle of the living room and looked around.

I'd lived in this house for two years. The plants in the living room were ones I cared for, the curtains were picked out by me, and I bought all the baking tools for the kitchen the day after I moved in.

I came up with seven new recipes in this kitchen, and three of them ended up as best-sellers at Summer Lane Bakery.

But none of that matters anymore.