Chapter 4 Not His Home

After they tossed me out of the ship, the first thing I saw was Yvonne. Standing beside her was the man she loved but had never admitted to loving.

"Are you alright, Geronimo? Are you hurt? I've been looking for you for days! I was worried sick. I will make those people pay!"

She was acting like a devoted wife. Disgust tightened around my throat, leaving me unable to say a single word. Some people were born to be perfect actors, and I was stupid enough to believe her lies for seven years.

…

I woke up in the hospital, and that woman was finally tearing off some of her disguise. Her eyes were red as she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her now-flat stomach.

Like someone deeply wronged, she complained, "Who did you offend? Why do you keep getting into trouble while I'm pregnant? The baby is gone. It's your fault. You have to make up for this!"

I bit down hard enough for the metallic taste to spread through my mouth. It was the only thing keeping me from retching. No matter how hard I tried, I could not understand how this woman could act so devoted while feeling nothing at all.

She was the one who had pushed all this suffering onto me. She was the one who had ended the pregnancy. And now, she had the nerve to demand that I make it up to her.

The edges of my eyes were red, and I had a bitter smile on my lips.

Something inside me pushed me to ask, "Are you sure the baby was lost because you were worried about me?"

Yvonne stiffened. Her hands clasped together, and a trace of panic flickered through her eyes. "You're not in the right headspace to talk. Heal up. I'll come back tonight."

She did not. All I had was the video of her going at it on the bed with Zachary.

I went through the discharging paperwork the next day and went home, but there was no place for me there anymore.

The house looked nothing like I remembered. Even my belongings were cleared out from the main bedroom. The wedding photo hanging in the living room, the one that had been edited together because she refused to take one with me, had been replaced by intimate photos of her and Zachary.

She was smiling genuinely in those photos. It only shredded my heart more.

I was dragged back to the memories of all the things I had done just to convince her to take a wedding photo with me. No matter what I tried, she refused.

She said, "If you love me, you'll respect me. I don't like taking photos, and I don't smile. Deal with the wedding photos yourself. I don't take photos with anyone."

I believed her. I was an idiot. It turned out she could take photos with someone. That someone just was not me.

Fine. Then, I would let her have exactly what she wanted.

Zachary was looking at me with a smug smile on his lips, but what hurt me more was what he was wearing.

It was the last pair of pajamas my mother had given me before she passed away.

She had spent two months sewing it for me, stitch by stitch. Yvonne and I had each received a set. But she had disliked hers and thrown it away.

Our first fight happened that day. I wanted a divorce, but it ended with her nearly crying and apologizing.

She knew how much I cared about the pajamas. I treasured it and barely wore it, but now it was on that man.

Then, Zachary lowered his cigarette and burned a mark into the fabric. Something inside me snapped.

All the emotions I had been suppressing exploded at once. I rushed forward and swung at him.

Zachary let out an exaggerated scream as he stumbled backward. Then, his voice sharpened, sounding like a victim who had barely escaped some terrible abuse.