Imagine my shock when I found out that my husband, a professor who had proudly embraced a childless life for half of his years, had an affair with one of his own students. She even had his six-year-old son.

The day I planned to report him to the university, Zia Thompson came to my door with the child and knelt in front of me.

"Maybe you and Zeke were in love once," she said. "But he's over forty now. Who doesn't want to have a child? A legacy?"

"I don't need a title," she went on. "I can give up the child too. I just beg you, don't tear our family apart."

I looked at my husband, who stood protectively in front of them. I felt terrifyingly calm.

"Cut ties with them," I said, my voice flat, "or prepare to be reported to the university. You choose."

Without a moment's hesitation, he tore the report letter into shreds. I thought that was his answer.

But on the fifty-second night of a bed grown cold and a home echoing with silence, he still hadn't returned. Instead, I received news that Zia was pregnant again.

She had graduated by then. The report I never sent no longer posed any threat to them.

Zeke didn't bother to hide his fatigue and irritation anymore. "Treat Zia and the kids well," he said, "or keep living alone in that empty house. It's your choice."

My heart was already a wasteland. "I have one more option," I said. "I choose divorce."

Zeke Maelstorm stared at me in disbelief. After a long pause, he let out a laugh.

"Is this fun for you?" he said. "Is divorce your go-to threat for everything now?"

I lowered my eyes. "No. This time, I mean it."

At that, his smile twisted. He yanked off the wedding ring he'd worn for twenty years and slammed it down in front of me. The crash of metal on wood echoed through the room, as if everything we'd once shared—our years of mutual care and quiet companionship—had shattered with it.

I took a deep breath and slid my own ring off, setting it gently on the table. The gold band was still well-kept, polished like new.

When we married, we'd bought three gold pieces—earrings, a necklace, and the rings.

To fund his research, I pawned the earrings and the necklace long ago. Only the rings had survived, the last semblance of dignity in our marriage. And now, I was giving it back to him.

Zeke looked at me with a complicated expression. He must have thought I'd scream, cry, make a scene.

And once, I would've. But fifty-two nights in a cold, empty bed had already drained all hope from my heart.

"Carrie," he said, voice sharp, "don't be ridiculous. Zia's already compromised a lot. I know you don't really want a divorce. But I can't abandon Zia and the child just for you. Dylan is only six. You grew up in a single-parent home. Can you really bear to let him grow up without a father?"

I stared at him, stunned. After twenty years of sharing a bed, he suddenly felt like a stranger. Even my worst memories—things I could barely stand to revisit—had become bargaining chips in his negotiation.

My mother died giving birth to me. My father blamed me for her death. My childhood was a kind of hell, enough to make me fear marriage, fear having children.

It was Zeke who broke through that fear. He told me he didn't like children either, said we were made for each other.

Back then, not having kids was almost unthinkable. But he'd taken my hand and eloped with me, to a city where we knew no one, scraping by through the hardest years.

Of course, no matter how careful you are, accidents happen. We'd had a child once.

Somehow, word got out. His parents found us. They promised that if we kept the baby, they would raise it themselves, and give us a hundred grand to build the life we wanted.

I nearly gave in.

But that night, Zeke held my hand, and we talked until morning.

"You don't have to care what the world says," he told me. "Just do what feels right in your heart. I'll always stand by you."

"However," I'd asked softly, "medical technology's better now. Even with complications, they can save both mother and child. Are you sure… you really don't want one?"

I remember how he nodded, then drove me to the hospital for the abortion.

After that day, he got a vasectomy.

But a vasectomy isn't sterilization. It's not a guarantee. Just like promises—always shifting, never fixed.

Looking back, I got pregnant six years ago. His child with Zia was also six now. The timing was a little too perfect.

Come to think of it, after Zia gave birth, he even asked me to take care of her.

I stared blankly at Zeke. Even in his forties, with only a few faint lines at the corners of his eyes, he was still as handsome as he'd been twenty years ago.

But he was no longer the guy whose world had once revolved around me.

"You say you can't bear for a child to grow up without a father," I said. "Then are you really okay with me living without a husband? You're all I have."

He shut his eyes, as if wrestling with something deep inside.

"All these years, I respected your wishes. I didn't force you to have children. Can't you try to understand me too? We can bring Zia and Dylan here. We could live together."

"I haven't fallen that far!" My voice cracked as I cut him off.

"If you bring them here, what does that make me? One of your women waiting for your love? A nanny to look after your other family? You think this is some kind of gift? Making me watch my husband share a bed with another woman? How can you be so cruel?"

I collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

He reached for me, but Dylan tugged at the corner of his shirt.

Neither Dylan nor Zia said a word. But it didn't matter. They'd already won.

Zeke left with them, leaving behind just one sentence, "Think it over."

On the 53rd night of sleeping alone, I tore off the page from the calendar I'd been using to count the days.

I called a friend from law school.

"Can you help me draft a divorce agreement? This time, it's for real."

Zeke disappeared for a month. I knew where he was.

Most of his social media and payment apps were tied to my phone number.

The OB-GYN sent me appointment reminders for several days in a row.

He was probably with Zia now.

Truthfully, I didn't need all these clues. I had Zia's Instagram.

But after discovering their affair, I rarely had the courage to open her messages or click into her feed.

Back then, Zia used to send me videos of Dylan.

[Carrie, Dylan's gotten taller.]

[Dylan can recognize people now. Next time I'll bring him to see you.]

[Carrie, my project's been keeping me busy. Can you pick Dylan up for me?]

During her three years of grad school, I got along well with her. I thought it was just the kind of ordinary friendship that forms between teacher and student. I always replied patiently.

Now, those memories felt like barbs under the skin, slicing apart the naïve version of myself from back then.

Then a message came in from her: [Carrie, Zeke is with me. Don't worry.]

I tapped into her feed. She'd just posted a video a few minutes ago.

There were already two comments.

One from Zeke: [I'll pick you up after your prenatal yoga.]

And one from his mother: [Take more photos of my sweet grandson. I love watching them.]

Because I hadn't had children, and because I eloped with Zeke back then, his mother and I had barely spoken for years. It wasn't until the New Year two years ago that we finally got each other's number.

But now, scrolling through Zia's posts, I saw comment after comment, stretching back six years.

They'd been openly interacting all this time.

So I was the only one left in the dark, wasn't I?

Numb, I left the house, thinking I'd buy groceries, cook a little something to distract myself.

But then I ran into his mother—with Dylan in tow.

"What would you like to eat, sweetheart?" she asked him gently. "Grandma will make it for you tonight."

Zeke's mother's smile was warm—almost gentle—so unlike how she looked at me. But the moment her eyes landed on my face, the warmth vanished, replaced by the same cold resentment I'd come to expect.

She pulled Dylan behind her, shielding him.

"What are you doing here? Trying to hurt my precious grandson?" Her voice was shrill. "Even if you shamelessly refuse to divorce, you can't change his blood. Dylan and Zia will be parts of our family. And you? After making my son suffer for all these years, our family does not recognize you as a daughter-in-law."

I let out a bitter laugh, not knowing how to respond.

Dylan glanced longingly at the biscuit in my hand. Without a word, she snatched it away.

I hadn't flinched when I first learned of Zeke's affair. Not even when Zia came to confront me. But this time, I ran.

Because I hadn't eaten dinner, the stomach pains came back.

Curled up in bed, the agony blurred my senses. My fingers moved on their own, dialing a number I'd called more times than I could count.

It wasn't long before warm water and a pill touched my lips.

Time rewound, just for a moment, to the days when we were still in love. Whenever my stomach acted up, he would be there—first to arrive, first to offer relief. I later found out he always carried a little pill case in the pocket closest to his heart.

Just like now, he reached instinctively into his shirt, poured several pills into my hand. "You forgot to buy medicine again, didn't you? I still have plenty."

"Even if I'm not around," he said gently, "you have to take care of yourself."

Tears burst from my eyes.

"I don't want the medicine," I sobbed. "I just want you. I want you, not the pills. Please, don't leave me."

He held me tight. "Okay, okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay. I'll always stay. I know you didn't mean the divorce stuff. You were just angry. I would never divorce you."

Zeke kissed my forehead. His voice was soft, and it quieted the storm inside me.

He told me he had been driving home when he got my call, and he turned around immediately.

He told me I was still the one he cared about most.

So we lay there, talking like we used to—like newlyweds wrapped in a sugar-sweet dream.

Curled in his arms, I thought: if this were a dream, I'd never want to wake up.

But then, a child coughed outside the room. His eyes flicked toward the door.

"Zia and Dylan are still outside," he said, avoiding my gaze. "Should I let them in?"

I froze.

And just like that, the dream shattered.

The door opened.

Zia stepped in, holding Dylan's hand.

In the dim light, I looked at her closely for the first time.

Her hair flowed down her back. She wore a trendy spaghetti-strap maxi dress I wouldn't have dared to wear even in my youth.

She was young, stylish, vibrant.

And me? I was a mess from writhing in pain just moments ago. Disheveled. Drained.

Zeke used to say he liked intellectual women. Said my writing was beautiful, that I aged like fine wine.

But here he was, doting on a pretty young thing.

As Zia stepped through the doorway, she tripped on a slipper.

Zeke rushed to catch her—didn't hesitate, didn't look back. And I, without his support, collapsed back onto the bed.

The pills fell from his hands, clattering to the floor—abandoned, so he could steady her.

She gave me a quick, apologetic smile. "Carrie, I assume Zeke already told you? We didn't mean to bother you so late. But it's about Dylan—it's urgent."

I stared blankly at Zeke.

Told me?

Wasn't he here tonight just to bring me medicine?

"It's nothing big," she said, as if clarifying would help. "We just need you to take care of Dylan."