Chapter Two

MADEA

Jason burst out laughing, so hard that for a moment I genuinely thought he might choke. His head tilted back, shoulders shaking, one hand pressing to his chest as if I’d delivered the most outrageous joke of his life. The sound filled the dining room, loud and careless, echoing against walls that had held years of my quiet endurance.

“Wow, Madea,” he said between breaths, wiping at the corner of his eye as though tears of amusement had formed. “You really have a thing for comedy. I must tell you, that was good. Have you ever thought about signing up somewhere? You almost had me there.”

Almost had him there.

The humiliation rose slowly, crawling up my neck, settling in my cheeks, stiffening my jaw. My fingers curled slightly against my lap. I had just laid bare the last fragile piece of dignity I had left, and he thought it was funny.

“I wasn’t joking,” I said immediately.

The words tumbled out too fast, tripping over themselves. My voice sounded thinner than I intended, smaller than it should have been.

Jason stopped laughing, though a faint smirk lingered at the corners of his lips. He turned fully toward me, eyes narrowing, studying me like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

“Not that I care,” he said dismissively, “but explain something. How exactly are you asking me to marry you again when I’m trying to get out of a marriage with you?”

Both hands raised in exaggerated confusion, his expression a mix of genuine bewilderment and impatience. He wanted this conversation over. He wanted me reasonable. He wanted me quiet.

“I am asking you to marry me—for real,” I said.

This time, my voice held steadiness, even though my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.

He stared at me as if I had just confessed to losing my mind.

“We are married for real,” he replied sharply. “That is exactly why I need a divorce. I want to be with the woman I actually love.”

The words landed with precision. No hesitation. No softening. Just fact.

I felt the sting, though I had bled from that wound before. His love had never belonged here. I had known it on quiet nights when he turned away from me in bed. I had known it when his phone lit up and his entire expression changed. I had known it when he spoke Sophia’s name in his sleep, unaware I was awake beside him.

“I know you never loved me,” I said quietly.

“Oh yes,” he replied immediately. “And that has not changed.”

There was no cruelty in his tone. That was what hurt the most. Cruelty would have meant he felt something. This—indifference—was worse.

For a brief second, I felt the urge to cry, but the tears did not come. I had cried too many times in silence over the years—in bathrooms, in showers, where the running water masked the weakness in my breathing. Tonight, something inside me felt raw, exposed, aching—but no longer fragile.

“I want us to be in a real marriage,” I said carefully. “Not this arrangement. Not something built on your mother’s wish or obligation. I want you to pretend to love me. We’ll try for sixty days.”

He blinked at me, as though I had spoken nonsense.

“Gosh, Madea,” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “This does not make sense.”

I could see irritation beginning to replace amusement. His patience was thinning.

“I do not love you,” he continued. “Why would you want to believe a lie for two months? That is sick.”

Sick.

Maybe it was. Maybe it sounded desperate. Maybe it was. But he did not understand what these years had done to me. The quiet humiliation of living beside someone who treated you kindly but never chose you. Competing with a memory.

“It may not make sense to you,” I said softly, “but it makes sense to me.”

My voice trembled slightly, despite my effort to steady it. I folded my hands tightly to stop them from shaking.

“I just want to know what it feels like,” I continued, holding his gaze. “To be loved by my husband—even if it’s not real. Even if it’s temporary. Sixty days where I am not just the woman who took care of your mother. Sixty days where I am not competing with someone else in your heart.”

He looked at me differently then—not softer, but serious. The mocking smile had disappeared, replaced by discomfort.

“You are asking me to lie to you,” he said flatly.

“I am asking you to try,” I replied.

He shook his head slowly, as if the situation exhausted him. “Madea, this is unhealthy. You cannot force feelings.”

“I am not forcing feelings,” I said, though part of me wondered if that was exactly what I was doing. “I am asking for effort. For presence. For attention. After that, you can leave. I will not beg. I will not fight. I will sign the divorce papers myself.”

Saying that last part hurt more than I expected. It sounded like surrender. Like finality.

Silence filled the room. The food had grown cold. The cake sat untouched, candles unlit, wax softening under the warmth of the room.

He exhaled sharply and stood, the scraping of his chair harsh against the floor.

“You are unbelievable,” he muttered.

Perhaps I was. Perhaps I had reached the edge of dignity and stepped slightly beyond it. But this was not about keeping him. It was about giving myself something before letting go, fulfilling my promise—closing a door properly instead of having it slammed in my face.

He looked down at me, stern and impatient.

“I know how unbelievable I sound,” I said quietly. “But that’s not the only reason I want this.”

He watched carefully, trying to decide if I was desperate or delusional.

“In two months, it would be our fifth anniversary,” I continued. “Tonight marks five years since we signed those papers in the hospital room. But the date your mother insisted on—the one she called our real union—is two months away.”

His expression shifted.

“I want to sign the divorce papers after that day,” I said. “After we fulfill Veronica’s wish properly. Five years together.”

Silence stretched.

“For five years, I have honored her request,” I added softly. “Let me honor it completely before we end this.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. And then I saw it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the flicker of calculation in his eyes. Something clicked.

The clause in our marriage contract. Veronica had not been foolish. Before her health declined completely, she had insisted our family lawyer draft a specific provision: if the marriage ended before the five-year ceremonial anniversary she had chosen, certain assets Jason inherited would go to a charitable foundation instead of remaining entirely under his control.

I guess he didnt remember that too.

Two months. We were close—but not past it.

His gaze sharpened as realization settled.

“That’s what this is about,” he said slowly.

I did not smile.

“It’s about finishing what we started,” I replied calmly.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I don’t know about this crazy idea, but I’ll agree—at least I keep my full inheritance.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh and leaned back, studying me with disbelief and curiosity.

“And for the fun of it,” he added, “sixty days, Madea? You’re asking for sixty days like you think you can make up for the love that didn’t happen in five years. You really believe two months can fix what never existed? Or are you just trying to prove something before you let me go?”

“Sixty days, right? You have them,” he concluded.

There was no warmth in his agreement. No softness. Just a transaction. A countdown.

“Not one day more,” he added firmly.

My stomach twisted at the finality in his tone. Sixty days suddenly sounded painfully short.

He did not wait for my response. He pushed his chair back and walked away, leaving the anniversary dinner—and the cake—behind as though it meant nothing.

I remained seated, staring at the empty chair. Relief and sorrow tangled in my chest. I had asked for something that made no sense, something that probably wouldn’t fix anything.

But I needed it.

I needed those sixty days. Not to save my marriage, but to save me. Jason believed I was here to save him. He had no idea what was really coming.