After giving birth, I had an oversupply of breast milk, so I stored it in breast milk storage bags and kept them in the freezer.

Every few days, my husband, David Miller, would take two bags with him when he went out.

It was always at night. He said our neighbor had also just given birth and didn’t have enough breast milk for her baby.

“Neighbors should help each other more than distant relatives ever could,” he explained.

I nodded and agreed at first.

But this time, I opened the freezer, dumped all the milk into a plastic bag, and handed it to him.

“Take it all to the neighbor—and while you’re at it, sign the divorce papers too.”

Our babies were born less than two weeks apart, in the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor.

Since I had too much milk and didn’t want it to go to waste, I froze it all in storage bags.

The neighbor, Emily Brooks, couldn’t produce enough, so her baby was often hungry.

David volunteered to bring my milk over.

At first, I thought it was fine—after all, it was for the sake of a child.

But over time, I noticed something odd.

Emily’s parents occasionally visited, but most of the time she was alone with the baby.

David often used “helping with the baby” as an excuse to go over there.

And once he went, he’d stay for hours—sometimes not coming home until after midnight.

Just today, right after work, he rushed over without even saying hello.

That was when I threw all the milk into a bag and told him to take it—and sign the divorce papers.

David froze, frowned, and demanded to know what I meant.

“Why are you suddenly talking about divorce? Do you have to be so selfish?”

He said helping a neighbor was a good deed, even a blessing.

Then he accused me of being petty—something he claimed he’d never noticed back when we were dating.

What could I say?

I simply answered with indifference, “Yes, I’m petty. I can’t stand this sort of thing.”

“You like going next door? Then go as much as you want.”

“You’re admitting it?” David asked, stunned.

“Of course. Now just sign.”

In all these years of marriage, I’d never seen him so passionate.

Every three days, he’d go over, staying for hours at a time.

I asked him why. He brushed me off, saying Emily needed to shower, cook, and do chores, so there was no one to watch her baby.

Doesn’t that sound ridiculous?

My in-laws, Robert Miller and Margaret Miller, happened to be there too.

They looked at me as if I were the unreasonable one.

Margaret tried to persuade me:

“Rachel, you’re being unfair. My son didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He’s just too kind-hearted to let that young woman raise her baby alone.”

“Yes, Rachel, you know what kind of person David is,” Robert added, taking the chance to lecture me as well.

So I asked, “Doesn’t the neighbor have a husband? Parents? Relatives?”

“Of course she does,” David replied. “But we live closest. Shouldn’t we lend a hand?”

He always had some excuse ready.

I was tired of it. I shook my head and said, “That’s why I never stopped you. I just want a divorce.”

“Just like that? We’ve been married five years—we even have a child now—and you’re saying divorce?”

“Do you even know that Emily has postpartum depression?” David asked.

I knew her name, of course—Emily Brooks, twenty-four or twenty-five years old.

But I hadn’t expected him to say it so intimately.

“Postpartum depression? Really?” I asked coldly.

“How exactly is she depressed? Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

My reaction left David Miller completely stunned.

He questioned me, asking where my kindness had gone, where my innocence had gone.

“Rachel, you used to be different. You always helped others when they were in trouble. Why are you so cold and cruel now? It’s just a couple of bags of milk, and you react like this?”

Then he added, “How about this—give it a few days, and I’ll go help take care of the little girl next door. Then you won’t have to be angry anymore.”

When Margaret Miller said this, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

From my pregnancy to labor, and even during my postpartum recovery period, she never looked after me—not even once.

Of course, I had my own parents, so I didn’t need her help.

But now, at this very moment, she suddenly wanted to help the neighbor?

I replied flatly, “You can take care of whoever you want. Either way, I’m ending this marriage today.”

Margaret was shocked, left speechless by my bluntness.

Robert Miller pointed at me, trembling with rage, muttering, “This family is cursed, cursed indeed!”

David glared at me, his expression dark and ugly.

“What’s wrong with you today? Have you lost your mind?”

“Then just take it that I’m crazy. Sign the papers and let me go.”

The words had barely left my mouth before David suddenly slapped me across the face.

The burning pain spread across my cheek, but I forced myself to ask through clenched teeth,

“Was that slap enough of a reason for divorce?”

He sneered.

“You asked for it, don’t blame me.”

Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the divorce papers and tore them to shreds right in front of me.

A moment later, he softened his tone, trying to explain.

“Baby, I didn’t mean it. I work hard all day, then at night I even help the neighbor take care of her baby. As my wife, you should understand how hard I’ve been working.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“You want me to understand you? Have you ever once tried to understand me?”

Before I had Sophie, I was a senior executive, earning a comfortable salary with benefits.

I gave up my career to raise our child.

David had promised he would work hard and make sure our family lived happily.

He earned a decent wage—over ten thousand a month—but only half of it ever made it home.

Our living expenses came from my savings. He told me that money would be kept aside for Sophie’s education.

I believed him.

But the last time I went to the bank, after saving diligently for over three years, the clerk told me there was only two thousand left.

I thought it had to be a mistake.

I checked again and again, until it hit me—the money had been spent long ago.

The so-called “college fund” for our daughter was nothing but a lie.

David scowled.

“You do nothing at home but eat and play. My parents handle all the cooking and housework. What exactly is it that you need me to understand?”

“Cooking? Housework?”

I turned to look at Robert and Margaret. Their eyes darted away.

The truth was, I’d started doing chores before I was even fully recovered.

As for cooking—well, I laughed.

“Put your hand on your heart and tell me, do your parents even know how to cook?”

“What a joke. If they didn’t, how did they take care of you?” David snapped.

I pressed on, “Who do you think’s been handling everything? You really believe it was them?”

He was furious now. “You can’t be saying you did it all yourself?”

“Who else?”

I took a deep breath, not letting him argue further.

“So tell me, David—are you divorcing me or not?”

At that moment, the sound of a child crying suddenly came from the apartment next door.

Emily Brooks cracked her door open just slightly, and the baby’s cries instantly filled the hallway.

David Miller looked flustered, too panicked to even answer my question.

Wearing only slippers, he rushed out the door.

Margaret Miller muttered under her breath, “Could Ethan be sick again? I’d better go check.”

Robert Miller, looking uneasy, glanced at me and then followed them out.

Within seconds, the house was empty except for me and my baby.

Ha. Did they really think I was stupid?

Couldn’t I see that the baby next door was David’s child too? Their precious grandson.

I walked back to my room and looked at little Sophie Miller lying on the bed.

My determination to divorce only grew stronger—and I began planning how to make sure he left with nothing.

“Oh, oh, oh, don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

David had never once cared for Sophie at home, yet the way he held and soothed the neighbor’s baby was practiced and tender.

My in-laws hovered nearby, afraid he might drop the child.

But Sophie? Since the day she was born, they had never once held her willingly.

The only time they did was when they wanted to sit on the sofa with Ethan in their arms—so they tossed Sophie aside, nearly dropping her.

That day, I swore I would never let them touch her again.

Then Emily Brooks walked in wearing her pajamas, as casual as if she lived here herself.

She didn’t even bother pretending to be a guest.

She greeted me with a sarcastic little smile,

“Rachel, thank you so much for David’s help these past few days. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without him.”

The way she dragged out the word help made it sound like an announcement.

I caught the meaning easily enough but ignored her.

Emily plopped down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and propped her feet up—completely disregarding me, the actual woman of this house.

I glanced at David, then at Robert and Margaret, only to see nothing unusual in their expressions.

Their calmness told me everything: their relationship with Emily had long since grown far too familiar.

And me? I was the fool left in the dark.

If they didn’t love me anymore, why keep me chained to this family?

Emily smirked. “Oh, and of course, thank goodness for your milk. Otherwise, Ethan might’ve been malnourished by now.”

I answered coldly, “It’s all yours.”

She laughed. “That won’t work—what about Sophie?”

Margaret suddenly chimed in, “There’s still plenty of formula in the house. Sophie likes it anyway.”

I almost cursed aloud. Why should my daughter be forced to drink formula while my breast milk was given away?

It was my body’s milk, yet I had no say over it.

Emily looked smug, clearly emboldened by having Margaret as her supporter.

I turned back to David, asking evenly, “Is this what you think too? That Sophie should drink formula?”

“Formula these days is just as good as breast milk,” he replied curtly, his tone leaving no doubt where he stood.

I nodded slowly. “Right. So, my daughter doesn’t deserve it.”

“That’s not what I meant. Ethan’s health is obviously weaker than Sophie’s, so—”

“So which child is really yours?” I cut him off, lowering my voice as I pressed the question.

“What the hell is going on with you today?”

David shoved the baby back into his mother’s arms and glared at me with anger and shame.

Emily quickly stepped in, pretending to soothe us.

“David, Rachel, this is all my fault. Please don’t fight. If it comes to it, Ethan can have formula too.”

“Don’t listen to her. I’m the one who makes the decisions in this family,” David declared.

How ironic.

On the day he proposed, kneeling on one knee, he swore that he would love only me for the rest of his life, never betray me.

He said all matters, big and small, would be mine to decide.