That was what Finn's father had said about me on our wedding day.

Back then, Finn was young and impulsive. The moment he heard his father's words, he slammed down the microphone.

"She's my wife," he said. "No one has the right to speak ill of her."

Father and son—cut from the same cloth after all.

Our son threw a toy at me.

"You bad woman! Apologize to Daddy right now!"

The sharp edge of the toy split the skin on my cheek. I touched the wound instinctively. I could feel my heart break a little more.

This was the child I'd carried for nine months and brought into the world—a little wolf cub that could never be tamed.

Eight years of love, undone by one year of Lisa's sweet talk.

When I didn't respond, my son's smirk deepened.

"Not even mad? Figures. You're just a useless leech of a woman. You should smarten up and divorce my dad already. We don't need a maid like you here."

With that, he bounced away toward his room.

Before closing the door, he stood on his tiptoes to hang up a little sign: [Heather is not allowed inside.]

I wiped away the tears that had come with my laughter and went back to my room—the small storage space next to the kitchen.

It was less than ten square meters, with a narrow, plain bed.

Even the housekeeper refused to stay there, but for the past year, it had been the only place in this house where I could breathe.

I put away the seventeenth bracelet he'd given me, then opened the drawer and took out the divorce papers—the ninety-ninth divorce agreement Finn had thrown at me.

In eight years of marriage, every argument ended with him tossing me another one.

He knew I was starved for love, knew I couldn't let go—and he used those papers, again and again, to humiliate me.

But this time, I was really going to sign.

My husband. My son. This ridiculous marriage. I didn't want any of it anymore…

…

The next morning, I was woken by pounding on the door.

"Get up! Make me breakfast!"

My son's toy slammed against the door of the storage room, the sound echoing through the house.

I used to wake up at five every morning to make breakfast for him and his father. Now, lying in bed, I wished I could just go deaf.

When I finally opened the door, he was standing barefoot on the cold floor, his face twisted with anger.

"Where's my breakfast?"

I looked him in the eyes, my voice flat.

"In the fridge. Get it yourself—or ask your father or Lisa."

He froze. It was the first time I'd ever spoken to him that way. Then his face contorted again, as if remembering something.

"You're my maid! If you don't listen, I'll tell Dad to divorce you!"

He stamped his foot. "Go make breakfast now! Or I'll walk barefoot all day. When I get sick, you'll have to stay up all night taking care of me again!"

That was when I noticed his bare feet on the floor.

He'd been born premature, always prone to illness. Every time I saw him barefoot, I used to panic—rushing after him, pleading softly for him to wear shoes.

He'd wait until I bent down to help him, then stomp hard on my clothes, leaving dirty footprints all over me—and only then would he laugh and let me finish dressing him.

The memory stung. I turned my gaze away, walked past him, and went to wash up.

His face flushed red with rage. He followed me, shouting, desperate to pull my attention back to him.

But this time, I didn't turn around.

When I finished washing, Finn walked in carrying a bag.

The moment he saw our son crying, his expression darkened.

"Heather," he snapped, "what kind of mother are you? Can't you see Michael is crying?"

I couldn't be bothered to answer Finn. My voice was flat and empty.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't know how to be a mother. Let Lisa do it."

I meant it.

But for some reason, my honesty extinguished whatever anger he'd been holding onto.

He looked at me several times before setting a box of cold seafood soup on the table.

"Don't talk nonsense in front of the kid," he said. "I made this myself. Thought I'd bring you some."

My hand froze mid-pour. A faint, bitter smile tugged at my lips.

I'd seen Lisa's post on social media the night before—a photo of her in an apron, standing in a dimly lit kitchen, stirring a pot of soup.

The caption read: [Everyone likes skinny girls, but you're the one who feeds me properly.]

The lighting was dark, but I'd recognized Finn instantly, standing behind her.

On his left hand, the ring finger still wore our wedding band.

Now, it was gone.

He caught me staring and glanced down at his own bare hand, his expression flickering for a moment.

"I lent it to Lisa," he said. "She wanted to try it on for a couple of days."

It made perfect sense, didn't it? Wedding rings could apparently be borrowed now.

I smiled, trying not to feel anything.

My smile seemed to irritate him.

"Don't make a fuss over a stupid ring," he snapped. "Just finish the soup. I'm warning you—take the chance when I give you one. Or do you want another divorce agreement?"

His tone carried the same self-assured dominance as always.

He didn't know—I'd already signed it.

I glanced at the bowl. The soup had congealed overnight; the grains stuck together, solid and gray. Among them floated shrimp shells and tiny fish bones someone hadn't bothered to pick out.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm allergic to seafood."

He froze, embarrassment flashing across his face.

Our son, still sulking from earlier, walked over, eyes red and angry.

"It's just an allergy," he scoffed. "Lisa said mild allergies won't kill you."

He glared at me like I was his enemy. "You're just pretending—trying to steal Dad's attention. Don't believe her, Dad."

Before I could react, Finn grabbed me and forced me down against the dining table. His face twisted with fury, as if I were some disobedient child.

"Heather," he hissed, "you really don't know what's good for you."

He squeezed my cheeks until my jaw ached, then forced the cold soup into my mouth.

Our son clapped his hands, laughing in delight.

When I finally swallowed the last mouthful, Finn released me and wiped the corner of my lips, his tone suddenly tender.

"See? That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

I shoved him away, clutching at my throat, trying to make myself throw up.

But it was too late. My throat began to swell, blisters rising under the skin. Each breath came shorter, harsher.

In the final second before everything went dark, I saw them both running toward me in a blur of panic.

…

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. The air was heavy with disinfectant, sharp but strangely comforting.

A nurse explained, "You went into anaphylactic shock. If your husband hadn't rushed you here, the outcome could've been much worse."

I turned my head, a dry laugh catching in my throat. He'd known I was allergic—and still forced it down my throat.

The nurse kept talking.

"But honestly, he dropped you off, took a phone call, and left. We haven't been able to reach him since."

She sighed. "You should give your husband a call. The hospital bill hasn't been paid yet."

I froze, suddenly realizing I was still wearing my pajamas. My wallet and phone were both left at home.

I took the phone the nurse handed me and dialed Finn's number.

The first call was hung up on immediately. Then the second. The third. The fourth…

It wasn't until the ninth call that someone finally answered.

"Who's this?"

Lisa's sultry voice came through, low and breathless, as if she'd just been pulled from bed.

The words I'd meant to say froze in my throat.

I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to steady my voice.

"This is Heather. I'm looking for Finn."

For a moment, there was silence on the other end. Then her tone softened into something coy.

"Oh, it's you, Heather. Finn's in the shower—worked up a sweat just now. Probably not the best time.

"Why don't you just tell me what you need? That way you won't have to call again. We're only taking a short break… we'll be busy again soon."

I lowered my head, blinking away the sting in my eyes.

"That won't be necessary."

I ended the call.

The nurse was still standing there, waiting for an answer.

What was I supposed to say? That my husband wasn't coming because he was too busy sleeping with the woman he once called the love of his life?

Maybe she sensed my hesitation, because she quietly offered to cover the hospital fee for me.

I thanked her, but the gratitude only deepened the ache inside.

I was twenty-eight, already a mother—and when things fell apart, the person who helped me wasn't my husband, or my child, but a stranger with kind eyes.

If marriage was an exam, I hadn't even passed.

Fifteen days left until the divorce was finalized. I was discharged that morning.

It happened to be my son's birthday, but I didn't want to go home. I found a small restaurant instead, sat down, and ordered something simple.

And then, just as the food arrived, I saw them.

They looked like a family of three walking in through the door—Lisa holding Finn's arm, Michael's hand in hers, smiling like a woman who had everything.

Someone nearby greeted them with a grin.

"So this is your wife, Finn? Finally meeting her in person—she's just as beautiful as they say. No wonder you keep her hidden away."

His voice carried, drawing attention from every corner of the restaurant.

Finn hesitated, about to say something, but before he could, Michael piped up, "Dad, Mom's shy!"

He wasn't loud, but the words hit me with perfect precision.

I looked at his face—his bright, carefree smile—and it hit me that he'd grown up.

He wasn't the soft, tender baby I once held in my arms. He'd become like a knife that stabbed at me constantly.

It was fine. I didn't want him anymore.

A sudden chorus of teasing broke through my thoughts.

"Come on, kiss her! Kiss her!"

Even my son clapped his hands, laughing.

"Dad, don't be scared! Just kiss her already!"

Lisa gave him a playful scold, then turned to Finn with a look full of shy expectation.

He hesitated, his face uncertain.

When she finally wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in, his eyes met mine across the restaurant.

…

"Heather?"

Panic flickered through his face as he shoved Lisa aside and stumbled for words.

"They were just joking around. What are you doing here?"

Following his gaze, others turned and saw me too.

Michael's smile vanished. He took two hesitant steps toward me, then stopped, looked away, and stood frozen in place.

I let out a quiet sigh.

"I just got out of the hospital," I said. "Came to get something to eat. You can… carry on."