Chapter 2

After Wayne left, Polly Chavez came out of the kitchen.

She looked at the shredded paper in the trash, then at the soup on the table, still untouched.

"Ma'am, he really knows he was wrong this time."

Polly sighed, and there was real ache in her voice.

"He came back in the middle of the night, didn't even change his clothes. Just stood in the kitchen watching over that pot of soup."

"He told me too, no more scallions in the cooking from now on. Said the smell turns your stomach."

Listening to Polly, I almost wanted to laugh.

Three years of marriage, and he'd finally remembered I don't eat scallions.

But I didn't need it anymore.

I turned and started up the stairs.

"Polly, pour the soup out."

"But sir told me—"

"Pour it out." I didn't look back.

Back in the bedroom, I pulled open the door of the walk-in closet and dragged out a black suitcase.

It wasn't big, just enough for a few changes of clothes.

I didn't take the couture gowns Wayne had bought me.

I didn't take the designer bags he'd have his assistant send over for every holiday.

I only took a few old things I'd bought before the marriage.

I pulled open the drawer. A row of jewelry boxes sat there, lined up neatly.

The most eye-catching was a sapphire necklace.

He'd won it at an auction last year, after my third miscarriage, to smooth things over with me.

Later I saw one exactly like it on Kayla's social media.

The caption read: "The one who was there from the start understands my heart best."

I closed the drawer again and turned the lock.

My phone buzzed on the bed.

A message from Wayne.

"Want that seafood chowder from the south side tonight? I'll swing by on my way home from work."

The south side was most of the way across town from our house.

He used to hate wasting time on the road more than anything.

Now he was willing to make the detour for me.

I looked at the words on the screen, my finger hovering over the keyboard, and in the end I pressed the lock button.

Clearing out the nightstand, I dug up an old tin box.

Inside was a thick stack of medical records and ultrasounds.

The one on top was dated three days ago.

That was when the doctor pointed at the little black dot on the screen and told me the heartbeat was strong.

I called Wayne right away, so happy.

The phone rang a long time before he picked up.

"Wayne, the baby has a heartbeat—"

"Ivy, Kayla lost her passport, she's crying her eyes out at the airport, I have to go over there."

He cut me off, his voice rushed.

"We'll talk about the heartbeat when I get back. Just take yourself home for now."

The call ended.

That day, I sat alone on a bench at the hospital, watching the downpour start outside.

I hadn't brought an umbrella, and I got soaked on the way.

By the middle of the night I was running a fever, a dragging pain low in my belly.

Until, in the end, I was lying on the cold operating table.

I took the records out one by one and tore them to pieces.

Then I threw them, tin box and all, into the trash bag.

That afternoon, my lawyer messaged me.

"Miss Joyner, I've sent the digital copy of the divorce papers to your email."

"If Mr. Sanchez still refuses to sign, our only option is litigation."

"But a contested divorce takes a long time. You'll need to be prepared for that."

I replied with a single word. Okay.

I zipped the suitcase shut and pushed it over by the door.

I looked around this home I'd spent three years putting together with such care.

I'd picked the curtains, chosen the rug, carried every plant in that corner home myself, one pot at a time.

Now it just felt suffocating.

I put on my shoes and picked up the suitcase.

"Ma'am, where are you going?" Polly heard the noise and hurried out.

"Away, for a few days." My voice was calm.

"But sir's coming home for dinner tonight—"

I opened the door. The early autumn wind met me head-on, carrying a hint of cold.

"Don't wait for me to come back."