Today was supposed to be another day at the office, but I found myself paralyzed by a mix of dread and nostalgia. I had told Nica I'd see her, but the thought of facing Ethan again was unbearable. The memories rushed back like a flood I couldn't stem, and I felt the walls of my home closing in around me.
In my hand, I clutched a small stuffed toy, a remnant from a time that seemed both distant and achingly close. It was one of the few things I hadn't been able to part with after my miscarriage and divorce—the last connection to a life that had been cruelly snatched away. I bought it in anticipation of my baby, a fragile hope that never made it into this world.
The memory of that day was seared into my mind.
Flashback
I was six months pregnant, my heart filled with joy and trepidation. One afternoon, I woke from a nap, an overwhelming sense of dread prickling at my skin. As I pulled back the duvet, a sight that sent my heart plummeting greeted me—blood, soaking the sheets. Panic surged through me, and I called out for Ethan.
"Babe! Ethan! Something's not right!" I shouted, my voice shaky.
I crawled toward his study, each movement a desperate plea for his help. The rain hammered down outside, drowning out my calls. I heard the muffled sound of voices through the door, and my heart sank.
"It's fine, babe. I'll be there tonight. Just tell my wife it's a work thing," I overheard him say, his voice light and unbothered.
In that moment, my heart shattered. I wanted to believe I was wrong, that I hadn't just overheard my husband planning to betray me while I lay in agony. But my baby was my priority now. I called out again, trying to suppress the rising terror in my chest.
"Ethan!"
I couldn't bring myself to call him "babe." The pain and betrayal mingled into a suffocating weight. I collapsed to the floor, darkness closing in around me.
When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed, alone. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, but all I could think about was where Ethan was. The doctor entered, and my heart raced.
"Doctor, please, is everything okay? Where's my husband?"
"Your husband went to a meeting, but I'm sorry to tell you… we lost your child."
I didn't wait for him to finish. My scream shattered the stillness of the ward, summoning nurses and doctors alike. They rushed in, attempting to calm me, but I was beyond consolation. The grief surged, swallowing me whole.
End Flashback
The memories of that day haunted me, refusing to fade. I'd been so vulnerable, weakened by my loss, unable to muster the strength to confront Ethan on my own. In my despair, I had called Nica, the only person who'd seen through his polished exterior and never hesitated to defend me.
"You mean he did what?" she'd erupted in fury, her voice sharp with anger.
"Let it go, Nica. I probably just overheard wrongly," I lied, trying to convince myself even more than her. But I knew better. I had heard every word, and the betrayal cut deeper than anything I had ever experienced. Yet when Ethan returned home the next morning, wearing a mask of remorse, I let myself be drawn in. He apologized, said he was sorry for not hearing my "cries for help," and then, in a twisted attempt to win sympathy, blamed himself for the miscarriage. His feigned guilt and misplaced words stung, and I hated him for it. But I held back, swallowing the truth of what I'd overheard.
In the months that followed, Ethan smothered me with affection, as if he could erase the betrayal by pretending it hadn't happened. He brought me flowers, left notes, even planned weekend getaways—like he was putting on a show, a performance to soothe the wounds he had caused. I played along, letting him believe his gestures were working, but inside, I was crumbling.
One evening, when I returned home after a long day, an unsettling suspicion gnawed at me. "Babe, is that you?" I called out, but the house echoed with silence. A sinking feeling took root in my chest, a premonition that this was only the beginning. Days passed, and he grew colder, more distant, like he was slipping through my fingers.
Finally, unable to take the emptiness between us, I confronted him, my voice breaking. "Ethan, I'm confused. What's wrong? You're not acting like yourself."
He barely looked at me, a flicker of something—maybe guilt or irritation—crossing his face before he turned away. "There's nothing wrong," he said curtly, the dismissal burning like acid.
I couldn't ignore it any longer. My heart pounded as I asked the question I'd dreaded. "Have you met someone else?"
He turned to face me, eyes narrowed, his expression icy. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're treating me like a stranger. Is there someone else, Ethan?"
The words hit him like a slap, and his mask slipped. "Crazy woman," he spat, his eyes flashing with anger. "That mouth of yours will get you in trouble."
The venom in his voice cut deep, and I felt my chest tighten with hurt. "Where did I go wrong?" I whispered, my voice small and broken.
He just shook his head, cold and unfeeling. "Just let me be." And with that, he walked out, leaving me alone in the darkness, my heart shattered beyond repair.
From that night on, the guest room became his sanctuary, a fortress of his own choosing. The distance between us grew, widening into an unbridgeable chasm. Silence replaced conversations, resentment filled the spaces where love had once been. Months blurred into years, until the day I couldn't take it anymore.
I filed for divorce, hoping it would bring me some semblance of peace, but even that was met with resistance. When the papers arrived, he refused to sign, as if holding onto me was his last act of control. It took my family's intervention, months of battles, before he finally relented and signed away what remained of our broken marriage.
The day I left Michigan, I thought I could leave behind the memories, too—the haunting moments that replayed over and over, taunting me with every step forward. But I was wrong. The scars he left behind stayed with me, burning with a thirst for retribution. I wanted Ethan to feel the hollow ache I had endured, the gut-wrenching pain of betrayal that had torn my world apart.
Then, my worst nightmare unfolded. In the third year of our marriage, Ethan brought Clara into our home, into his bed, with a brazenness that shattered what was left of my heart. He didn't hide it; he flaunted their affair as if daring me to react. It was the final wound, the one I couldn't forgive or forget.
As I signed the final papers, his face etched into my mind, I made a promise to myself: I would not rest until Ethan understood the pain he had inflicted on me. He had torn me apart, stripped me of my peace, but he had underestimated me. Now that I was back, I intended to make good on my vow.
I'd bided my time, planned my steps carefully, and now, it was my turn to rewrite the story. I would make sure he felt every ounce of the betrayal, the devastation he'd left in his wake. This time, he wouldn't be the one leaving—he'd be the one left, watching as his life unraveled, piece by agonizing piece.