When the Wind Carries My Heartache

The dress lay on the floor.

Vincent Carter narrowed his eyes and kicked the dress aside. It felt as though the kick landed right on my face.

"If you still want to get married, stop overreacting all the time. Stop making a scene. Emily and I have things to deal with. Go home and reflect on your behavior."

It was the same accusatory words as always. But this time, I felt nothing at all.

After walking out, I sent the photo I'd just taken of the two of them hugging to the family group chat.

Then, I added, "Congratulations to Vincent on his new relationship. The wedding's off."

Vincent, who rarely replied in the group, quickly explained, "We were just leaning in to look at a file."

Then came another round of accusations, saying I was overly sensitive and suspicious.

"Charlene, do you have to keep making a scene just because I didn't bring you to a business meeting? I didn't say anything when you went shopping with another guy, did I?"

Instantly, the group chat was bombarded with new messages.

My dad started sending several long voice notes in the group.

He scolded me, saying I should be grateful Vincent was even willing to marry me, that this was just a mistake all men would make.

After yelling at me, he warned me to make up with Vincent.

Those words kept ringing in my ears.

If people didn't know any better, they might have thought he was Vincent's father.

After my mom passed away, my dad started drinking and yelling at me every day.

I grew up under years of shouting and hitting. When I met Vincent, I thought he would be my salvation.

But ten years of being with him had shown me exactly what kind of person he was. He was nothing like the version he showed to others.

In front of Emily Foster, he was the perfect gentleman, pouring all his affection on her.

And in front of strangers, he was always polite and considerate.

But with me, all I got was blatant disgust and constant, aggressive scolding.

He enjoyed scolding me in front of other people the most so he could watch me panic, flustered and helpless.

Then, in the end, he would pretend he didn't want to argue and softly apologized.

That way, everyone else would think I was the one making a fuss, while he stood tall on the moral high ground.

But this time, I wasn't going to let him get away with it.

Only someone who still wanted to stay would keep clinging on.

I had given up on loving him, and I wouldn't let him come home just because he was with Emily now.

When Vincent came back, he was holding a gift bag and the dress that had been dirtied underfoot.

"Why didn't you clean up? You're really mad? You wanted the gifts, right? This one's for you. The dress is still wearable. You just need to wash it first. Quit making a scene."

He tossed the filthy dress right onto me.

I used to want a sense of ceremony. I hoped Vincent would remember my birthday and our anniversaries, even if it was just by going out for a meal.

But every time I brought it up, he didn't care at all.

"I'm exhausted. If you want all that sentimental crap, go find someone else. I can give you gifts, but I don't like you asking for them. Besides, you stay home all day. What's the point of having that stuff?"

Everything he said made it clear—he looked down on me for even asking, even though in the beginning, he said he liked the feeling of being needed.

He liked that I waited at home for him.

In Vincent's mind, I probably ranked lower than a maid.

As for the sense of ceremony, he wouldn't even spare me some time to go out for a meal. Yet, with Emily, he would offer up delicate jewelry and beautiful dresses courteously.

I saw one of Emily's posts on social media.

On her slender wrist was that delicate bracelet.

They were dancing hand in hand.

And that filthy, trampled dress was right in front of me now.

I balled it up and tossed it into the trash.

Then, I looked at Vincent and spoke calmly. "I don't want to keep dirty clothes, and I don't want a dirty man either."