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."

"Dylan's about to start elementary school? Don't you own a place in that school district? It's one of the best schools in the area. You like living over there anyway—wouldn't it be perfect for helping take care of him?"

I stared at Zeke's mouth opening and closing, my entire body trembling in disbelief.

That apartment had been left to me by my mother, who passed away far too soon. It was a cramped little place where he and I had weathered the hardest years of our lives together. The home we once dreamed we'd return to in old age. And now, he wanted that same home to house the child of the woman who had shattered my heart—and he wanted me to take care of their son?

I could barely breathe. The ache in my stomach was nothing compared to the pain radiating from my chest.

"Not a chance. That place is mine. Even if I gave it away, I'd never let the child of a mistress live there—"

I didn't even get to finish. Zeke cut me off sharply. "Do you even hear yourself? How can you say something like that in front of a child?"

He cupped Dylan's ears with his hands, his eyes filled with worry as he looked over at Zia.

She looked pale, tears brimming in her eyes. "Zeke… you didn't tell her about this when you got out of the car to take that call, did you? You lied. You told me she already agreed to it. But really… you just came back to see her again, didn't you?

"Dylan is the child I had through IVF. I took injection after injection just to keep him safe… I won't let him be mistreated, not by anyone. If that's the case, then maybe it's better if Dylan and I leave the city. You should stay."

Her voice cracked as she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

Zeke wrapped her in his arms, his voice full of anguish. "You carried him for almost ten months. If I abandon you both now, what kind of man would that make me? Less than human.

"If she won't compromise on Dylan's education, then I'll buy another home in that school district. I'll put your and Dylan's names on the deed. This city is where you grew up. If someone's going to leave, it's not going to be you."

I blinked slowly, as if the weight of his words had dragged my heart to the bottom of a pit.

So, he wouldn't let Zia leave this city.

Which meant the one who had to go… was me.

I walked them to the door, the three of them now an unmistakable family. Before they left, I pressed the divorce papers into Zeke's hand.

"Let's not see each other anymore. Once you sign them, just send them back."

His pupils trembled. He grabbed my wrist suddenly, hard. "Don't joke around like this. People our age don't get divorced."

"Not often," I said quietly. "But it happens. Doesn't it?"

His expression shifted, a mixture of desperation and disbelief. "What will our former students think? Our colleagues—we work in the same office, for god's sake."

"That's your problem."

I pulled my wrist free and walked away without looking back.

We had once been brave enough to resist social pressure and choose a child-free life. Now, was I supposed to endure a loveless marriage just because of what others might think?

It was laughable.

We'd been married for twenty years and worked together for just as long.

When we first left home and came here, we were broke—surviving off odd jobs. We never complained. We worked hard together, pursued higher education, became professors, built a life—side by side, never apart.

But somewhere along the way, even though we were always together, we stopped having anything to say to each other.

No matter how hard I tried to go back to the way things were, I couldn't.

Even without him, life would go on.

I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke, I'd already missed the school shuttle.

Frustrated, I reached for my phone to rearrange my class schedule—only to spot Zeke's car idling at the curb.

He rolled down the window. "You've got an 8 a.m. today. If you don't hurry, you'll be late."

It was a key lecture this term. I couldn't afford to miss it.

So I got in.