A Policial e o Bandido

I sat in the study and read the divorce agreement from beginning to end one more time.

Everything was written clearly in black and white.

In the property division section, I asked for nothing.

The house he had owned before marriage would remain his. The car would remain his. His company shares had nothing to do with me.

All I needed to take was my own savings.

I signed my name on the agreement.

Natalie Ramsey.

Three years ago, I had still believed that even though this marriage began as a transaction, maybe we could still make something decent out of it.

I was so stupid back then.

I put the agreement into a folder and placed it on the coffee table.

Then I took out my phone and opened our chat.

"Come home earlier today. I have something to discuss with you."

About two minutes later, one word appeared beside his profile picture.

"Okay."

I turned off my phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Then I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

The kitchen was huge, with a double-door refrigerator, a built-in oven, and German imported cookware, all arranged neatly in its place.

But I rarely used it.

When we had just gotten married, I tried cooking a few times, thinking he might like to come home to a hot meal.

The first time, I made braised ribs. He tasted one bite and said it was fine.

Then he took a phone call and left, saying something had happened with Rosalie.

The second time, I made fish stew. He did not come home at all.

The third time, I cooked an entire table of food, working from four in the afternoon until seven at night.

He did come home that time.

But Rosalie was behind him.

The two of them walked in laughing and talking. When he saw the table full of dishes, he froze for a second, then said, "We already have plans. We're going out to eat."

Rosalie stood behind him, tilted her head, and smiled at me.

"You worked so hard."

Even now, remembering that smile still makes my stomach turn sour.

After that, I never cooked again.

At seven that evening, he did not come home.

At eight, he still was not home.

At nine, my phone rang.

I picked it up and saw a message from him.

"Something came up with Rosalie. I'll be home late. Go to bed first. Don't wait for me."

I stared at that message for a long time.

Go to bed first. Don't wait for me.

I had heard that sentence for three years.

Every time, it was like this. Every time, it was Rosalie.

There was always something going on with her. He always had to deal with it.

When she had a cold, he had to keep her company. When she was upset, he had to keep her company. When she moved, he had to help. Even when she adopted a cat, he had to be there.

Once, Rosalie said she wanted cake from a bakery across town. He drove forty minutes to buy it, delivered it to her apartment, and waited until she finished eating before coming home.

By then, it was already one in the morning.

I asked him, "Did you eat dinner?"

He said, "I ate at Rosalie's."

Then he showered and went into the study.

I should have understood everything that day.

But I did not.

I kept thinking that since we were married, we should give each other time.

Maybe after enough days passed, he would realize I was not that bad.

Maybe if I did well enough, he would be willing to turn around and look at this home.

Now that I think about it, if someone has no place for you in his heart, it does not matter how well you do.

He will not fall in love with you because you are good.

He will only think your goodness has nothing to do with him.

I did not reply to his message.

Before, I would always reply with okay, to show him that I understood.

Sometimes I would add, "Be careful," as if that made me generous and sensible.

But today, I did not want to reply.

In a few days, I would not receive his messages anymore anyway.