Chapter 1The Day the Shoulder Rubs Stopped

For ten whole years, my husband insisted on giving me a shoulder massage before bed.

He gave me a terrible habit: without a shoulder rub, I couldn't fall asleep.

Recently, however, he stopped.

When I asked him for a quick massage, he brushed me off. "Your shoulders are too thick and tense. I can't even press down. Stop making things difficult for me."

Our nine-year-old son laughed from the side. "Daddy's subtext is that you're too ugly now, Mom. He doesn't want to touch you."

My husband didn't correct him. Instead, he let out a stifled chuckle.

I stayed awake all night. When morning came, I asked him for a divorce.

* * *

At 5:30 AM, I woke up out of sheer habit.

Ethan had his back to me, sleeping soundly.

In the opposite room, our son's bedroom was completely silent.

At 5:40 AM, I finished washing up and put on casual clothes.

At 5:50 AM, I applied some light makeup.

Because it had been so long since I last used it, a thin layer of dust had settled over my makeup palette.

I'll never let it gather dust again, I promised myself.

At 5:55 AM, I stood by the entryway, trying to choose a bag to take out.

I didn't know when it happened, but my small Louis Vuitton purse had somehow been replaced by a cheap canvas tote.

I searched for a while but couldn't find my old designer bags.

Instead, tucked away in the deepest corner of the shoe cabinet, I found a brand-new LV Nano Speedy bag.

The receipt inside was dated yesterday. The price was $2,500.

I silently put the bag back, pretending I hadn't seen it.

At that moment, a memory hit me. A long time ago, when Ethan's paycheck was delayed and we needed to pay for our son's tutoring, I had sold all the designer bags in my closet for cash.

At 6:00 AM, I grabbed nothing but my phone and an umbrella, and walked out the door.

Normally at this hour, I would be in the kitchen flipping pancakes and frying bacon, while rushing to wake up my lazy son.

Looking back now, I couldn't believe I had repeated that mindless, exhausting routine for over five years.

At 6:15 AM, I found a local, greasy-spoon diner and ordered a massive lumberjack skillet.

It smelled incredible.

For the first time in years, I could quietly finish a meal. I didn't have to bite off half a sausage and rush to find my son's school uniform, nor did I have to worry about my husband walking out, pinching his nose, and complaining about the smell of my food.

I even ordered extra bacon and a side of loaded hash browns, indulging in a rare, unapologetic luxury.

At 6:37 AM, Ethan called me.

I put him on speaker, set the phone down, and continued eating.

A voice thick with anger barked through the speaker: "Maya, where did you go?! Breakfast isn't made, the clothes aren't washed, you didn't bring the milk in, and where the hell did you put the tie I asked for yesterday? I'm rushing to work here!"

In the background, I could hear our son's loud, whiny complaints: "There's nothing on the table! I specifically said I wanted blueberry waffles last night! Mommy failed her job, Daddy, you need to punish her!"

Ethan's tone grew even more impatient. "Hurry up and get back here to cook! The school bus is coming soon. If he's late, it's entirely your fault!"

I chewed my bacon, my expression unchanged. "I don't have time. Figure it out yourselves."

He froze for a second, then asked in disbelief, "What did you say? You don't have time?"

"Ha! Maya, do you have a fever? You're a stay-at-home mom, and you're telling me you don't have time to cook? Does that make any sense to you?"

I lifted my mug, finished my coffee, and wiped my mouth in total satisfaction.

I picked up the phone. "Let's end this here, Ethan. I'm done living this life. Let's get a divorce."