Chapter 6: A Different Kind of Morning

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Back home, I collapsed onto my bed, utterly drained.

My bedroom was dark and quiet, the hum of the city distant through the windows. I didn’t bother to change—just let myself sink into the mattress, tears drying on my cheeks. The sheets smelled like lavender and heartbreak.

The voices surged again:

I heard them in the back of my mind, those old tapes playing on loop. Family, friends, strangers—everyone had an opinion about my marriage.

"No way—if they really get divorced, he’ll be devastated. He loves her so much."

"There’s already a child. Can’t she just endure for the baby’s sake? I don’t get why she’s so stubborn. He’s just waiting for her to coax him."

The guilt and doubt crawled into bed with me, heavy as a weighted blanket. But I kept my eyes shut, refusing to let them in.

I closed my eyes, ignoring the noise. I was just so tired. I wanted to sleep.

Sleep felt like the only escape left to me. For once, I didn’t dream.

After waking up, I ate quietly, then arranged flowers with my mom at noon.

Sunlight spilled across the old Formica table, the scent of peonies mixing with Folgers coffee. My mom’s hands were steady as she trimmed the stems, her eyes flicking to me with concern.

Mothers and daughters are connected. She sighed, "Megs, did you two have a fight?"

Her voice was gentle, but the worry was unmistakable. I hesitated, my fingers fumbling with a rose.

I paused.

She watched me, waiting for an answer I couldn’t give.

"There’s no fight that can’t be resolved overnight between husband and wife. As long as one side softens, everything will be fine. Don’t push him into another woman’s arms."

Her advice was classic Midwest—practical, a little old-school. I knew she meant well, but I felt the gap between us widen. Some fights don’t just go away in the morning.

"All men are the same. Once you have a baby, he’ll settle down."

She said it with the certainty of someone who’d lived through her own heartbreak. I set down the flowers, feeling tears prick my eyes.

I set down the flowers in my hand. "What about Dad, then?"

My mom’s hands froze mid-stem, the scissors clicking shut a little too hard.

No sooner had I spoken than my father walked in, arm in arm with a woman half his age.

The door clicked, heels tapped on the hardwood. The woman’s laughter was light, careless. My mother’s face didn’t move, but her eyes darkened.

My parents had a business marriage, no real feelings. But when they first married, my father treated my mom like a treasure. Later, as she fell in love with him, her tragedy began.

I remembered childhood photos—my mom glowing, my dad’s arm tight around her. Those days faded into cold dinners and polite silences, the cracks showing as love turned into obligation.

The child didn’t tie him down—it only trapped her.

It was a lesson I’d never wanted to learn. My hand drifted to my stomach, the weight of my own decision settling deeper.

Soon, the sounds of his new life drifted down from upstairs. My mom’s face was expressionless.

She poured herself another cup of coffee, the clink of the mug the only sign she was still present. I hated how numb she’d become, and how much I understood it.

The voices:

I could almost hear them whispering from every corner of suburbia, their sympathy more condescending than helpful.

"He isn’t like other men. If you coax him, he’ll be your lapdog."

My mom echoed, "You and Ryan grew up together as childhood sweethearts. Maybe he’s different."

Her hope sounded tired, like she didn’t quite believe it herself. I looked down, a tear slipping onto my hand, startling me with its warmth.

I lowered my eyes, a tear splashing onto the back of my hand.

It glittered in the sun, a small, silent rebellion.

"But Mom, what did I do wrong?"

The question came out broken, almost a whisper. I wasn’t sure if she heard me, but I needed to say it anyway.

Three years of marriage, and Ryan only grew more unpredictable. I’d spent three years coaxing him. Even the first time, he’d lifted his chin and said proudly, "Since you love me so much, I’ll reluctantly satisfy you."

His words replayed in my mind, the arrogance almost comical if it didn’t hurt so much. I realized I’d been the only one trying, the only one giving.

I carried the company by myself, and still had to cater to his moods, play the role of the doting wife.

I’d become an expert at juggling everything: deadlines, budgets, his tantrums, his friends’ expectations. My own needs always came last.

I have my own life. I don’t want to revolve around a man and a child forever.

The thought was freeing, if terrifying. I was ready to claim something for myself, for once.

So, I’m getting a divorce. And I won’t have this baby.

I spoke the words in my mind, letting them settle. This was my choice, my freedom.

He’s just not worth it.

I was done being the good wife. From now on, I’d be good to myself.

For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe again.