3: I want a divorce

SOPHIA

By the time I finally got home, the bag felt heavier than it should have been with the dress inside. I kept glancing at it, half-afraid Marc would pull into the driveway behind me and ask what I had been doing. But the street was quiet, and his car was nowhere in sight. Good. I’d been out for much longer than I thought. He should be home soon. 

As soon as I pushed the front door open, I froze. The living room looked like it’d experienced a storm. Ollie’s toys were littered across the floor. Stuffed animals, cars, plastic blocks. Even his favorite red truck was tipped on its side. There were shoes in the middle of the room and couch cushions on the carpet. What happened here? 

When would I catch a break? I took another step inside, and my knees nearly buckled when I saw the table. 

A gallon of milk sat open with the cap tossed aside. White liquid had sloshed down the sides, leaving rings on the wood. My stomach clenched. It looked like Ollie’s handiwork. If he was home, did that mean Marc was back? Or did he leave his son unsupervised and go to work? 

“Ollie?” I called.

A blur of movement caught my eye. Ollie came running down the hall, his shirt stained with what could either be ketchup or blood, and his hair stuck out in all directions. 

He looked guilty and thrilled at the same time. I rushed toward him. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Staring down at me, he grinned and let out a belch. 

“Ollie,” I whispered. “Where’s your dad?” 

But he laughed and darted past me, bare feet slapping against the tile. He must have had too much sugar. Just a few hours of me being away, and this happened? Where was Marc? Stunned, I rose to my feet and shut my eyes. 

“Don’t lose it,” I whispered. 

My hands curled into fists, and I opened my eyes. Ollie was only five. He didn’t know better, and getting angry wouldn’t help. If anyone should be blamed, it was Marc. 

Besides, it would only require a few minutes or hours of cleaning, a chore I’d done my whole life since the birth of our son. My phone buzzed in my bag as I headed for the kitchen to get a rag. I reached for it, but my hand stilled when I caught sight of the boutique bag nestled inside. 

The soft cream paper peeked out from the top, neatly folded over the dress the man had given me. I pulled it out, and the tissue crinkled as I unwrapped it. The pink dress came into view, and I traced the fabric lightly, like I used to do when checking out my own designs.

A lump rose in my throat. It felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. I pictured myself in it, looking as fine as Victoria did when she came home for dinner. Even uninvited, she looked better than I did. Pushing those thoughts away, I carefully folded the fabric into the tissue, tucked it inside the boutique bag, and slid it back into place.

The phone buzzed again, and I fished it out from my bag. There were two texts from an unknown number. I frowned and unlocked it. Could it be… him? But I didn’t give him my number. My heart gave a jolt when I read the message.

Unknown: Hey, it’s Floral. 

Unknown: I learned you were at the store today. 

Unknown: We should catch up.

Floral? My partner? The one who believed in me when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself. I hadn’t seen her in years. Maybe stepping out today wasn’t a bad idea at all.

My thumbs trembled as I typed back: We should.

The dots appeared almost immediately, and I saved her number before checking out her reply. 

Floral: Is there a reason you came?

The truth sat heavy on my tongue. I glanced down the hallway, knowing I would be stuck with a spoiled son and an ungrateful husband if I didn’t do something about my life soon. So I swallowed my leftover pride and typed. 

Me: Yes. I need a job.

Floral: Really? No more housewife? You’re right on time because we have a few openings. I can send you the details.

Tears pricked my eyes. I slumped onto a kitchen stool, staring at the words like they would disappear if I looked away. For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of hope. 

A way forward. A way out. 

Maybe Marc would want me again if I had a job. Maybe Ollie wouldn’t compare me to someone else. Ollie’s sudden wail cut through the air, and my head snapped up. I shoved the phone into the bag on the counter and rushed into the living room without replying to her text.

Ollie stood by the table, milk dripping down his arms, and the floor a slick mess beneath him. The gallon had tipped completely, the liquid spreading across the table and spilling to the ground. His little fists were sticky, and his cheeks wet with tears. I swallowed my groan. 

“Oh, Ollie.” I dropped to my knees. “What did you—?”

Before I could finish, the front door creaked open. Marc walked in, his jacket over his arm, and his tie hanging loose. Ollie burst into tears, and I tried not to yell at him. Marc took one look at the scene, and his entire face tightened.

“Can’t you see he’s crying?” he snapped at me. “Do something.”

My fists curled by my sides. I wanted to ignore it, but I whipped around to face him. “Like he’s not your son?” I spat at him. “Why don’t you stop him from crying?” 

Marc ignored me and tossed his jacket on a chair. Ollie stopped crying and skipped to his dad, who patted his hair. Even after everything, he would still choose him. 

“Where were you?” Marc asked. He had stopped patting Ollie. “You weren’t home when I brought Ollie back.” 

“Shopping.” I kept my voice steady, but my hands shook as I tried to mop up milk with the rag I managed to grab on my rush out of the kitchen. “Who gave him the milk? You know how he gets when he drinks too much or is left alone. He’s only five, Marc. He needs supervision.”

“Maybe you should have been at home to watch him.”

The calmness in his tone set me off more than shouting ever could.

“Or you could have paid more attention to him,” I shot back. My chest rose and fell, my anger growing. Just one day that I wasn’t home, and this happened. Yet they all acted like I provided no value. “If I wasn’t home, why didn’t you take him to work? Or is he not your son anymore?” 

Ollie sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. He looked at me, his lip trembling. “Mommy is so mean to Daddy.”

The words cut like a knife. All the years of sacrifice, all the nights awake at his bedside, all the meals cooked, the cleaning I had to do, and the scraped knees patched. 

Everything vanished with those six little words. Marc’s eyes slid to me and back to Ollie. He nodded once, like he agreed.

Ollie’s face brightened, and he tugged on his dad’s hand. “Daddy, can we go see Aunt Victoria today? She’s nice.”

The room went silent. My hand clenched around the rag until cold milk seeped through.

“Sounds like a good idea, buddy,” Marc finally said. 

A good idea? He made a mess, and he was leaving me to clean it up while he spent time with another woman? 

Not anymore. I tossed the rag onto the table and stood up straight. My shoulders were square, and I held my chin high.

“Marcus,” I said. “I want a divorce.”