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.

Sitting on the couch, legs crossed and smirking, is Rina Warren, Richard's second sister.

She looks too comfortable, like someone who belongs in this house more than I do.

A smirk tugs at her perfectly painted lips as she rises to face me.

“Well, well, look who we have here. If it isn't the famous wife herself. She must have been weeping on hearing the news.” She mocks in derision.

While I ignore her and keep walking toward the stairs.

“Don't you dare walk past me.” She snaps.

I pause and slowly turn. ”What is it, Rina?”

If anything, I am older than her in age.

But because of the high level of disrespect I have faced in Richard's house, almost every member of his family talks to me anyhow.

Her lips curl into a mocking smile. “You saw the news, didn't you? The whole city's talking about it. My brother's finally getting what he earnestly longed for.”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to slap the smugness off her face.

“You mean what the family forced him to think he deserves?”

Her smile broadens. “Don't act like an omega. He was never happy with you. You kept giving birth to the weaker gender. You couldn't give him a son.”

The words hit like ice, and I take a slow breath, choosing my words carefully.

“You are also a girl, after all.”

Her face falls, and her smile vanishes. For the first time it looks like I have won the battle.

“You… What happened to the timid, obedient wife who barely had the guts to retort?”

I meet her gaze, unwaveringly. “Go look for her. She isn't me. She's gone.”

And without another word, I resume the stairs, taking slow breaths to pacify my anger.

Martha meets me along the hallway on the second floor.

She greets me, but my voice is distant and detached, like I am speaking to her from afar.

I walk past her before she can form words. I don't have the energy to stand on my feet for a longer time.

Inside my room, I shut the door noiselessly and lean against it, exhaling deeply.

My gaze falls on the framed wedding photo sitting gently on the dresser.

In there, our smiles look real in the photo.

My white wedding gown shimmers, my eyes glow, and Richard's hand is firmly around my waist.

We look happy. Rather, I look happy.

Remembering all those promises and vows makes me nearly puke.

I walk toward the dresser and pull out a brown file on the last drawer.

The divorce papers, still in my left hand, feel lighter than they should.

I take up a pen and sign and write on the necessary lines before placing them inside the brown file.

Then bit by bit, I begin folding my belongings into neat piles. Every single damn thing I own.

Halfway through packing, something drops to the floor, and I bend low to pick it up.

It is the ultrasound photo of my second baby, Amelia. A small shape barely visible within the dark shadow.

Richard cursed the hell out of me that day.

Once my bags of luggage are full, I walk down to the kid's room: the nursery.

My two daughters’ clothes and dolls are neatly arranged at the edge of the bed.

Walking to their closet, I pick up their tiny dresses one by one, placing them with care.

It strikes me how fast they have grown. Grace is five now, Amelia three.

Back in my room, I take the brown files and head straight to Richard's private quarters upstairs.

The door is locked as always.

A young maid passing by unexpectedly pauses, looking startled to see me standing there.

She looks down at the file I'm holding.

“Do you want to deliver the file to Boss?”

I nod.

“You can drop it in his gym. He never misses a day.”

I nod and make my way there.

The gym is silent with rows of treadmills, dumbbells, stationary bikes, barbells, and other equipment I do not know.

Quietly, I place the brown file on the treadmill and return to my room.

Rolling out the bags of luggage with that of my kids, I call one of the maids, who signals the guards to assist.

Together we roll the bags from the stairs to the living room.

Rina's nowhere around the mansion, so my exit isn't stopped by anyone.

The guards place the last of the luggage into the booth of the car.

I stand for a moment, staring up at the mansion that was once my dream, my hope.

I climb into the car, start the engine, and watch the gates roll slowly.

Behind me, the house gets smaller and smaller until it disappears completely in the rearview mirror.

Halfway through the drive, I begin to feel a strange uneasiness crawling in my stomach.

It begins as a dull churn, then twists sharply until I can barely focus on the road.

This hasn't happened to me except for the time I was diagnosed with malaria. That was two years ago.

I slow the car and pull to the side, gasping for air and gripping the steering wheel tightly till my knuckles turn white.

Then the feeling to vomit hits hard. Fully opening the door, I lean on the car and throw up into the gutter beside the road.

My throat feels sore. A sudden headache emerges from nowhere.

My palms tremble as I clutch unto my knees.

A few people walking by turn to stare, some with pity, others with curious looks that tell they'd rather know what's going on than sympathize.

I take an unused tissue from the car and wipe my mouth with it.

Additionally, rinsing and patting my face with a small bottle of water.

My knees feel weak, but I force myself to stand upright.

“You're fine. Just keep going.” I assure myself.

Back in the car, I place a hand over my forehead to check my temperature. It's gone increasingly high to the point that my skin almost burns.

The discomfort within me is not one to be taken lightly.

When I arrive at Rivendell Schools, it is far from the closing time. In fact, they have just finished their second break.

A few non academic staff still lurk around the premises as my car rolls past, stopping at the parking lot.

One of them is able to recognize me the moment I step down. “Mrs. Warren?”

I smile, clearing my throat, which has gone sore. “I am. I'm here to pick up Grace and Amelia from school.”

She hesitates. “But classes aren't over, ma'am. In fact, they just concluded their second break.”

“I know.” I cut in, forcing a small smile. “It’s urgent.”

Something in my tone must have convinced her because she nods and runs off.

A few minutes later, my daughters come through the hallway, their little backpacks swaying slightly behind them.

They are not alone but with their mentor, who listens to my explanation and walks off.

Grace looks surprised, Amelia frowns noticeably.

“Mommy, why are you here?” Grace speaks to me for the first time in months.

I squat low, realizing how bad of a mother I had been.

“To pick you up, angels. We are going somewhere.”

Amelia tilts her head. “Where?”

I face her, brushing her curls away from her face. “You'll see.”

We walk back to the car, and I help them buckle up.

Starting the engine, I drive out of the school gates.

I drive farther than I can imagine. I have no exact place in mind, but I just want to get far from my past.

The silence in the car doesn't last long.

“Mommy, where are we going?” Grace asks the second time, now kicking her feet softly against the seat again.

“Somewhere safe, sweetheart.”

“Are we going to see Daddy?” Amelia asks innocently.

I keep my eyes on the road. My throat tightens.

“No.”

“Then where are we driving to? And where is Daddy? Why do you keep giving indirect answers?” Grace presses angrily.

She's beginning to throw tantrums, and I do not like it at all.

I pull the car to the side of the road and exhale slowly. There is no easy way to say it. But I just have to spew the truth.

“Mommy and Daddy won't be living together anymore. I think I'm divorcing him.”

“You think? Or you actually are!” Grace yells accusingly, and I have to look back to be sure I heard that right.

“Did you just yell at me?”

For a moment, they are silent. Until Grace's face crumples and uncontrollable tears stream down her feeble cheeks.

“I want to go home.”

”Me too!” Amelia weeps. “I want to go home! I want to see Daddy and Aunt Clara!”

The name makes my heart stop. My heartbeat races to the highest point. Never in my life did I think my kids knew who bore by that name.

“What did you just say?”

“Clara. Aunt Clara.” Grace chips in arrogantly. “She's nice to us. She comes to school three to four times weekly. She buys us ice cream and toys.”

“I'm sure you don't know she bought all the toys at home. Amelia loves playing them.”

Amelia nods vigorously, wiping the tears with her little hands. “Yes, and she told us to be good girls and not listen to you because you're mean.”

The world tilts for a second. I hold my head, hoping it doesn't fall off any moment from now.

I try processing each statement, but it doesn't make sense.

“She what?”

“She said you don't love us. That you're always sad because you don't like Daddy anymore. She says you'll try to take us away from him, and that's what you're doing. You are bad.”

The words stab me like knives, cutting deeper into my soul. I turn off the ignition completely and face them, my heart pounding.

“Listen to me.” I beg. “Clara, or whatever she is called: she's not telling you the truth. She's…”

I'm yet to finish speaking when Amelia chips in with a shout, her small face scrunched up in anger.

I never knew my little angel could become so furious over a matter.

There are so many things I do not know about my kids.

But they have to listen to me.

“She's nice! You never take us out. You never buy us burgers and things. You only weep and stay indoors. Aunt Clara plays with us every time she comes!”

“You know she's your dad's mistress, don't you?”

“We don't care. We hate you. Take us back. We want to go home.”

The sound of that word, ‘hate,’ crushes me. My eyes burn with unshed tears.

I have endured Richard's betrayal, but hearing my own children defend his mistress is something else entirely.

“Okay, girls. I understand.”

Finally, I reach for my phone and call Martha. But a maid picks up instead.

“Yes, Ma'am?”

“Please send some of the guards to my location. I'll text the address. Let them pick up the kids and take them home.”

She hesitates for a while, stuttering in fear. “But Madam, something just happened.”

“How do you mean?”

Her voice lowers to a whisper. “The Boss just arrived with the mistress, Miss Clara. They came together. And it seems she's moving in permanently.”

I close my eyes. “Still send a guard. The children want to go back.”

The call ends, and I sit back, numb.

Half an hour crawls by, and I check the rearview mirror, hoping to see any familiar car, but nothing as such.

Finally, my phone buzzes with the same call from the maid. I pick it up, placing it to my ear.

“What is the problem?”

“I’m so sorry, ma'am. The boss gave orders. The guards aren't allowed to leave the mansion.”