The eel was always restless at night, far more than it should have been.

One evening, I got up for a glass of water and stopped short. Jonathan was standing in front of the tank, feeding it. His lips were moving, muttering words I couldn’t make out.

This man, who hated hassle more than anyone I knew—why would he drag himself out of bed in the middle of the night just to feed a fish? And what exactly was he whispering to it?

A chill crawled over my skin.

I shook it off and said flatly, “The eel is pretty, but I don’t like fish anymore.”

“You used to say you loved fish… that you loved water.” His voice caught, trembling with emotion, he was trying to hold back. “You said once our child grew older, we’d keep a whole tank. You said we’d take him to the aquarium often. Have you forgotten all that?”

“Things change.” I pushed the divorce papers toward him. “Sign them. Three days from now, we’ll meet at the court.”

“No! I won’t sign!” He clutched the papers so tightly that the veins in his arm stood out, his knuckles stark white. “Angela, is something weighing on you? Did I not do enough? Tell me, and I’ll change. I’ll change everything! Don’t joke about divorce. Ethan is still so little—can you really let him grow up without a father?”

His voice dropped lower and lower, laced with desperation, like a child terrified of being abandoned.

By then, the relatives around us could no longer hold back. One after another, they spoke, their voices overlapping as they tried to persuade me. Everyone had seen how attentive Jonathan had been over the past months.

When I was struggling with postpartum insomnia, he brewed calming tea for me every night. I once casually mentioned that I liked the pastries from the west side of the city, and he took the long way home for an entire month just to buy them. Even my own mother often said that the greatest fortune of my life was marrying Jonathan.

“Every couple fights,” one relative urged, leaning forward with earnest eyes. “Jonathan has already lowered himself this much—Angela, don’t be so stubborn. Ethan just learned to call him Daddy. Can you really let your child grow up without one?”

“Angela, what marriage doesn’t have quarrels?” another chimed in, her voice sharp with reproach. “He’s poured his heart out for you. Don’t be foolish.”

“Exactly!” someone else added, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look at his eyes, bloodshot from staying up late. He works all day, then comes home and still takes care of you and the baby. How can you bear to say divorce?”

Their voices tangled together, pushing down on me from all sides. I shook my head.

“No secrets. I simply want a divorce. I’m tired of this life.”

My father slammed his teacup onto the table so hard that tea spilled over the rim. “Angela, you explain this to me! What has Jonathan ever done to wrong you? During your confinement, he stayed up nights to take care of you. When you fell ill, he rushed you to the hospital in the middle of the night. And now you already have a child together, yet you say you’ll just leave? Can you face him? Can you face your child?”

I lifted my eyes toward Jonathan.

His bloodshot gaze brimmed with exhaustion and panic. “Dad, it’s because he’s been so good… that I have to leave.”

I ignored the confusion burning in everyone’s eyes and looked straight at Jonathan, expressionless. “Just take it as me being tired of you. Three days from now, we’ll meet at the court.”

With that, I rose, grabbed my coat, and walked out, my back pressed under the weight of silence and baffled stares.

That night, I had planned to stay at a guesthouse. But when I opened my phone to book a room, I realized my bank balance wasn’t even enough to cover one night.

Only then did it hit me. After getting married, I handed over my paycheck card and my bonus card—even the savings I had set aside before our wedding had been transferred into a joint account.

Jonathan had said, 'A family should keep money together. That way, it feels secure.'

Not long ago, when he offered me his salary card, I hadn’t taken it.

For the past year, I’d been a full-time mother. The only money I ever had in my hand was the allowance he gave me, never more than a couple of hundred dollars at most.

I once thought that was a symbol of trust. Only now do I realize I had turned myself into an appendage, surviving completely on Jonathan's support.

...

The next morning, I visited the baby supply shop I always frequented. Before my pregnancy, I worked there as a sales assistant.

Since then, nearly everything I purchased during and after my pregnancy came from that same store.

I had always gotten along well with the shop owner, Mrs. Jenkins. She’d told me more than once that if I ever wanted to come back, the job would be waiting.

I hadn’t even reached the counter when the sound of familiar voices drifted toward me. A few of my old coworkers were huddled together, talking in low tones. Their voices weren’t loud, but just enough for the words to slip through the air and find me.

“Have you heard? Angela’s insisting on divorcing her husband!”

The words hit me like a dropped plate shattering on tile. My hand, halfway to fastening on my name tag, froze. The sound of it felt like every head in the room had turned my way, though I knew they hadn’t.

“What? But her husband treats her so well,” one of them whispered back. “During her confinement, he came here every single day to buy baby supplies himself. He even remembered the exact diaper sizes. And now that the child just turned one, she’s asking for a divorce?”

They rattled off the details I knew all too well—little gestures lined up like medals on display, and I felt more exposed than I had any right to.

“I heard it’s because she can’t get over the fact that her husband once cared for that childhood sweetheart who passed away,” another added knowingly. “But look at him, he handed her his salary card, even raised the fish she likes, and I think it was flown in from overseas too. Isn’t that enough? She just doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

Those last words pricked at me as if they were a judgment I couldn’t argue with.

Lucky...

The word sat strangely on my tongue, like a label someone else had taped to my chest.

The moment I pushed open the door, their chatter cut off abruptly.

Several pairs of eyes turned toward me at once, sharp as needles, pricking against my skin.

A faint awkwardness crossed their faces, and the shop owner hurried out to smooth things over.

“Angela, you’re here?" Mrs. Jenkins' voice was hoarse, cautious as she approached. Come in, come in. We just happen to be short-staffed today.”

I let them perform their little charade of surprise. It was easier that way. I smiled at the owner, pulled my uniform over my head, and kept my breath steady while the room rearranged itself around me.

I had just changed into my uniform when I saw Jonathan at the entrance, holding Ethan in his arms.

Dark shadows ringed his eyes, proof of sleepless nights.

Ethan was wrapped snugly in his embrace, with his round eyes staring straight at me.

He looked exhausted in a way that made my chest ache. He stood there like he’d been waiting for me to decide something that would either save or break us.

“Angela.” His voice was hoarse, tentative, as he walked carefully toward me. “Come home with me, please? Ethan cried for you last night. He’s never spent a night without you.”

Hearing my name come out of his mouth like that touched a part of me I thought I’d protected. It briefly tugged at the part of me that remembers promises, lullabies, and the steady, boring comfort of shared mornings.

The clerks instantly perked up, their gazes darting between us, whispers bubbling to the surface again.

I could feel the shop leaning in like an audience waiting for the next scene. It made me want to be anything but the woman they were ready to pick apart.

“See? Didn’t I say her husband treats her well? Look how humble he is in front of her," my coworker murmured again.

I heard their commentary, the chorus of good intentions turning into a sermon I preferred not to attend.

The other one agreed. “Honestly, Angela really makes trouble for nothing. She has such a good life, yet she insists on a divorce. And the child is still so young.”

Still, I did not look at Jonathan.

Instead, I lowered my head and began arranging tins of formula on the shelf.

“I made myself clear yesterday, Jonathan," I replied. "Sign the divorce papers first, then we’ll talk.”

I said it the way you'd hand someone a train ticket—practical, not dramatic. The papers were a closed door I was offering him to walk through or slam.

His shoulders stiffened. He hugged Ethan tighter, then pulled a velvet box from his bag.

Opening it, a delicate glimmer of light spilled out.

He was trying to buy a smile the same way people buy roses—carefully, sincerely, and a bit silly. For a moment, I almost felt manipulated into feeling something I had already decided I couldn't feel.

“Angela, look. This is for you.”

I already knew what he hoped would work. It was written all over his jaw.

Inside was a silver necklace, the pendant a tiny fish-shaped locket.

“You once said you liked handmade silver jewelry. I asked an old craftsman to make this—it took him half a month. I even had Ethan’s name engraved on it. Try it on?”

A handcrafted apology. The artisans he found for me felt like apologies dressed up in pretty things.

Gasps of admiration rose around us.

They breathed for him, as if my acceptance would validate their belief in his efforts.

“Oh my gosh, that’s from Tiffany’s custom line, isn’t it? I heard you have to wait months for a piece like that.”

“Angela, your husband is so thoughtful. A man like this is rare to find. If you ask me, stop making trouble and go home to live well with him.”

I could hear myself being judged like a piece of furniture someone else felt entitled to. It made me laugh inwardly, a small private laugh, as if to say, I know what I am doing.

I glanced briefly at the necklace, then pushed the box back toward him.

My voice was steady as I said, “No need. I don’t like wearing jewelry.”

His hand froze in midair. Color drained from his face, and the light in his eyes faded slowly, like a broken lamp flickering out.

The gesture felt theatrical to me, but the hurt in his face was real. I did not want to hurt him more than I already had.

Sensing the tension, Ethan suddenly let out a wail in his arms, tiny fists clutching tightly at his father’s collar.

His cry tore through the smallness of the shop and made everyone breathe a little faster.

“What’s wrong with you, Angela?” one colleague blurted out. “Your husband’s done all this for you, and you still act so cold? Can’t you hear your child crying? Do you even care as a mother?”

All the old expectations—the checklist of motherhood, gratefulness, duty—flooded over me like a tide.

“Exactly. What man doesn’t make mistakes? And that childhood sweetheart of his is dead, anyway. He’s already humbled himself so much. You should know when enough is enough.”

The chorus pressed around me with the same familiar pressure I felt at family dinners, where loving someone the wrong way made you the enemy.

Jonathan quickly raised a hand to stop them. “It’s not her fault. It’s me. I haven’t done well enough.”

He took the blame as if it might hold together the pieces that were beginning to fall apart. It was a fragile thing to witness.

Then he turned to me, his voice hoarse and pleading. “Angela, if you don’t like the necklace, I’ll buy you something else. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just don’t divorce me. Please. Ethan can’t live without his mother, and I can’t live without you.”

He sounded like a man bargaining with the last of his dignity. For a moment, the old tenderness flickered, and I wondered if any of it had once been enough.

I looked at his reddened eyes, then at Ethan’s tear-streaked little face. My heart clenched tight, like something inside me had been caught in a vice.

And yet the word 'okay' refused to leave my lips, stuck in my throat where it burned.

“The divorce papers are already in your email.” I kept my eyes down, reaching for the diapers on the shelf and arranging them one by one. “Sign them as soon as possible. We can negotiate custody, but the marriage must end.”

“Angela!” Jonathan’s voice cracked as it rose, edged with a despair he could barely keep down. “What more do you want from me? I’ve given you all my money, all my time. No matter how troublesome, if you wanted it, I made it happen. What else do you want from me?”

His sudden outburst startled Ethan, who started crying even louder.

Around us, voices clashed—scolding, pleading, and trying to comfort—all tangled together with the child’s wailing until the whole shop felt suffocating, like a net closing in.

I didn’t turn to him. My fingers tightened around the diapers until my knuckles stood out pale.

“I don’t want anything,” I said flatly. “Just your signature on the divorce papers.”

Jonathan stepped forward suddenly, practically pressing Ethan into my arms. “Angela, hold Ethan. Look at him. He’s crying so pitifully. For the child’s sake, let’s not get divorced, alright?”

Ethan’s small face was flushed from crying, his tiny hands clutching at my clothes.

His muffled sobs escaped between choked words.

"Mama.”

Warm tears slid down the back of my hand.

My heart twisted tightly.

My fingers trembled with the urge to grab Ethan and hold on forever. But then the image of that fish tank flickered in my mind—Jonathan standing in front of it in the dead of night, whispering words I couldn't understand. The unease it stirred in me strengthened my resolve. I clenched my teeth and stepped back, avoiding Ethan’s frantic little hands.

“I don’t want to hold him right now.” My voice came out cold, like ice shattering in the air, so cold it scared even me.

Jonathan froze.

Ethan, unable to reach me, cried harder, so hard he nearly choked.

Jonathan’s face twisted with disbelief, bloodshot veins spreading across his eyes like spiderwebs.

His voice shook as he demanded, “What… what did you say? Ethan is your child! Angela, how can you be so heartless?”

The shop erupted at once.

“Angela, are you insane? The child is crying like this, and you won’t even hold him?”

“All this, just for a divorce? You’d even abandon your child? Is your heart made of stone? What sin did your husband commit to end up with a woman like you?”

The boss stamped her foot, her face tight with agitation. “Angela, you’re confused! Whatever the problem is, talk it out. Why let the child suffer like this?”

Jonathan held Ethan tighter, his arms rocking with the boy’s sobs. His gaze locked on me, and the last flicker of light in his eyes dimmed, leaving only the gray hollow of despair.

“You can even turn your back on Ethan…” His laugh came low and brittle, like shards of ice cracking. “Fine. Isn’t divorce what you want? I’ll give it to you.”

He didn’t look at me again. Bowing his head, he patted Ethan’s back, his voice hoarse. “I’ll sign the divorce papers. Tomorrow at noon, come home. I’ll sign them in front of both our families.”

With that, he turned and walked out, still holding the crying Ethan. His back was straight, but it bore the weight of defeat so heavy it nearly bent him.

The shop went silent behind him. All eyes looked at me, full of shock and contempt, as if I had just done something unforgivable.

I offered no explanation. I only bent down and continued stacking the shelves.

...

The next day at noon, as soon as I pushed open the front door, a flurry of voices rushed at me from the living room.

Both my parents and Jonathan's parents were seated on the sofas. My mother’s eyes were swollen and red from crying, while Sandra sighed over and over, her face etched with exhaustion.

In the corner, Jonathan sat with Ethan in his arms.

The shadows under his eyes were darker than they had been the day before. When he looked up and saw me walk in, his gaze was stripped bare of emotion, like he was staring at a stranger.

“Angela, you still have the nerve to come back?” My father was the first to explode, slamming the table so hard the teacup rattled noisily against the wood. “You won’t even care for your own child just to get a divorce. What on earth are you thinking?”

I didn’t respond. My silence was the only shield I had left.

It was Jonathan who finally broke it, his voice flat, stripped of warmth.

“I’ve already drafted the divorce agreement. The assets will remain with me, and Ethan’s custody will also be mine. You can visit him anytime, but you may not take him away.” He pushed the papers across the table toward me. “If you have no objections, sign it.”

Our parents pounced immediately, their voices loud and sharp.

“That’s the way it should be! She’s so heartless to her own child—she’s not fit to be a mother."

"Letting her walk away with nothing is already too kind. If you ask me, she shouldn’t even have the right to see the child again.”

My mother clutched my hand under the table, her voice low and trembling with tears. “Angela, just accept it. You wronged Jonathan, you wronged Ethan. Stop making trouble, please.”

The weight of their stares pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, I drew the agreement out from under Jonathan’s hand. But instead of signing, I reached into my purse, pulled out a sealed bag, and set it on the table with a soft thud.

“I do have an objection.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade, silencing the room in an instant. “The one who should be walking away with nothing isn’t me. It’s Jonathan.”

The entire room froze. Jonathan’s brows knitted together, and for the briefest second, a flicker of shock crossed his eyes.

“You’ve all been so curious, haven’t you?” I let a cold smile curl across my lips as I swept my gaze over the crowd. “Why do I insist on divorcing? Fine. I’ll tell you now. The reason I want a divorce is because of that eel in the tank.”