Chapter 5
Fisher didn't take the divorce seriously; he even chuckled.
“Chloe, you’re pregnant now, your emotions are unstable. I won’t argue with you.”
I nodded. “Then let’s talk when I’m stable.”
He thought that was the end of it.
The next morning, he still tossed his worn shirt into the laundry basket.
“Iron the blue one for me this afternoon. I have a dinner engagement tonight.”
I stood at the sink, brushing my teeth. “Iron it yourself.”
He froze. “What?”
I spat out my mouthwash. “I said, iron it yourself.”
Fisher frowned. “Chloe, don’t take your anger out on our daily life.”
I looked at him in the mirror.
“The clothes are yours, the dinner is yours, your reputation is yours. How did it become my daily life?”
His face darkened. “You’re home all day, and you can’t even do this much?”
I put my toothbrush back in the cup. “I’m home, but I’m not your household assistant.”
He stared at me for a long time, then sneered.
“Fine, you win.”
After that day, the house quickly descended into chaos.
Fisher couldn't find his socks.
Eleanor forgot to pack Orwell’s water bottle.
No one set up Orwell’s online class equipment beforehand, and the teacher called his name for ages, but his microphone was still off.
Who filled the water bottle? Who matched the socks? Who set up the equipment before class? No one asked.
They just thought that’s how things were supposed to be.
At 7:40 PM, Orwell called me from his room.
“Mom, Italian class is about to start!”
I walked to the door. “Not accompanying you today.”
He froze. “Why?”
“You’ll go by yourself from now on.”
“I can’t!”
I said, “You can insult people in Italian, so you must be learning well.”
His face instantly flushed. “I don’t want to go by myself! The teacher said a parent has to be there!”
“Then have your dad go.”
Orwell opened his mouth. He knew his dad wouldn’t go.
Fisher was busy, and Eleanor didn't speak a foreign language.
The only person in the house who could follow his entire lesson was me.
Before, when he didn’t study well, I was more anxious than he was.
I’d message the teacher, take notes, record the class afterwards, and organize his mistakes.
He just had to sit there and wait for me to spoon-feed him the knowledge.
Now that I wasn’t spoon-feeding him, he panicked.
“Mom, I won’t say bad things about you anymore, okay? Please come to class with me?”
I looked at him. “An apology isn't meant to buy a service.”
He didn't understand the words. But he understood that I wouldn't be there.
That evening, the teacher called me.
“Chloe, Orwell wasn’t doing very well today.”
I said, “For future academic matters, please contact his father directly.”
Five minutes later, Fisher’s phone rang. He was in his study on a video call.
I heard him say in a hushed voice, “For things like the kid’s studies, just contact his mom.”
The teacher must have said something, because Fisher looked my way.
I sat on the sofa, slowly drinking water.
He hung up, his tone harsh.
“Chloe, do you have to drag the kid into this too?”
I said, “The child isn’t just mine.”
“But you always handled it before?”
“So I was wrong before.”
Fisher laughed in exasperation. “You’re just going to stop taking care of it now?”
I put down my cup. “Yes.”
He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. Perhaps in his eyes, Chloe shouldn't say “yes.”
Chloe should explain, should feel wronged, should say, “That’s not what I meant.”
But I didn't want to explain anymore.