Chapter 3

I cut him off, my voice finally rising with raw emotion.

He had no answer.

I stepped into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

Leaning against the door, I slowly slid down to the floor.

His phone charger was still plugged into the nightstand. The faint scent of his shampoo still lingered on the pillows.

In the closet, his button-downs and my dresses hung side by side, completely tangled together.

Seven years.

Seven years of memories, so heavy and messy they seemed impossible to untangle.

I heard him knock on the door a few times before giving up.

Then came the quiet shuffle of his bare feet walking away.

I rolled over and looked at my sleeping daughter.

Lily was only four years old, her hair still tied in two little messy buns. Her mouth was slightly open as she slept, her little nose twitching softly like a tiny marshmallow.

I reached out and gently stroked her soft cheek.

A tear slipped down my face without warning.

Lily.

Logan picked her name. He said lilies were pure, beautiful, and resilient.

Back when she was born, he held her tiny body and bawled his eyes out, swearing he would be the best father in the world.

And he was a good father.

Except that fatherly love wasn't reserved just for Lily anymore.

I remembered last month when Lily's preschool held a parent-child sports day.

Logan had claimed he had an urgent project to finish at work and couldn't make it.

So I took a half-day off to be there with our daughter.

Lily hadn't complained. She held my hand tightly and told me she was thrilled Mommy was there.

But now, memories rushed back with horrifying clarity.

That afternoon, while waiting outside the preschool gates, I had spotted Logan's car.

He was parked across the street. A little boy wearing a yellow baseball cap had run over and jumped into his passenger seat.

That was Chloe's son.

His so-called "urgent work" was taking another woman’s child out for the afternoon.

And then there was the parent-teacher conference.

I was out of town on a business trip and had reminded Logan three days in advance to attend.

He promised he would.

Later, the teacher sent over photos of the classroom. Every child had a parent sitting proudly beside them.

The seat next to Lily was empty.

When I asked Logan what happened, he claimed an unexpected emergency had come up.

Now I knew: Chloe probably needed him for another "emergency."

Then there were the toys.

The expensive building blocks I bought for Lily—half the set went missing within a week.

When I asked Logan, he brushed it off, saying Lily must have misplaced them.

Weeks later, I saw that exact same set in a photo Chloe posted on Snapchat.

The identical limited-edition color palette. The exact same pieces.

He had even bought that kid an eighty-dollar pair of sneakers.

Yet when Lily asked for a pair of roller skates, he nagged for an entire month, insisting they were too expensive and a waste of money.

Every single nice thing went to the mother and son across the hall first.

And every single time, his excuse was the exact same line:

"She's a struggling single mom. Cut her some slack."

Did anyone cut me some slack?

I woke up at six every morning to make breakfast, dropped Lily off, squeezed onto the subway to work, and rushed home to cook dinner and clean the house.

My paycheck carried this entire household.

I paid the mortgage, the car payments, the bills, dragging this whole family forward on my own shoulders.

When things were hard for me, who the hell ever felt bad for me?