Chapter 3

When we got home, my back gave out.

It was a lingering complication from the epidural when I gave birth to my second child. The pain was blinding, locking my spine in a rigid spasm. Cold sweat dripped from my temples.

Alexander was reading the Wall Street Journal on the sofa. Hearing me gasp, he rushed over, catching me before I hit the floor. His eyes were full of panic.

"Evelyn! What happened? Is it your back again?"

Looking at the genuine concern in his eyes, I felt a moment of daze.

For twenty years, Alexander’s care had always seemed perfect. Flawless.

"Yeah... it’s bad... I can't move," I gritted out through clenched teeth.

"Don't panic. I'm taking you to the ER right now."

He was about to bend down to scoop me up, handling me as if I were fine china.

Just then, the phone in his pocket started ringing.

It was the specific ringtone he had assigned to Chloe.

Alexander froze. Instinct took over, and he pulled the phone out.

From the speaker came Chloe’s voice, thick with tears and performative helplessness. "Alex... I cut my finger on a file folder. It’s bleeding so much... it hurts so bad... Am I going to bleed out?"

Alexander’s face went chalk-white—far paler than when he saw me unable to walk moments ago.

"Chloe, don't cry! Don't move! Apply pressure to the wound. I’m coming right now!"

He hung up. He looked at me, pale and trembling in his arms, and I saw a flicker of struggle in his eyes. But it was instantly replaced by resolve.

"Evelyn, Chloe is hurt. She's bleeding a lot. You know how terrified she is of pain. I have to go to her."

I looked at him in disbelief. "Alexander, I can't even walk. You're going to leave me here because of Chloe’s paper cut?"

Alexander frowned. His tone shifted to one of blame, as if I were the unreasonable one.

"Why are you being so difficult? Your back is a chronic issue. You’ve been through this a dozen times; you know the drill. Take two Ibuprofen and use the heating pad. But Chloe is different. She's all alone over there; she’s probably having a panic attack."

On the couch nearby, my son Leo, wearing his noise-canceling gaming headset, heard the argument. He pulled one ear cup off and sighed impatiently.

"Mom, stop being such a drama queen. Auntie is bleeding; that’s an emergency. Your back isn't going to kill you. Just call an Uber to the ER if it hurts that bad. Stop wasting Dad's time."

My daughter Mia rolled her eyes, scrolling on her phone. "Seriously. You're always trying to compete with Auntie for attention. It’s pathetic, Mom."

My husband's choice. My children's cruelty. Their words were like dull knives sawing at my heart.

I let go of Alexander’s sleeve. My heart turned to stone.

"Fine. Go."

Alexander thought I was finally being "sensible." He didn't waste a second on comfort. He grabbed his Tesla key card and sprinted out the door.

I endured the agony alone. I dragged myself out the door, inch by inch, and waited for the Uber I had to call for myself.

After getting a cortisone shot and picking up my prescription at the hospital, I stopped near the entrance of the VIP treatment rooms.

I saw a familiar back.

Alexander was holding Chloe’s finger with the reverence of a man holding a holy relic. It was covered by a single, tiny Band-Aid.

But he kept his head low, gently blowing cool air onto the "wound," his eyes dripping with tenderness.

"There... does that feel better? I’ve got you."

Standing in the shadows of the hallway, my eyes burned.

Twenty years ago, when we were college sweethearts, I sliced my hand while peeling an apple. Alexander had reacted the exact same way—eyes red with distress, holding my hand and blowing on it for ten minutes.

He had said, "Evelyn’s hands are meant for me to hold, not to be hurt."

Now, he had transferred that entire universe of tenderness to another woman.

Inside the room, Chloe leaned into Alexander’s chest, asking in a sickly sweet, manipulative voice:

"Alex, you came for me so fast... won't Evelyn be pissed? Her back seemed really bad..."

Alexander stroked her long hair, his voice casual .

"Don't worry about her. She’s been a housewife for eighteen years. She has zero skills and is completely disconnected from the real world. Without me, she wouldn't even know how to survive. She wouldn't dare get angry. I’ll just buy her a gift later, and she’ll get over it."

Chloe smirked, snuggling deeper into his coat. "You're the best, Alex. You're the only one who really loves me."

I bit my lip so hard I tasted rust.

So that was it. In his mind, my silence and endurance weren't love—they were dependency.

He was convinced he owned me, which was why he felt safe enough to trample on my dignity.

I turned and walked away. This time, I didn't cry.

When I got back, the house was empty.

I walked into the kitchen and looked at all the "gifts" Alexander had given me over the years.

The top-of-the-line KitchenAid mixer he bought so I could bake more for him. The industrial-grade dishwasher so I could clean up faster. The "anniversary gift"—the Roomba.

They weren't gifts. They were tools to make me a more efficient servant.

I grabbed a heavy-duty black contractor bag.

Expressionless, I swept the cheap aprons, the discount kitchen gadgets, and the generic drug-store hand cream he’d tossed at me into the trash.

Then, I went to the master bedroom. From the back of the closet, I dug out my Master’s degree, my CPA license, and the copy of the signed divorce papers.

I packed the documents that proved "Evelyn Sterling" was a person—not just a wife—neatly into a suitcase.

Just then, the front door opened.

Alexander was back.

He was in a great mood, humming a tune. He was carrying a bucket of fried chicken for the kids and a small, ribbon-wrapped box.

He stepped inside and froze. He saw the massive black trash bag in the foyer and me, standing there with a suitcase.

"Evelyn? What are you doing? Why did you throw away all the kitchen stuff?"

He walked over, a trace of panic in his voice.

"What is all this? Are you having another episode?"

I quietly zipped the suitcase, shoved it into the corner, and looked him in the eye.

"The house is too cluttered. It stresses me out."

Hearing the calmness in my voice, Alexander exhaled, the panic vanishing instantly. He didn't care what I threw away. He only cared that I was still in the house.