Chapter 3

When I opened the door to take out the trash, I ran into Mark.

He saw me and practically pulled me inside his apartment. He handed me an ice pack wrapped in a towel, his eyes filled with concern, his brow furrowed.

"You doing okay?"

His concern reminded me of Scarlett when we first got married.

Back then, Scarlett and I were broke. In a city like NYC, where every square foot cost a fortune, all we could afford was a tiny, rundown basement apartment. We squeezed onto a small bed, and the bathroom and kitchen were shared, quite a distance from our room.

One day, I'd just finished cooking and was carrying the dishes to our room when I collided with someone rushing past. I instinctively angled the hot dish toward myself, and a large patch of skin on the back of my hand was badly scalded.

When Scarlett came home from work, I was afraid she'd worry, so I wore gloves. But she still noticed. I quickly pulled my hand back, smiling, saying it didn't hurt at all.

Scarlett looked at my hand, fumbling to apply ointment. Back then, her eyes were red too, tears flowing endlessly.

She cried, rubbing her eyes, "Daniel Miller, I promise I'll give you the best life in the world someday!"

That night, she held me, talking softly all through the night.

"Daniel, I won't let you get hurt again."

Even now, I believe she truly loved me then.

But when did she change?

Now, she and I were like two ticking time bombs, strapped together. The smallest friction, and we could explode at any moment.

Of course, Scarlett was the silent type of bomb, a dud that didn't explode with a bang but rather released a terrifying, suffocating smoke that seeped into every corner of my life. It made me gasp for air, made me want to scream until my throat was raw.

When I got home, they were already gone.

The kitchen was cold, and on the wet bathroom floor lay Leo's discarded clothes. There were several dirty shoe prints in the living room.

I sat on the couch and opened my laptop.

I started drafting the divorce papers.

My education was just as good as Scarlett's. Before becoming a stay-at-home dad, I graduated from a prestigious university, passed the bar exam, got my license, and worked as a practicing attorney for two years. I used to pull in a six-figure income, won many cases for my clients, and was a rising star in my field.

The turning point came after Scarlett got pregnant. She was at the most crucial, high-stakes phase of her career, with a brand-new, incredibly demanding project landed squarely on her shoulders. That meant frequent business trips, endless meetings, and being on call constantly.

One late night, she came home, dragging her tired body, and held me in silence for a long time. Then she said, "Daniel, I've done the math. My income is going to grow fast, and the project bonuses are substantial. But if both of us are pushing ourselves this hard, what happens when the baby comes? Leave them with a nanny? Can you really do that?"

She looked into my eyes, her voice gentle yet firm. "I know this isn't fair to you. But a reliable nanny outside would cost almost as much as your current after-tax salary. And... who could be as dedicated as a biological dad?"

I wavered. She seized the moment, taking my hand. "Just a few years. Once this project stabilizes and I've established myself, we can hire a professional household assistant. Then you can go back to work. With your abilities, I know you'll be fine. For now, let's consider this a strategic division of labor for our future, okay?"

She gently placed my hand on her swollen belly.

"See? The baby needs their dad too."

That one sentence shattered all my defenses. I was overwhelmed by a sense of being intensely needed, even "sanctified." I envisioned myself as the indispensable, powerful father providing security for our child.

When I submitted my resignation, my mentor sadly patted my shoulder. "Daniel, think carefully. Once you leave this legal world, it's incredibly tough to get back in." I just smiled, my heart full of anticipation for my new role.

Looking back, Scarlett's silent treatment began subtly around that time. Perhaps when I truly shed my professional identity and spent my days revolving around bottles and diapers, the "sharpness" she once admired in me faded. I slowly transformed from a "partner in arms" to merely an "appendage dependent on her income." And her change in attitude was like a dull knife slowly carving away at me, little by little, eroding my sense of self-worth.