Chapter 2My Husband Chose My Murderer

“Hannah!”

As soon as I stepped out of the building’s lobby, Robert was there. He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight I felt the bone groan.

“You’re so incredibly selfish,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and relief. “I don't even recognize you. I am beyond disappointed.”

I looked into his eyes, searching for a trace of the man I’d loved. There was nothing but a stranger.

“Then let’s get a divorce,” I said, my voice as steady as a heartbeat.

Robert recoiled as if I’d slapped him. The blood drained from his face.

“What the hell are you talking about? You almost let a girl die, and you have the nerve to bring up divorce?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but something hard and heavy struck me in the forehead.

“You mean woman! Why are you mean to Macy? I hate you! I wish you weren't my mom!”

My son, Mitch, stood there, his face contorted in a sneer. He was standing right next to his father, a united front against me, all for the sake of the girl who had just tried to kill me.

Blood began to trickle down my face. Robert’s expression flickered with a brief, ugly shame, but before he could reach for me, the paramedics emerged with Macy.

She was being supported by two firemen, looking frail and broken.

Robert and Mitch didn't hesitate. They didn't even look at me. They rushed toward her.

The three of them huddled together, Macy crying into Robert’s chest while Mitch clung to her hand. To any observer, they looked like a grieving family.

My colleagues stood around, stunned, their eyes filled with a pity that felt like an insult.

I wiped the blood from my eye, turned around, and walked to my car.

I spent the afternoon at the ER, getting three stitches and calling a divorce lawyer.

As I was leaving the hospital, I ran into them again. They were bringing Macy to see a psychiatrist on the fourth floor.

Robert was the picture of a devoted guardian. Mitch, usually a whirlwind of restless energy, was standing quietly, listening intently to the doctor’s instructions as if his life depended on it.

A sharp, familiar pain stabbed at my heart. For years, Robert had been "too busy" for us. Research, lectures, projects—he was so busy he hadn't even made it to the hospital the day Mitch was born. I’d raised our son alone, but Mitch resented me for the rules, the structure, the parenting. He preferred Macy, who took him to arcades and let him eat junk food.

When my vision cleared, Mitch was standing in front of Macy, guarding her from me with a suspicious glare.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” he snapped. “You’re probably planning something mean again!”

“Don’t you touch her,” he added, his voice full of a child’s cruel bravado. “If you do, I’ll make Dad leave you for real!”

He smiled, knowing exactly where to twist the knife. He remembered. When Mitch was six, Robert had a brief "entanglement" with a grad student. I’d lost my mind. I’d screamed, cried, even held a knife to my own wrist in a moment of sheer, shattered desperation.

Back then, Mitch had hugged my legs and cried, “Mom, don’t be scared. Even if Dad leaves, I’ll always be with you. I’ll protect you forever.”

I looked at him now. He would never understand that the only reason I’d fought so hard to keep this family together was for him.

I didn't say a word. I just turned and walked away.

I saw the confusion flicker in Mitch’s eyes—the realization that his threats didn't have a target anymore. Behind him, Robert’s face darkened. For the first time in our marriage, I hadn't even glanced at him.