Chapter 6

By the time I finished drafting the divorce papers, it was late afternoon.

Emmanuel still hadn’t brought Oliver home.

I instinctively started worrying about Oliver’s homework, but I snapped myself out of it with a harsh slap to my own face.

“As a mom, you’ve got to be tough. Like his dad.”

Then, I got a call from Emmanuel. Except it wasn’t him on the line—it was that girl from the other night.

“Vivian, hey, it’s Lena. Emmanuel’s had too much to drink, and he can’t get home on his own. Can you come pick him up?”

“You take him,” I said, “Aren’t you two close?”

I glanced at the divorce papers on the table and changed my mind.

“Actually, never mind. I’ll come.”

Hanging up, I rushed to The Rustic Oak as fast as I could.

The private lounge was filled with a mix of men and women I didn’t recognize, except for Lena, the girl who had called me. The rest were strangers.

But they all stared at me, their eyes full of judgment. It was like they were blaming me for not being a proper housewife.

Emmanuel sat at the head of the table, his face flushed red, still raising an empty glass as if to drink. Oliver sat right next to him.

Oliver’s backpack had been carelessly tossed on the ground. A scantily dressed woman held him in her lap, chatting with him like it was no big deal.

So this is how he took care of our son. No wonder a few outings with him could undo all my years of effort.

I hadn’t even stepped into the room when Oliver shrieked.

“Dad, I’m not going home with Mom! She’ll make me do homework!”

He ran around the room as if he’d seen a ghost. Emmanuel finally pretended to wake up.

“Don’t worry, buddy. Dad’s here.”

Then the others chimed in, trying to “reason” with me.

“Vivian, don’t be mad at Emmanuel. He’s been hiding out at my place for two months because of you.”

“Same here. He’s been at my place for nearly a month. My wife’s starting to get fed up.”

Even the girl sitting next to him spoke up. “Vivian, he talks about you and Oliver all the time. He really cares about you guys.”

It dawned on me that this call wasn’t about me picking up Emmanuel.

They wanted me to break down, cry, and beg him to come home.

I laughed bitterly.

“He’s full of excuses. What, he can’t walk home on his own? His legs don’t work anymore?

“I’ve been raising our son by myself—does that not count as suffering? But one argument, and he walks out the door like he’s the one in pain.

“If being ‘free’ is so hard, why don’t we switch places? Emmanuel, stop pretending you’re drunk.

“What you’ve done—you want me to talk about it privately, or should we air it out here?”

The girl clinging to his side turned pale instantly.

“It’s all a misunderstanding.”

A misunderstanding?

You almost crossed the line in a drunken fling, and when I confronted you, you couldn’t even answer me. So you started this cold war.

Emmanuel’s face hardened. He didn’t say another word.

His expression darkened as he looked at Oliver. Oliver, defeated, trudged toward me, still glancing back at his dad, hoping Emmanuel would call him back.

So he could continue playing, avoiding his studies.

This was Emmanuel’s way of telling me to leave—to take Oliver and go—so he could keep enjoying his night.

Why should I always be the one to leave? I had had enough.

I stood my ground, pulling the divorce papers from my bag.