ห้ามหย่าร้าง นายลู่คุกเข่าทุกคืนเกลี้ยกล่อม

Maya

The nurse handed me a juice box like I was five years old.

"Your iron levels are concerning, Mrs. Chen. This is your sixth donation this year. You need to space these out more." She pressed a cotton ball to my inner elbow, her voice gentle but firm. "Your body needs time to recover."

I nodded, too dizzy to argue. The recovery room smelled like antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. My blood. Grace's salvation. David's solution.

Six donations in eleven months. Grace's condition was getting worse, requiring more frequent transfusions. At least that was what David told me in his texts. Brief, clinical texts that arrived between meetings, never asking how I felt afterward, only when I could come back.

My phone buzzed against the plastic chair. I stared at the screen as it lit up with a notification. Unknown number. Probably spam. I almost ignored it.

I should have ignored it.

The photo loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, like my brain needed time to prepare for what I was seeing. David was asleep in a hospital chair, his hand intertwined with Grace's. Their fingers laced together with the kind of intimacy reserved for people who belonged to each other. His head tilted toward her, peaceful in a way I had not seen in three years of marriage.

The caption appeared below: *Stop being a homewrecker in your own marriage. He will never love you the way he loves her.*

I stared at those words until they blurred. The juice box slipped from my hand, apple juice spreading across the white tile like a wound. A homewrecker. In my own marriage. The irony would have been funny if I could remember how to laugh.

Three years ago, I walked into David Chen's office as his new secretary, my heart full of the kind of hope that only comes from being young and stupid. I had hidden my last name, used my mother's maiden name instead. Maya Lawson became Maya Foster, just another girl trying to make it in Harbor City.

My father had made me a deal: three years to find love without the Lawson name, without the weight of billions, without the shadow of an empire. If David loved me for me, I would have won something money could not buy. If he did not, I would return home and claim my birthright.

Robert Lawson always believed in teaching through experience. He had married my mother against his family's wishes, married her when she was nobody, and she became the love of his life until cancer took her when I was twelve. He wanted me to know that kind of love, or learn that love without conditions was rare enough to be worth waiting for.

I had been so sure David would love me. So certain that my devotion would be enough.

The door opened. Another nurse peeked in. "Mrs. Chen? You have been here for two hours. Are you feeling well enough to leave?"

Two hours. I had been staring at that photo for two hours.

"Yes." My voice sounded far away. "I am fine."

I was not fine. I had not been fine for a long time, but nobody noticed. David certainly did not notice. His mother noticed only my inadequacies. Grace noticed only what I could provide.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was David.

Need you to come to City Hospital tomorrow, 2 PM. Grace's appointment.

No greeting. No question about how I felt after today's donation. Just a summons, like I was staff. Like I existed only to serve his first love's medical needs.

My thumbs moved before my brain caught up.

I want a divorce.

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. My heart pounded against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears. This was it. Three years of invisible marriage ending in a text message.

His response came through: We will discuss your concerns tonight. Do not be dramatic.

Concerns. Dramatic. He thought I was asking for attention, throwing a tantrum, or being emotional. He had reduced three years of one-sided devotion to concerns that could be discussed and dismissed.

An hour later, my phone pinged with a bank notification. Fifty thousand dollars deposited by David Chen. The memo read: "Appreciate your continued support."

He thought I wanted money. He was paying me to stay, to keep bleeding for Grace, to keep being the convenient solution to someone else's problem. Fifty thousand dollars like I was a service he subscribed to, a medical resource with a marriage certificate.

I sat in that recovery room until the janitor came to clean, until the sun set outside the window, until the juice stain dried on the floor. Then I opened my contacts and scrolled to the top. The number I had not called in three years. The name is unsaved but never forgotten.

Dad.

He answered on the first ring, like he had been waiting.

"It has been three years," I said, my voice steady despite the tears running down my face. "I am ready to come home."

Silence stretched between us. Then my father's voice, gentle and unsurprised. "I will send James to get you. Tonight."

"Tomorrow is fine."

"Tonight, Maya. You have given enough."

I ended the call and looked around the empty recovery room. This was where it ended. Not in our bedroom, not over a romantic dinner I cooked that David never came home to eat, not even in a screaming match. My marriage died in a hospital recovery room, marked by a juice stain and a bank transfer.

My phone lit up one more time. Another text from an unknown number. Another photo.

This one showed David kissing Grace's forehead, her eyes closed, his expression tender in a way that carved out my chest.

I deleted both photos, blocked the number, and stood on shaking legs. The dizziness hit hard but I steadied myself against the wall. I gave blood today. I had given three years of my life. I had given everything I was to a man who saw me as nothing more than a convenient donor with wedding vows.

I was done giving.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. I stepped out into the hospital lobby, into the fluorescent lights and the smell of cafeteria food. People rushed past with flowers and worried faces, visiting loved ones, being present for people who mattered to them.

David had never visited me after a donation. Not once in six times.

My legs carried me through the automatic doors, into the cool October air. Harbor City stretched before me, lights beginning to twinkle as evening settled. Somewhere in this city, David was probably still at Grace's side. Somewhere, his mother was planning another family dinner where she would seat me at the far end of the table like help. Somewhere, Grace was resting comfortably with my blood in her veins.

And somewhere, my brother was getting in a car to bring me home.

I walked to the parking lot, past couples holding hands, past families clustered together. I walked alone, the way I had been alone for three years while wearing a wedding ring.

My phone rang. David's name flashed across the screen.

I let it ring until it went to voicemail. Then I turned off my phone completely.

Tomorrow, I will sign divorce papers. Tomorrow, I will stop being Mrs. Chen. Tomorrow, I will remember how to be Maya Lawson.

But tonight, I just needed to stop bleeding