After the Miscarriage, She Walked Away

The boy I grew up with, my husband, brought another woman into our home.

Her voice was soft and coaxing.

"Mr. Stephens, your wife really is blind. So we don't even have to close the door, do we?"

Brent Stephens's voice was indulgent. "That's right. No need to close it."

Then he brushed right past me and walked into the guest room.

I lost myself and tried to follow, but my foot slipped and I crashed to the floor.

Pain tore through my belly all at once, and I couldn't move.

All I could do was demand, half-hysterical, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I may be blind, but I've never been a burden to you. I stand on my own, I make my own money, and I've done everything a wife is supposed to do."

"Because you're too obedient."

There was impatience in Brent's voice. "I tell you to go to work, and you go to work. The truth is we have more money than we'll ever spend. Keeping you costs me nothing. I tell you not to go abroad, and you actually give up your future and stay. You're too dull."

"I want something interesting."

I froze.

A moment later, the sounds of kissing and flirting drifted out from the guest room.

Being careful, being cautious, being obedient—that had become my crime.

Then fine, Brent. Have it your way.

This time, I won't be obedient.

I'll take my future. Not you.

——

The floor was cold.

My belly throbbed.

My hip and lower back felt wrenched out of place along with it.

I tried to push myself up several times and failed every one.

Dampness spread into my palm, warm, carrying the faint metallic smell of something foul.

The housekeeper always cleaned so carefully. Yet today, of all days, she'd made this careless mistake.

And of course she'd gone out to buy groceries.

There was no one even to help me up.

I pinned my hope on Brent, forcing his name out of my throat.

"Brent, my stomach hurts."

But the laughter from the guest room swallowed it whole.

"Mr. Stephens, your wife can't see, sure, but isn't this going too far? What if she can't take it? What if she leaves you—or kills herself?"

Brent's voice turned low and rough.

"What? Are you worried about her?"

"Of course not."

The woman denied it at once, a shameless pride in her tone.

"I'm no saint. I'm the bad girl, remember? I chase the thrill. I hate rules, I hate moral leashes. Isn't that exactly why you came looking for me, Mr. Stephens?"

"Hahaha."

Brent laughed softly, an easy laugh I hadn't heard from him in years.

"You're absolutely right."

My nose stung.

My parents died in a car crash, and I lost my eyes.

The Stephens family, old friends of theirs, took me in.

Brent was rebellious, getting into fights and trouble every few days.

His father would string him up, beat him, and lock him in a room.

No one dared go near him.

No one but me.

Brent would order me to fetch him food, fetch him medicine, and I'd feel my way through every task.

Because I knew I was living under someone else's roof.

Doing what the young master said was always the safe bet.

Brent said it like a joke.

"You're this obedient, and you're pretty too. Why don't you just marry me? I like you."

My face went red.

Brent smiled. "Even prettier when you blush. Play me something on the violin."

Playing was what I did best.

Even my teacher said my violin was no worse than the masters abroad, that I had a rare touch for it.

Brent wanted to listen, so I played for him.

I even played, at our wedding.

A single piece.

Beneath that sweet, soaring music

came the half-whispered remarks of Brent's friends.

"Brent, you've gone and married yourself a music box. Pretty, obedient. You've got it made."

"Shame she's blind, though. She's not good enough for you."

Brent only gave a soft laugh.

"She shuts my parents up. Even when I'm out there living it up, they won't say a word to me about it. That's enough."