By noon, reporters were waiting outside the house.
Ethan’s company had expanded aggressively over the last few years. He was young, rich, good-looking, and infamous online. Every little thing he did ended up trending.
When I stepped outside, microphones and cameras pushed toward me from every direction.
“Mrs. Shaw, do you have anything to say about Mr. Shaw and Chloe Quinn?”
I kept walking and answered without turning my head.
“One is a cheating husband. The other knowingly slept with a married man. What exactly do you want me to say?”
That should have been enough.
But a young female reporter pushed closer.
“I heard that when Mr. Shaw was poor, you dumped him for money. Then after he became successful, you emotionally manipulated him into marrying you. Now that Mr. Shaw has found true love with Miss Quinn, aren’t you the one clinging to the title of Mrs. Shaw while calling someone else a mistress? Don’t you think you’re the one bullying people?”
I stopped walking.
Then I turned and looked at her.
She was young. Too young to be this self-righteous.
I reached out and flipped over the badge hanging from her neck.
Intern reporter.
Behind it, tucked into the plastic sleeve, was a student ID from Northlake University.
I looked back at her face and smiled coldly.
“You’re Chloe’s friend, aren’t you?”
Her expression changed.
I went on calmly, “When Ethan married me, everyone in our circle knew he used every possible method to force it through. Do you really think I was dying to marry him? So are you ignorant, or are you here today on purpose to help your friend climb into my place?”
She snatched her ID back in a panic.
“We are friends,” she said stiffly, “but I’m also a journalist. Everything I’m saying is objective.”
“Objective?” I echoed.
Then she shot back, “If you really didn’t want to marry Mr. Shaw, then why not divorce him now that he’s in love with someone else?”
I was about to answer when blood suddenly started running from my nose again.
Warm. Thick. Fast.
Someone laughed.
“Mrs. Shaw says she doesn’t care, but now she’s so upset she got a nosebleed?”
I wiped the blood from my lip with one finger and said evenly, “I’m not upset. I’m sick. I’m dying. That’s why it keeps happening.”
The crowd fell silent.
For one moment, nobody laughed.
Only the intern reporter sneered.
“Oh please. A little nosebleed and now you’re pretending to be terminal? Women like you will use any shameless trick to steal a man.”
Then she tossed her ponytail and walked away.
I looked at her back and thought that she and Chloe really did deserve each other.
The video of that confrontation made it online within the hour.
It trended almost instantly.
That afternoon, Ethan publicly responded.
He said only one thing.
He said he would never divorce me, and asked the media not to harass his wife.
By evening, Chloe’s reporter friend had lost her internship.
The internet exploded.
Some people cursed me.
Some said I was disgusting.
Some said if I truly didn’t want Ethan, I should let him go instead of acting superior.
Others called me fake, saying I dumped him for money, married him for money, and now was pretending to be some tragic heroine.
Then, among the flood of insults, one anonymous account posted a comment that stopped the entire thread.
Watch your mouths. None of you know the truth.
Everyone immediately started asking what the truth was.
And the truth?
The truth was dull.
Painfully ordinary.
That year, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness.
The doctor told us the disease had a high hereditary risk.
Not only could I get sick one day, but if I got married and had children, there was a good chance my child might suffer too.
The day my mother had her first major episode, she lost so much blood she collapsed unconscious in front of me.
She didn’t wake for three days.
When she finally opened her eyes, the first thing she said was, “Break up with Ethan.”
I sat beside her hospital bed in silence for a long time.
Then I whispered, “Mom, he won’t mind.”
I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her.
Or myself.
My mother squeezed my hand gently and smiled.
“I know he’s a good boy.”
She paused.
“You two started dating in high school. Every morning he waited for you at the end of the alley on that beat-up bike of his. You thought I didn’t notice?”
I looked down.
She kept smiling through the exhaustion.
“One morning, I saw him buy you a meat sandwich for breakfast. He had twelve dollars in his pocket. The sandwich cost ten. He had two left, so he bought two soy milks—one for you and one for himself. You were greedy and silly back then. He lied and said he’d already eaten, and you believed him.”
Her eyes had gone wet.
“Back then Ethan had no one. His parents were gone from his life, his grandmother was sick, and he lived on almost nothing. That twelve dollars might have been his entire day’s food money. And he spent it all on you. That was when I knew my daughter was lucky. She found a boy with a good heart.”
Then my mother’s smile broke.
“That’s exactly why I can’t let him stay with you.”
I turned to her sharply.
She said quietly, “Ethan’s wings are too thin right now. He’s carrying his grandmother already. If he carries you too, he won’t be able to fly.”
I dug my nails into my palms and sat there shaking.
After a long time, I managed to whisper, “But I can’t let him go.”
The tears started before I’d even finished speaking.
Even now, ten years later, the memory still hurt.
A few days after the scandal broke, I bought the persimmons my mother used to love and decided to visit her grave.
I was dying.
I should tell her goodbye.
But before I went to the cemetery, I stopped by Ethan’s company first.
There was something there I needed to take back.