Chapter 3

We hung up.

Maya sobbed beside me, calling them heartless.

I swallowed the bitterness and held her, comforting her until she finally fell asleep.

Only then did I let myself rest.

In my dream, I saw the beginning.

Steven and I, just starting out.

I was a top lawyer. He was a quiet rookie, thoughtful and sweet.

He brought me lozenges after court. Waited to drive me home.

One night, I was attacked. He saved me.

Later, he confessed. I said yes without a second thought.

Back then, I believed he'd be gentle with me forever.

But after we had Anton, he asked me to quit my job—said the family needed me.

I loved my work. Still gave it up. For him. For us.

By year two, he changed.

He mocked how I dressed, said I couldn't compare to the women back at the firm.

Said I didn't understand him.

I started shrinking, swallowing everything just to keep the peace.

I kept deceiving myself that his bad attitude towards me was due to the exhaustion from work.

I lived like that for decades.

Then, on our fiftieth anniversary, he brought home his first love.

Someone he hadn't seen in years.

That part of the dream jolted me awake.

The sky was still gray.

Out of habit, I got up to buy groceries.

At the door, I ran into Maya, just waking up.

We locked eyes, said nothing, and went back to our rooms.

How could I forget?

We'd left that house.

No more 5 a.m. wake-ups.

No more cooking for Steven and Anton.

No more stressing if they'd approve.

I climbed back into bed.

For the first time in fifty years, I slept easy.

Not caring about others' feeling.

And Maya? She looked lighter too.

We sat in the living room, tossing around ideas for the future.

Maya said she was thinking about doing domestic work—save up, maybe open a dessert shop.

I nodded.

Housework's still housework. At least this time, she'd get paid. And honestly, no boss could be worse than Steven or Anton.

She landed a job fast.

Her employer, Mrs. Futrell, was young, pregnant, and easy to be around.

Maya said she actually liked it—except for Mr. Futrell.

Apparently, he kept pressuring his wife to quit and stay home.

But the wife stood her ground.

Hearing that hit me hard.

If only I'd been that brave back then.

Maya and I had settled into our new life.

Way easier than catering to Steven and Anton.

She worked during the day. I stayed home, hitting the books for the bar exam.

Until today.

Maya said Mrs. Futrell was hosting big guests and asked if I could help out.

I said sure and tagged along.

What I didn't expect?

Steven and Anton—right there in the living room. First time seeing them in three days.

I stepped out with a dish, and we all froze.

Steven looked older than when I left.

The man who used to obsess over details had mismatched his bowtie.

Anton's shirt was wrinkled.

Without Maya and me, they were clearly falling apart.

Mr. Futrell asked if they knew me.

Steven didn't even blink.

"Mr. Futrell, how could I possibly know your maid?"

It hit like a knife.

My hands shook. The plate nearly slipped.

Even with the divorce, that coldness still cut deep.

Fifty years together—and he wouldn't even admit I was his wife.

Anton? Just as cruel.

Wouldn't say a word. Not even to his own mother.

So I didn't acknowledge them either.

After fifty years, we were nothing but strangers.

Back in the kitchen, I didn't even get a word out before Anton stormed in.

He glared at me.

"Do you know how much you embarrassed me and Dad?"

I blinked.

Maya and I were earning honest money. What was so shameful about that?

Or maybe, to Anton, anyone doing housework was beneath him. Just like I used to be.

He grabbed Maya's arm, yanking her toward the door.

"We're going home. Don't you EVER humiliate us like this again!"

Maya fought back, refusing to budge.

I didn't hesitate.

Grabbed a skillet and slammed it down on his hand.

He let go, eyes wide with shock.

My only child.

My pride and joy.

And this was the first time I'd ever laid a hand on him.

I stepped between him and Maya. "We're doing the same work here we did for you at home. Was it embarrassing THEN—when we cooked and cleaned for you every day?"

Something shifted in his face. Guilt, maybe.

I turned away.

"Go home. Sign the divorce papers with your dad. Then we'll talk."