Chapter 5

I was throwing out the trash when I ran into Serena.

She didn’t give me a choice and pulled me into her apartment.

With a tender touch, she rolled an egg over my swollen eyes, her gaze soft and filled with concern.

“Does it hurt?”

Her care reminded me of Emmanuel when we had first gotten married.

Back then, we had nothing. In a place as expensive as Savannah, Georgia, we could only afford to live in a run-down basement apartment.

We shared a tiny bed, and the bathroom and kitchen were communal.

The distance from the kitchen to our room felt like miles.

One day, I bumped into someone while rushing back with a hot dish. I instinctively turned the tray toward myself, burning a large patch of skin on my hand.

When Emmanuel got home from work, I had put on gloves to hide the burn, not wanting him to worry. But he noticed right away, and I quickly tried to laugh it off, saying it didn’t hurt.

Emmanuel fussed over me, tears falling from his eyes as he applied ointment. He cried so much, like the tears would never stop.

I remember laughing at him. “How can such a big guy cry so much?”

He wiped his tears and said, “Vivian, I swear I’ll give you the best life anyone’s ever had!”

That night, he held me and made promises until the early hours.

“Vivian, I’ll never let you get hurt again.”

Even now, I believe he truly loved me back then.

But when did he change?

Now, we’re like two ticking time bombs, tied together, ready to explode at any moment.

But Emmanuel is a dud. He never makes a sound.

He’s just this creeping smoke, filling every corner of the air.

Suffocating me. Making me scream until I’m hoarse.

When I got home, they were already gone.

The kitchen was cold, and Oliver’s wet clothes were left on the bathroom floor.

Dirty footprints marked the living room carpet.

I sat on the couch and opened my laptop.

I started drafting the divorce papers.

My education was just as good as Emmanuel’s.

Before I became a stay-at-home mom, I graduated from a top university, passed the bar certification, and worked as a licensed attorney for two years.

I had once earned over $7,000 a month, representing clients in court and shining in my career.

But then, I got pregnant.

Emmanuel convinced me to quit my job to take care of Oliver.

At first, he said:

“Once you’ve recovered and Oliver gets a little older, we’ll hire a full-time nanny. You can go back to work then.”

Later, he changed his tune:

“Oliver’s so used to you now, and my career’s taking off. If you go back to work, we’ll have to hire a nanny. Her salary will be more than you’d make—it wouldn’t be worth it for us.

“Let’s wait until Oliver is older.”

Oliver clung to me, babbling “Mommy” in his baby voice.

I caved.

I should’ve held my ground.

Looking back, I realize that’s when Emmanuel’s silent treatment started, little by little.