After Eight Years, He Walked Away Like I Was Nothing

When I had a threatened miscarriage, I bled all over the seat of Grant Sheridan’s car.

He glanced at the stain with visible disgust and immediately pushed me out of the car.

“You couldn’t prepare for your period in advance? How unlucky,” he snapped.

Later that night, just after I arrived home, he casually tossed a pair of lace panties at me.

“Samantha stained these during her period. Go wash them.”

I opened my phone and saw a post from his childhood sweetheart on her social media.

[When my period starts, my silly brother gets even more anxious than I do.]

The photo showed Grant in the kitchen, attentively making brown sugar peach gum soup.

Without hesitation, I called my boss.

“Give me the overseas project. I’m ready to take it.”

——

“…Are you sure?” he asked. “If you go, you’ll be gone for at least three years.”

“I’m sure,” I replied.

Right after the call, Grant walked out of the kitchen.

He’s a great cook, though he rarely bothers to cook unless it's for her.

“Who were you on the phone with?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I went straight to the bedroom—only to find Samantha Tate lying on our wedding bed.

She looked up and gave me a smug smile.

“Lena Sinclair, your bed is so soft. It really helps with my cramps.”

“You don’t mind, right?”

Grant followed right behind, not even glancing at me.

“Let Samantha rest here tonight. You can sleep in another room.”

I didn’t argue. I picked up my work laptop and quietly walked out.

Behind me, her saccharine voice rang out:

“Grant, the peach gum soup you made tastes amazing.”

He replied in a warm, doting tone, “If you like it, have some more.”

That very morning, I had suffered a threatened miscarriage. My blood soaked his car seat.

But he assumed I was just on my period, got irritated, and left me on the roadside.

I was shivering, panicking, and unable to hail a cab in the pouring rain.

By the time I made it to the hospital, the doctor shook his head regretfully.

“If you had come sooner, we might have been able to save the baby.”

Back home, I walked into the study and found the approval documents for the overseas project in my inbox. I signed them without hesitation.

Meanwhile, Grant went into the bathroom. When he didn’t see the usual warm bath I prepared for him each night, he finally remembered me.

He noticed I looked pale and was working in the study.

He started to walk in, maybe to say something.

But before he could speak, Samantha called for him.

He paused, smiled, and turned back to her room.

He didn’t come out for the rest of the night.

The next morning, as I opened my door, I saw him stepping out of Samantha’s room.

We both froze for a second.

He tried to explain, “Samantha had bad cramps last night. She needed someone with her.”

“I understand,” I said quietly, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

He frowned and followed me.

“Lena, listen. When Samantha wakes up, don’t be so cold to her, okay? She’s naturally kind and sensitive—don’t weigh her down emotionally.”

Since the day she returned from abroad, our marriage had been full of arguments.

Every time I tried to express any emotion or concern, he’d dismiss me in favor of protecting Samantha’s fragile little heart.

But now, I am done.

I pulled out my phone and placed it in front of him.

“Don’t worry. With you by her side, she won’t feel burdened at all.”

On the screen was Samantha’s latest midnight post:

[My silly brother stayed up all night with his warm hands on my stomach to ease the pain. He’s exhausted.]

The photo showed Grant fast asleep beside her, one large hand resting on her lower belly.

He opened his mouth, trying to explain. But no words came.

And I didn’t need to hear any.