Chapter 3

I leaned my head against the headrest, one hand resting on my stomach. The pain hadn't subsided; it had only grown sharper, more distinct.

It was nearly eleven when I walked through my front door.

I collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to change, too tired to take off my makeup, devoid of energy to do anything at all.

The king-size bed felt enormous. Lying there alone made it feel like a barren desert.

Ethan hadn't sent a single text.

No "Did you get home?" No "How's your stomach?" Not a single word of explanation.

His silence was an answer in itself.

I unlocked my phone and tapped open our chat. The last message was still mine from this afternoon: I just left the house, where are you guys?

His reply had been: Already here. Grab a seat.

Scrolling up, I saw me asking what he wanted for dinner; he replied with: Whatever.

Scrolling further, I saw me asking if he wanted to catch a movie this weekend; he replied: We'll see.

Our chat history grew shorter, colder, more mechanical with every passing month.

And yet I had ignored the signs. Or rather, I had made excuses for him: He's stressed. He's overwhelmed. He's exhausted from work.

I set the phone face down, rolled over, and buried my face into the pillow.

The fabric still smelled of lavender laundry detergent, my favorite brand.

A stray thought crossed my mind. In over three years of marriage, we never managed to have a baby.

It wasn't because we didn't want one. We just couldn't conceive.

I went to the clinic for every test imaginable. The doctor told me there was nothing physically wrong with me, telling me to just relax and keep stress low.

Ethan got tested, too, and all his numbers came back normal.

Yet month after month, nothing.

I had cried myself to sleep over it so many times. Every time friends posted baby announcements on social media, my heart felt like it was being pierced with needles.

I felt so guilty toward Ethan, guilty toward his parents, believing that I was the problem—that my body was somehow broken.

Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, his mother would subtly drop hints: Any good news yet? Have you looked into that holistic fertility specialist I mentioned? I heard she's a miracle worker.

Every time, I pasted on a smile and said, Soon, hopefully. Then I'd sneak into the bathroom to wipe away my tears.

Looking back now, it was a sickening joke.

While I was drowning in guilt, feeling like I had failed our family, he was out there playing house with another woman.

Before I realized he was cheating, I kept racking my brain, wondering what I had done wrong to make him so distant.

Now, I didn't have to wonder anymore. The answer was glaringly obvious: I hadn't done anything wrong. He just didn't want me anymore.

It was time for this pathetic one-woman show to end.

I don't know how much time passed before I heard the turn of a key in the front door.

Ethan was home.

I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, pretending to be sound asleep.

The mattress dipped beside me as he lay down.

He didn't touch me. Not even a tentative brush of his fingers. A cold, deliberate two-foot gap separated us.

I could smell the alcohol on him, mingled with a faint, cloying perfume that belonged to someone else.

I had never smelled that scent before, but I was dead certain it wasn't his usual sandalwood cologne.

He offered no words, no explanations, not an ounce of guilt.

He acted as if nothing had happened.

His breathing gradually turned slow and deep. He actually managed to fall asleep just like that.

Maybe he had been waiting for me to catch him all along. Waiting for me to be the one to bring it up, so he wouldn't have to carry the guilt of being the villain.

Thinking of that, a sudden wave of calm washed over me.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

The darkness hung silent for a few seconds.

"We've been together for a year."