PAIGE

It is said that my husband has six mistresses. All from six different cities.

And the last one happens to be his favorite.

Everyone who lives in the city knows this. Wherever I go, I hear the whispers and feel the pitiful glances thrown at me.

The prominent women in the society stand by and mutter inaudible, mocking statements about my husband's infidelity.

Even the guards lower their eyes whenever he drives out at night, pretending not to have an idea of where he is going.

At the beginning, I try to endure, hoping that, maybe, just maybe, he would come back to me one day.

But then it goes from the first to the second, the third, and currently, the sixth mistress, all for a son.

He always wanted a male child. An heir apparent to his mega businesses.

However, my first two kids turn out to be daughters. And ever since then, Richard saw me as a misfortune, a bad wife, and a mistake that shouldn't have happened.

“A man with no son leaves no legacy.” He would say with a forced smile that doesn't reach his eyes, while I lock myself in and weep my eyes out.

But on this day, I am standing at the balcony, watching as Richard's black car zooms out of the gates like other times.

He doesn't bother telling where he is heading. He just climbs in and drives out.

Even so, he doesn't have to inform me, for I already know. I sigh and watch the security men lock back the gates.

“My lady, you should rest. It's not good for you to be standing like this. It is late at night.”

A soft voice speaks behind me.

It is Martha, my oldest maid. At least, she is the only person in the house who gazes upon me with real concern and love.

She's been here since our wedding day and has seen how my joyful moments in the early times of our marriage faded into sadness and hatred.

Plastering a fake smile, I turn to her. “I'll sleep soon, Matha.”

She frowns, coming to tap my shoulder like I'm a little child. “Don't stay up looking and thinking, dear. It is better you look after yourself first.”

It is better I look myself first.

Her words ring in my memory, and I nod subconsciously.

“True. I needed this encouragement. I need to sleep. Have you laid the kids in bed?” I yawn, following right behind her.

“Yes, My Lady. I have done so.” Martha replies and leads me up to the doorstep of my bedroom.

Ever since Richard realized I will not be producing an heir anytime soon, he sent me packing right from our matrimonial space into one of the rooms on the second floor.

That spot became the place for our future irregular sexual intercourse.

Something that would later be referred to as a ‘once in a blue moon’ event.

He even goes further to pick a specific date for our sexual intercourse, which is done once a month.

“Goodnight, My Lady.” Martha closes the door behind her as she waves the last time.

I smile a little, leaning my back against the door and staring into space.

Other times, a tear would have dropped off my face knowing my husband's keeping a fellow woman warm.

But now, all I feel is nothing. Absolutely nothing. All the hurt, pain, and continuous disgrace in the last few years have certainly vanished.

I plop into the bed, allowing sleep to take over me.

Richard doesn't come home the next morning.

And I have to eat breakfast and lunch all alone under the prying eyes of the homeworkers.

This wasn't what I bargained for when I married him six years ago.

Richard, at that time, was seemingly indifferent about our marriage and togetherness because he chased after his childhood friend and lover.

Every supposed romantic date, proposal, gesture, gift, present, and up to the public declaration was all done by me.

That was how desperate I was.

But I was disregarded.

My marriage to him only lasted for a while.

Martha comes and clears off the table. And in the next seven to eight hours, I stay indoors repeating routines.

He arrives home at the peak of the evening time. Perfectly groomed with a blank face that masks the hidden expression on his face.

I stand at the end of the stairs, watching him step through the gigantic entrance doors, and walking to my direction.

He glances at me just for a second and then warns me beforehand. “Get out of my way, woman! Don't go asking where I spent the night.”

The last times I asked to know his whereabouts ended in tears for me.

He would either ignore or remind me of my inability to bear a male child.

He would brag about the certainty of birthing a son from one of his multiple mistresses.

I would cry and weep, asking heavens to grant my wishes to satisfy my husband.

But right now, I just stare at him indifferently as though he is a total stranger and a complete fool to my face.

“I said, pave way! Have you also gone deaf besides your incapability?” He storms fiercely in my direction.

I feel an urge to grab him by the chest and push till he staggers.

However, in reality, I step down and allow him to have the stairs.

He walks past me, climbing up and grunting beneath his breath.

His presence leaves loads of sadness in me, so I stare into the empty space while his sharp footsteps echo in my ears.

Letting out a long breath, I face the direction of the kitchen.

Leaning by the entrance of the kitchen, I call out the head of the maidservants. The one who listens whenever I'm in distress.

“Martha.”

She appears from the midst of others, wiping her hands on the apron.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Arrange the spices. I'll make dinner tonight.”

She looks surprised, her jaw nearly drops to the marble floor.

There are few things Richard stopped me from doing the moment I conceived my first child. That was before the ultrasound test was carried out.

One of them was: Do not cook.

I thought it was done out of love until the gender of the baby was revealed.

He was shaken, and then I conceived the second child as a girl.

“You…you want to cook? But Boss…” She goes off to say something, but I interrupt with a wave of hand.

“Don’t worry about his responses. This is what my instruction says.”

For I thought to myself, "It was time I stopped relying on Richard and started doing things I cherish."

She nods without questioning further. I can tell she wants to say more but thinks against it.

Then I go up the stairs en route to my bedroom on the second floor.

While I'm locked in, I pull down my dress and walk nakedly to the bathtub in the restroom, where I exfoliate my body with a gentle scrubber.

Stepping out of the bathtub with water dripping from my body, I head straight to the bedroom.

I open my wardrobe, reach out for an old red silk dress that hasn't been worn in years, and take two steps to stare at my reflection in the mirror close by.

The woman looking back at me feels like a stranger.

Eyes dull, shoulders drooped, and beauty faded under months of loneliness and regrets.

A tear drops from my eyes without restraint.

I slip the dress under my feet, wearing it to my satisfaction whilst looking down at the reflection of my lean figure. The same dress Richard hated with passion.

Leaving the room, a hint of a satisfactory smile tugs at my lips for the first time in years.

Downstairs, I begin cooking the meals meant for dinner. At this time, most of the ingredients were already arranged by the servants.

Martha moves swiftly as she hands me whatever I call for. When the time comes for the chopping of the vegetables, I do so effortlessly to the amazement of the watchers.

For a moment, everything goes peacefully, forgetting my current predicament and the nightmare that I face.

I don't think about anything else, just the stirring of the pot and the humming sound I make to myself.

Until some loud footsteps echo from the hallway and pause right at the entrance of the kitchen.

This action makes almost everyone turn in the direction. Except me.

“My Lady.” A guard greets, bowing slightly. “The Boss seeks your presence. He's in the living room.”

My spoon stills midway. My heartbeat increases a thousand times. Every hair in my body springs up.

Whenever Richard outrightly sends for me, things do not end well.

I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and follow the guard, careful to keep my face blank.

When I reach there, Richard is relaxed on a couch, blankly staring at the TV far away and tapping his lean fingers thoughtlessly.

Perhaps he heard me coming because he briefly turns aside, then back at the TV.

“I wanted to inform you not to wait up for me tonight.”

I blink, not understanding what he is speaking about. “What's going on tonight?”

Still not diverting his attention, he sighs tiredly. “I have long past falling for your schemes and filthy approaches, woman.”

“If you are dumb, you might as well get yourself admitted into a psychiatric hospital for proper treatment.”

My shoulders droop in defeat, and all I hear myself saying is, “Okay.”

He glances at me for a fleeting moment, sending that kind of gaze that is somewhere between indifference and deep loathing.

“I heard you're cooking. And whatever you cook shouldn't be given to anyone under this roof. Your incapability shouldn't be passed.”

My throat tightens. Not just from sadness but also as a feeling of utter disdain.

This is what I have gone through in my few years of marriage.

He grabs his keys, springing to his feet, and pushes me off the way till I stumble. He walks away without a second glance.

I should weep. I am supposed to cry, but no reaction comes from me.

All I do is stand there for a while, staring into space.

And as soon as the sound engine of his car is heard, a migraine comes in my head.

I grip my forehead, feeling everything slowly blur and move in circles.

I fall to the ground, grasping the side of my head as the pain intensifies.

My stomach starts churning, and nausea develops. I hold onto my head tight, hoping someone comes to my aid.

Just when darkness is about to kick in, I hear a frightened voice screaming my name.

“My Lady!” Martha appears right by my side, her fearful eyes immediately searching my face. “Are you okay?”

I smile, and I nod even though I'm far from it. “I am.”

She sighs, picks me up from the floor and checks my temperature with the back of her palm.

“I am no doctor, but it is certain you've developed a high fever. Let me inform the family's doctor.”

She moves to take the telephone by the side of the first couch, but I grasp her hand before she can do anything.

“Don't do that. It's all fine. It's just a small headache.” I say in dismissal.

She studies my face carefully, then exhales, moving closer, her old hands hovering over mine.

“Then you must take a good rest. Stop getting yourself worked up concerning this matter. Go to sleep.” She advises.

I force a smile, though it's weak, almost invisible. “It’s all right, Martha. I'll take a nap.”

She stares longingly at me, then taps my shoulder. “You don't deserve this kind of maltreatment. Whatever decision you make, you have my full support.”

Reaching the stairs, I take a sudden pause and look back at her wearied eyes.

Perhaps she thought the worst had happened to me.

“What day is it?”

“30th of July, ma'am.” She answers confusingly.

I nod. “What comes up at that time?”

She pauses, contemplating whether to tell me the truth or not. “The date was set aside for you and Boss to produce more babies. Particularly a male child.”

“Oh!” I say, wondering why I couldn't recall. “I'll go sleep now.”

Closing the door, I rest on it for a brief time. By the time I have laid on the bed, I have thought on what decision to make.

Something to heal the pain and stop it from recurring. Something to ease the sleepless nights and unstoppable silent tears.

I need a divorce.

Early the next morning, I walk down to the kids’ room and get them ready for school.

In time past, I had left everything concerning my kids’ welfare in the hands of the homeworkers because I was too busy with satisfying my husband.

I was too busy chasing after shadows and wishing every damn thing would come my way.

To the extent that I have no single idea on what happens to my kids at school.

A few workers are already attending to them when I walk in. So I tell them to leave while I take over.

In less than twenty minutes, I finish dressing the girls and keeping their bags on their backs.

“Come on, angels,” I whisper, fixing their bowties. “We'll be late.”

They stare at me awkwardly like I'm an alien from a different planet. But I do not mind because I know I'm paying for my errors.

And I'm ready to make up for every single stupid action I made.

“Will Daddy also come with us?” Amelia, the second kid asks.

“No, he's not.” I declare, leaving no room for further talks.

The drive to Rivendell Schools seems quiet except for the frequent chatter of my daughters in the back seat.

Their carefree, innocent laughter fills the car, and I cannot help but look back at them.

I drive into the school's premises and halt at the parking lot.

Then I round the car, open the door, and allow them out.

Many more kids are seen either trekking with their guardians or alighting from vehicles.

Just at the entrance of the main building, I stoop so low, kneeling to hug them goodbye.

“Be good, girls.” I say kissing their cheeks.

They look horrified for a while, running off with their pink backpacks bouncing.

Watching them brings a kind of relief to the ache in my chest.

I exhale and get up, moving to leave when the corner of my eye catches two figures afar.

At first, I want to ignore them, but realizing the whispers are certainly concerning me, I slow down to listen attentively.

“Isn’t she Richard Warren’s wife? Also known as the only wife amongst mistresses?” One asks.

“Of course, she is. She's been suffering lately and looks even lean. Can't you see?” The other concurs.

“This is what you get for not birthing a male child in a prominent family like the Warrens.”

“Hahahahaha.” They cackle and return to their businesses when an icy glare comes from me.

Town gossips who take delight at other people's misfortune.

I walk past them with my head high, unlocking my car and sliding into the driver's seat and speeding out of the premises.

As one of the publicly known wives in Boston, I have learned lessons that it is better to refute or ignore gossip than allow it to get to you.

If you are moved by them, you will become dirt that people trample upon.

I turn on the radio as soon as the car hits the expressway.

This is something I do once in a while to divert my thinking.

But on this day, I regret turning it on. I regret listening because the next news crushes everything within me.

In a twinkle of an eye, all the buried agony comes crashing on me by a single public announcement.

I halt in the middle of the road regardless of the blaring horns behind me.

“In relation to this, billionaire executive Richard Warren has reportedly gotten engaged to his newly found lover and sixth mistress, Clara Steele, after many months…”

”...sources have noted that the engagement took place at a private dinner two nights ago. And it seems the couple is expecting a child together.”

A lone tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.

Every single word replays in my head.

My husband, the father of my daughters, is publicly engaged to his sixth mistress.

This is a man I gave my youth, my dreams, my body and my peace to.

A man I loved with the whole of my heart, hoping it is reciprocated.

And he gives me disgrace and loneliness in return.

I sniff and start up the engine. Not anymore. I am done being used as a filthy rag and dumped.

I turn the car around and head straight for the city's court.

The building looms tall with an imposing facade under the morning sun.

It has a dignified, formal appearance with stone walls and a wide staircase.

Inside are a few attorneys lurking around, either to check in, review files, or negotiate with their potential clients.

A male clerk looks up as I approach the counter.

“Good morning, ma'am. How can I help you?”

My voice comes out calm and steady. “I need divorce papers.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, but he says nothing. Then he nods, producing a set of documents with six to ten pages.

“Fill this out and return it when due. The filing fees, service fees, and legal fees are $2,120 in estimate. A family law attorney will be given to navigate the divorce proceedings.”

I pick up the document and head back to my car. For the first time in six years, I realize I'm about to set myself free.

By the time I return home, two hours have already passed.

A few homeworkers stop to greet me as I walk through the doors, heading directly to the living room.

But then I stop, noticing that the TV is blaring and what is being displayed on the screen is Richard's engagement with Clara Steele.

The lady flashes a diamond ring at the screen and grins shamelessly like the whore she is.

But that doesn't catch my attention.

It is the creaking sound of the couch.