If Tom wouldn't show up, then fine. He never needed to show up again.

The resentment surged up in me.

I warned myself. Don't hate. Don't stew.

It would make me sick.

It would clog my milk.

The first would only hurt me.

The second would hurt me and my baby both.

I was a mother now. For my child's sake, I had to be strong.

The first day home.

Tom happened to be packing his suitcase.

"Maggie, I'm headed to the Capital for a few days. There's an exhibition."

"Just focus on your recovery. My mom will take good care of you."

My mother-in-law took the baby with a smile, cradling her against her chest, all tenderness.

"Go on, son, don't worry about a thing. Your career comes first."

"I'll take good care of my precious granddaughter!"

Elena swept into the room in a rush.

"Mr. Henson, hurry up. The driver's already waiting downstairs."

Tom pinched our daughter's little cheek, looking almost reluctant to leave.

"Be good, sweetheart. Daddy will bring you a present when he comes home."

Then his brow furrowed.

"Maggie, why do you smell so bad? Do you even shower?"

I clenched my jaw.

Said nothing.

The whole time I was in the hospital, I'd had nothing but the gown they gave me. No change of clothes.

He never once asked me what I needed.

He never once asked me if I was hungry.

He never once asked me if I was in pain.

Forget it. Whether he was truly oblivious or only pretending, it didn't matter anymore.

As far as I was concerned, my child's father was already dead.

Tom picked up his suitcase and left with Elena.

Before she went, Elena turned and gave me a long, deliberate look.

Her eyes settled on my belly, still swollen.

"Ma'am, you've already had the baby. How come your stomach is still so big?"

Tom glanced back, his brow creasing.

"You never used to be like this. You should lose some weight."

The two of them had barely stepped out before my mother-in-law shoved the baby into my arms.

"You had her, you carry her. My back hurts."

She'd just finished griping about her back when she turned around, changed her clothes, and went off to the dance class over in the next neighborhood.

So I called in a postpartum nurse too.

One to handle the baby, one to handle the cooking.

That way I'd have more time to take care of myself.

After a full day out gallivanting, my mother-in-law slammed the door coming in.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"The help only cooks for you and not for me?"

"You trying to starve me to death?"

I was nursing the baby. I didn't even look up.

"The nurse is only here for me and the baby."

"You've got two hands and two feet. You can cook for yourself."

A little while later, my phone rang.

It was Tom.

"Maggie! My mom is working herself to the bone for you, and you treat her like this?"

"She cried on the phone for ages."

"She's your elder. How could you—"

I cut him off.

"Tom, I'm exhausted. I don't want to get into this with you."

"Whether your mom is run ragged or not has nothing to do with me."

Tom was indignant.

"Margaret, you never used to be like this!"

I hung up.

Drew in a deep breath.

"Tom, you never used to be like this either."

Once, when I'd nicked my finger, he'd ached for me like it was the end of the world.

"These hands were meant for painting."

"Now you've hurt yourself cooking for me. From now on, I'll be twice as good to you."

Back then, out in the world, I poured everything into supporting his career.

At home, I worked hard at learning how to be a good wife.

And now, after a labor that turned into an emergency C-section, after walking right up to death's door and back—

all he had for me was one line.

"You never used to be like this."

Elena updated her social media feed.

In a trendy restaurant in the Capital, she and Tom were clinking glasses.

Like a couple head over heels in love.

Even the photo was dripping with atmosphere.

The comment section filled up with likes from their mutual friends.

I shut off my phone.

Not a single ripple in my chest.

She was showing off. Provoking me.

She couldn't wait to take my place.

So what?

Her today and my yesterday were the same story.

Tom Henson was a romantic man.

A perfect score in dating.

A perfect score in proposing.

But his romance couldn't hold up the weight of being a father.

After the pregnancy and the birth, I'd become a mother overnight, whether I was ready or not.

And Tom was still the same Tom.

There was an invisible wall between us.

On the far side of it, he was still dazzling.

Still living his life of wine and moonlight.

On my side, I was bleeding, leaking urine, constipated, my milk soaking through.

I was buried under a baby and everything that came out of one.

And he saw none of it.

The entire recovery month, Tom came home only four times.

The first time, he was angry.

The second time, he frowned.

The third time, he was disgusted.

The fourth time, he was calm. He didn't even spare me a glance.

He didn't come into the room either.

All I heard was the clatter of him gathering his things.

I was counting the days.

Counting down to the end of my recovery month.

Counting down to when I could leave the house.

Counting down to when I could leave him for good.

We never had a single screaming fight.

Beneath that calm was the sound of my love shattering to pieces.

Every day, I still nursed, ate, soaked in my medicinal baths, rocked the baby to sleep, bled, leaked.

Now and then I'd scroll my social media feed, and all I saw was Elena Fox's itinerary, stop after stop.

Tom was in every single post.

So was everyone in Tom's circle.

They bantered like old friends, as if they'd completely forgotten there was a woman tucked away in a corner who had just given birth to Tom's child.

I was like an old thing left to gather dust.

During that whole month, the only person who truly cared about me was my mother.

She texted me every day.

I set the phone down, and the tears slid silently down my face.

My mother-in-law toyed with me on purpose, because she looked down on me.

But Tom, all he had to do was ask one more question and he'd have known exactly what I was going through.

He stayed silent the whole time.

Not just silent. He flew all over the country with Elena Fox, holding exhibitions, giving talks, raking in money.

But of all that money, the only thing I saw was the thirty thousand dollars he wired me during the recovery month. Not another cent.

Even the home we lived in now had been bought by my parents years ago.

Right as my recovery month was wrapping up, Tom landed another top prize at the National Art Exhibition.

His social media feed overflowed with flowers and applause.

And the woman standing beside him, soaking up the praise, was still Elena.

She was just like the version of me from a few years ago.

Eyes shining, eyes that saw nothing but Tom.

By now, Tom didn't even bother sharing his joy with me anymore.

Our text thread was pitiful, barely a handful of messages.

The last one was from two weeks earlier, when he'd told me his mother had gone back home.

And it hit me then. His mother had been right about one thing.

Thank God Tom and I had never made it official.

The day my recovery month ended, the weather was beautiful.

I dismissed the postpartum nurse.

I packed only the essentials for the flight, formula, diapers, that kind of thing.

As for the baby's dirty laundry, the leftover food, the loaded diaper bags no one had thrown out yet.

I left every bit of it exactly where it was.

Tom would have to see it eventually.

He needed to see that "father" wasn't just a title.

It was a responsibility.

And underneath that responsibility lay a floor's worth of mess and grime.

I pushed the stroller, documents in hand, straight to the real estate agency.

"I'm widowed."

The moment I said it to the agent, plain and calm, the wire pulled tight inside me finally went slack.

Then I wheeled the stroller out and headed straight for the airport.

Southport, a thousand miles away. That was my real home.

A week later, Tom called.

"Where did you go?"

"The place reeks like the septic tank exploded!"

"What the hell has gotten into you?!"

I answered him flatly.

"Tom, I nearly died giving birth."

"And you're yelling at me about taking out the trash? Are you actually this clueless, or just playing dumb?"

Another day passed, and he was blowing up my phone.

"Margaret!! How could you sell the house?"