“What the hell is that attitude, huh?”

Eric wouldn’t let up. He hurled his plate to the floor with a screech.

I stared at his face, twisted by anger.

I stepped forward and swept the rest of the dishes off the table. “If you don’t want to eat, then don’t.”

Years as a full-time homemaker had turned me, in Eric’s eyes, into a live-in maid. The slightest thing set him off. After so long under pressure, I snapped too. He never saw the labor it took to hold this family together.

This home wasn’t built by Eric alone.

His expression darkened.

Then, to my shock, he lunged at me, shoved me to the floor, pinned me with his weight, and kicked and punched me.

My head rang.

It took a long moment to realize: I was being assaulted—by my own husband.

I fought back with everything I had.

He only hit harder.

I screamed.

My nephew ran over, sobbing. “Uncle Eric, please don’t hit Auntie! It’s my fault—I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever eat eggs again!”

Years ago, my older brother stepped in to protect me from a thug, struck too hard, and was sentenced to eight years. My sister-in-law ran off after that, leaving their boy with my parents.

I’ve always felt guilty toward my brother.

So I’ve tried to be as good as I can to my nephew, to make up for it—without crossing Eric’s lines and without changing the household budget.

In the past, when Eric was upset, he’d at least wait to close the door before venting at me.

I never imagined he’d do this in front of my nephew.

Eric shoved the boy aside. “Get lost. Since when do kids meddle in a husband and wife’s business? Son of a murderer—bad seed.”

The words stopped me cold.

My nephew hit the floor. He didn’t even cry.

“Eric, you animal!”

My brother went to prison for protecting me. My nephew has suffered years of stigma and humiliation. He looks tough, but inside he’s painfully sensitive and insecure.

Now his own uncle was grinding salt into that wound.

I exploded, struggling up to slap Eric hard across the face.

He froze, then roared, “You shrew! How dare you hit me!”

In the struggle,

my son, Daniel Johnson, slammed his bowl down. “Enough already! Can we eat in peace?”

Only then did I really see it: the fraternal twins I’d risked my life to bring into the world sat calmly at the table eating, start to finish.

While their mother was being beaten by Eric, they didn’t flinch, didn’t even look over—much less step in.

My heart went ice-cold.

Eric seemed to realize he’d gone too far. He scrambled off me, guilt on his face, and reached to help me up.

I slapped his hand away.

My nephew rushed over, tears streaming, and helped me to my feet.

“Sophia…”

Eric looked like he regretted it, stepping toward me as if to speak.

I turned away, stone-faced, and went into the bedroom.

I soon came out with a document and handed it to Eric. “Sign it. We’re getting a divorce.”

Eric stared.

At the divorce papers, he scoffed, “You want to divorce me? All these years, I’ve carried this family. You’re just a freeloader I keep at home. Call it what you want—at best you’re the lady of the house, at worst you’re a glorified nanny…”

“Yes. Divorce. I’ll leave with nothing.”

Eric’s treatment of me had only worsened over the years. I’d been living under constant cold violence. I’d wrestled with the idea of leaving for a long time. Today, I finally decided.

His expression shifted.

Whatever he’d planned to say to keep me in line died on his lips.

He hadn’t expected me to want nothing—to walk away with nothing.

For a moment, he went blank, speechless.

“What, you’re not taking the kids either? If we divorce, you won’t take a single one. You can’t even support yourself, let alone give them a decent life.”

I glanced at the twins who’d kept their heads down at dinner, as if none of this involved them. Then I gave a small, relieved smile.

“I’m not taking them. Not one.”

The laugh that came out of me was bitter.

Three months ago, after too many predawn mornings and late nights, my blood sugar crashed while I was cleaning and I fainted.

It was just me and the kids at home.

They watched me pass out and… kept sitting on the couch, watching TV. Their mother on the floor meant nothing to them.

I eventually came to and struggled to call 911.

When the EMTs arrived, the twins were complaining: “Seriously? You’re going to the hospital for something this small? What about our breakfast tomorrow?”

After I was discharged, I checked the home security camera footage. They hadn’t even shifted their eyes toward me. That was the day my heart died.

I’d valued them more than my own life. I was the fool.

My sacrifices meant nothing to them. To them I was just the frumpy woman spending Eric’s money.

“We don’t care if you go. You’re just the nanny Dad hired. We’ve got a new mom now.”

Hearing me say I wouldn’t take them, the twins finally slid off their chairs and spoke up—smug little faces full of indifference.

I knew they were trying to get back at me.

Even so, hearing those words from the two children I’d raised cut like a knife.

“Enough. Watch your mouths.”

The twins looked proud of themselves, clearly hoping to see pain on my face.

But this time Eric actually snapped at them, and they froze.

“Calm down before you say anything else.”

He looked at me. “Let’s talk this through.”

“No need. I’ve thought about it for a long time. And they’re not wrong—Olivia Carter is better for them, more suited to be their new mother.”

I ignored Eric’s rare attempt to back down and held out the divorce papers again.

His face turned a strange shade, as if he hadn’t expected me to say Olivia’s name.

“She’s just my secretary. We’re strictly coworkers. What nonsense are you spouting?”