Chapter 2

Once, Naomi and I had a chance at having a family of our own. It was years ago. When she found out she was pregnant, instead of joy, she looked at me like I’d crossed a line.

Her hand flew up, and I felt the sting across my cheek, right there in the middle of the hospital hallway, while others watched.

She accused me of doing it on purpose, as if I had any control over such a thing. The moment was seared into my mind, a mix of confusion and hurt, and then she spoke the words that still haunt me.

She told me a child would ruin her life, destroy her body, and that she’d be nothing more than a house-bound wife, chained to a life she despised. Her words were cold and flat.

I should’ve listened harder to what she was saying then, but love has a way of making us deaf.

Eventually, I agreed. We went through the motions, terminated the pregnancy, and “DINK” became our unspoken rule—Double Income, No Kids.

That was the lifestyle she said she wanted.

But it turned out to be a lie. It wasn’t that Naomi didn’t want to give birth. She just didn’t want to carry my child.

After the callous way she’d tossed my love and loyalty aside, I didn’t want to drag out the agony any longer.

I called my parents to let them know I was filing for a divorce and that I’d be coming back to take over the family business, a part of me that I’d left behind for her. My mom’s voice was a soft comfort, filled with surprise and a tinge of relief.

She’d always been concerned, but she never intruded. And now, hearing the change in my plans, she was quietly hopeful.

She paused and asked, “Eli, what will happen to the apartment I bought for you two?”

The apartment. I’d forgotten about that. When I’d left everything behind, my mother had come to check on me. She saw me and Naomi living in a cramped, shabby apartment barely fit for two. She couldn’t bear it and bought us a bigger place, a place that could hold a family if we wanted. But Naomi had brushed off the idea of moving in, saying she preferred our small home, that the bigger place felt too cold and empty.

“I’ll put it up for sale tomorrow, Mom,” I said.

After I ended the call, I was just about to take a breath when my phone buzzed again. It was Naomi, her voice sharp and impatient.

“Where are you, Eli? Why aren’t you home?”

I could barely believe the nerve. Here she was, demanding answers from me when she’d been the one ripping everything apart.

“I think it’s better for you to stay at the hospital and keep Ben company, don’t you?”

Her voice dropped, and the calm vanished, replaced by indignation. “Eli, can you stop acting this way? I haven’t done anything wrong! Ben and I only went through a medical procedure. There was no affair; it was just IVF. Can you not make a scene?”

The words didn’t sting like they once would have. I had nothing left to give. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she spoke again.

“Ben’s getting worse, Eli. Tomorrow morning, could you go to the market? Get some lotus root and ribs, and make that stew he likes. He needs it. Just don’t put any onions or garlic in; he’s particular about that. And simmer it for five hours at least. You know, the way he likes.”

I stared at the phone, feeling something colder than anger—a quiet realization. She’d truly started to believe I was nothing but an errand boy, a background to her world. And she didn’t even flinch when she asked for this favor. For him.

As I stayed silent, she sighed heavily, as though it was me who was being difficult. “Why don’t you understand? This is about life and death, Eli. Ben’s last wish is to have a child. This baby is his reason for fighting, for even trying at this point. But instead, you’re over there pouting about pride or whatever this is. Can’t you see the bigger picture?”

I laughed under my breath, empty and hollow, and the irony struck deep. This was who I’d sacrificed for, this woman who looked at me with pity, maybe even contempt.

Unable to even argue anymore, I sent a simple message, “I’ll prepare the divorce papers. We’ll sign tomorrow.”

Naomi was quiet for a beat on the other end, then she scoffed, muttering, “Fine. Bring them. But don’t go crawling back when you change your mind, Eli. You always do. You’ll see sense soon enough.”

After hanging up, I just sat there, staring at the phone, at the silence around me. The room felt hollow, emptied of the last shred of warmth I thought we had. Everything that made me stay with Naomi felt like dust slipping through my fingers.

Another message pinged. It was from my mom again, a small, hesitant question.

“I thought you said you both never moved into the apartment?”

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Chapter 3

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When I told my mom I’d sell the apartment, she was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Then why have the water, electricity, and gas bills kept going all these years?”

I had no idea. So, I made it a point to go check things out myself.

When I got there and knocked, Ben opened the door, half-awake and dressed in some worn-out sleepwear. He looked surprised to see me, but not as much as I was. Inside, the place was filled with art supplies—sketchboards, easels, brushes, paints scattered everywhere. The smell of paint lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of coffee. And then it hit me like a truck. I remembered a magazine interview from two years back where Ben, a budding artist, was being celebrated in the local art scene. Naomi had shown me the video with so much pride, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him talking about his work.

I realized then. That backdrop, the place in his interview that seemed oddly familiar—it was the very apartment my mom had bought as a wedding gift for me and Naomi. She’d told me she wanted us to have something better, something safe and comfortable. Naomi had refused it, insisting on staying in our tiny, run-down place. Yet here Ben was, living in the place that was supposed to be ours.

As if that wasn’t enough, Ben looked me over with a lazy smirk. “Hey, didn’t Naomi tell you to bring soup for me? Where’s the soup?”

I clenched my fists, anger simmering, but I forced myself to keep steady. “Why are you living here?” I asked him.

“Oh, this?” he said with a grin, gesturing around the place like he owned it. “Naomi let me stay here. She said the place I was renting before was too small and not inspiring enough. She thought moving here might get the creativity flowing, you know?” He chuckled, the pale look in his face doing little to hide his smugness.

Then he let out a soft sigh, almost mocking. “When you love someone, you want to give them the best. Unlike some people…” he paused and looked at me. “Even after getting married, you made Naomi live in that dump. I mean, come on, man—how useless can you be?”

His words dug deep, stirring memories of those cramped years Naomi and I had spent in that small, old apartment. The place had a damp smell that clung to everything, especially after it rained. And the floors—those creaky, uneven floors that I’d fixed one by one, hoping to make the place a little less miserable. Every time it rained, water leaked through the cracks in the ceiling, and we’d run around with bowls, trying to catch the drips.

But this place—this place was pristine. It was ours, given by my mom for us to grow into, to build a family in if we chose. And yet Naomi had given it away to him, for years.

A thought crossed my mind like a slow-burning realization. A few years back, Naomi had been furious with Ben after catching him in some shady affair with a woman he’d been meeting up with in some dingy place. I remember she’d come to me, soaked and shivering, asking me to marry her. I thought she’d moved on. I thought she’d chosen me. But now, standing in the middle of that apartment, I wondered if giving him this place was her way of trying to pull him away from whatever mess he’d been in back then.

The commotion of my argument with Ben had drawn the attention of a few neighbors, and they were watching us from the hallway, muttering to each other.

“Who does this guy think he is?” someone said. “This is Mr. Smith and Miss Hayes’s apartment—everyone in the building knows that.”

Another neighbor chimed in, “Yeah, they’ve been here for years! They’re practically the model couple around here. Haven’t you seen their picture on the bulletin board?”

It stung. All those years I thought Naomi and I were building a life, sacrificing, making do with what we had. And here, in this other world I didn’t know, they were celebrated as some perfect, happy couple.

That’s when I noticed the paintings. One caught my eye immediately—a nude portrait of Naomi, draped in a sheet, her face half-turned, a mole on her collarbone. It was unmistakably her. The image hit me like a punch, a thousand feelings rushing to the surface.

I moved closer to the painting, almost in a trance, as if maybe I could understand why, why she’d done any of this.

Suddenly, the elevator chimed, and the doors opened. There she was—Naomi, carrying two large grocery bags, her face a mixture of surprise and annoyance as she spotted me. She quickly masked it, her expression settling into a scowl.

“Didn’t I tell you to bring soup to the hospital, Eli?” Her voice was cold, almost biting. “Jason is sick. You think it’s alright to leave him waiting?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, taking in the person standing before me. The woman I’d once loved so deeply, who I’d shared my life with, suddenly felt like a stranger.

She huffed, clearly irritated by my silence. “Fine,” she said, glancing at me with impatience. “You’re here anyway. I brought groceries. You can cook for him here, and I’ll take him to the hospital afterward. Once you’ve made the soup, put it in a thermos and bring it over, alright?”

The coldness in her voice, the entitlement—it was too much. I shook her hand off when she reached out to push me inside.

“Naomi,” I said firmly, “why don’t you tell them who really owns this place?”

……