Chapter 3

I lowered my head and gently placed my hand over my belly.

All these years, the doctors kept saying the same thing—just wait, it'll happen. And Ethan always reassured me: "There's no rush for a baby. I'd rather spoil you a few more years."

So every month, I counted the days full of hope, bought ovulation test strips, charted my temperature, and waited carefully for a miracle.

But while I was hoping for us to have a child, he'd been marrying and divorcing another woman. Thirty-eight times.

Each remarriage came with a honeymoon trip.

And just when I'd finally learned the baby had arrived—when I was preparing to surprise him—he'd pressed the confirm button for me with his own hand.

I let out a small laugh.

Since this was the choice you made yourself, then so be it.

...

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, then stood up and walked over to Lily, cutting into their playful banter.

"You like coming to my house for dinner so much—tonight you can cook it yourself."

Lily froze, pointing at herself.

"Me?"

Her tone carried that deliberate, coy kind of hurt.

"Mrs. Reed, are you sure? I've never cooked a day in my life. My man won't even let me near a stove."

When she said "my man," her eyes drifted toward Ethan.

Ethan didn't correct her. He just cleared his throat and picked up where she left off.

"Come on—Lily doesn't know how to cook. You've been doing it all these years, haven't you? Don't put her in a difficult spot."

"Oh, so you're aware it's been years?"

I looked at Ethan.

"What kind of person freeloads off someone else's table for three years?"

I didn't give him time to react. I turned to Lily.

"Perfect timing—every time you finish eating, you always say, 'Mrs. Reed, I feel so bad, I didn't help at all.' Now's your chance. Stop just saying you feel bad."

The smile on Lily's face stiffened for an instant. A second later, her eyes went red, and she leaned toward Ethan.

"Ethan, is Mrs. Reed in a bad mood today? She's being so harsh."

Ethan's expression darkened.

"Lily is an artist, not a maid. You think it's appropriate to make her cook?"

He looked at me, his tone matter-of-fact.

"You've been taking care of me at home for nine years. Cooking has always been your job, not a guest's."

For marriage. For a child. For his career. I'd had to give up my own field. And in the end, in his mouth, it all amounted to one line—cooking is your job.

"Fine." I tugged at the corner of my mouth. "It's my job."

I lifted my eyes and looked at both of them.

"And since it's my job, I get to decide how it's done."

"Both of you, get out. I'm not hosting anyone tonight."

Ethan frowned, about to say something. But I'd already turned and gone into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

Behind me, Ethan murmured something to comfort Lily. Before long, he took her and left.

The house went quiet.

I looked around this home I'd decorated with my own hands, and it suddenly felt foreign.

I used to think Ethan was a genuinely good husband. His paycheck came to me on time. He reported in when he worked late. When he traveled, he'd give me his flight number and hotel name.

Looking back through our messages over the past three years, he'd indeed reported thirty-eight "business trips."

New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, Miami, New Orleans, Seattle, San Diego...

He'd said they were academic exchanges, cultural heritage evaluations, art restoration conferences. I never questioned them.

Thirty-eight times.

But our own honeymoon kept getting postponed. Right after we married, he said it was a critical phase for his career—he couldn't get away. The second year, I suggested we at least use vacation time; he said he had to chaperone students. The third year, he said a project deadline was too pressing. The fourth year, I booked the tickets myself, and he said a conference notice came in last minute. The fifth year. The sixth. The seventh. Every time there was a new reason.

Eventually, I stopped asking.

Turns out time can always be found.

It just depends on who it's for.