In five years of marriage, my wife, Vivian, had cheated on me fifty-two times. I had endured it all in silence. Until the day I was laid up with an acute stomach ulcer. Vivian’s young assistant, Leo, had managed to piss off a major client, and to salvage the deal, she told me to go apologize, to smooth things over with drinks. I couldn’t believe it. “I’m sick, Viv,” I pleaded. “The doctor said I can’t drink. If I have even one…” She cut me off, her voice laced with impatience. “It’s just a few drinks, Brad. It’s not going to kill you.” Annoyed by my hesitation, she had someone force the liquor down my throat. The fiery spirit ripped through my stomach, triggering a massive hemorrhage. That day, while I fought for my life in the hospital, she abandoned me and our newborn son to spend the night with her assistant at a secluded villa in the countryside. When I finally woke up in that sterile white room, I looked at my mother-in-law. “Nelly,” I said, my voice a dry rasp, “you promised me. You said once she safely delivered the baby, you’d let me go. Can I leave now?” 1 My question hung in the air, and a storm of conflict and heartbreak washed over her face. “Brad, are you sure? You won’t give her even one more chance? She…” Before she could finish, Vivian’s face flashed across the television screen in the corner of the room. Another scandal. In the photo, she was draped in a man’s blazer, being carried out of a car by Leo, her assistant. She was nestled against his chest, her expression hazy, a feverish blush painting her cheeks. Though she was mostly covered, one photographer had caught a glimpse of her smooth, pale thigh, marred by the faint, tell-tale bruises of a lover’s passion. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they’d been doing in that car. “Vivian Sterling, CEO of Sterling Corp, photographed in an intimate moment with an unidentified man. Could wedding bells be on the horizon for the power couple?” the news anchor chirped. My mother-in-law stared at the screen, her chest heaving with rage. Her entire body trembled, consumed by a fury so pure it was terrifying. But when her eyes fell back on me, the anger melted away, replaced by an ocean of guilt and sorrow. Her eyes welled up. The words of protest died in her throat. After a long moment, she choked out, “Okay. I promise, Brad. I’ll handle the divorce.” Seeing her wipe away tears, a tight, painful knot formed in my own chest. But I couldn’t afford to be soft. Not anymore. “Thank you, Nelly.” Ever since Vivian had insisted on being induced just to get the pregnancy over with for her assistant’s sake, I hadn’t laid eyes on our premature son. All I knew was that he was a boy, four pounds and three ounces, fair-skinned, and that he looked like me. My mother-in-law, her voice thick with emotion, tried again, telling me the baby was perfectly healthy. He’d been brought home from the hospital yesterday. She urged me to go see him. I just shook my head. “No. It’s enough to know he’s healthy.” If I never saw him, I could never miss him. I knew myself. If I looked into his eyes just once, I’d never be able to leave. And I had to leave. I couldn't stay in the Sterling family's gilded cage a moment longer. Compared to a life on the run with me, rootless and uncertain, staying with them was the best thing for him. Lying in my hospital bed, I stared out the window, wondering where I could possibly go. I was abandoned at birth, raised in an orphanage. I had no family, no blood ties. No friends to lean on. I was a lone boat adrift on the ocean, with no harbor to call home. My mother-in-law’s heart ached for me, her anger at Vivian growing with every passing second. She pulled out her phone, dialing her daughter again and again, trying to get her to come to the hospital. But each time, she was met with the cold, robotic voice of an answering machine. Finally, on her last attempt, someone picked up. It was a man. “Mrs. Sterling, Vivian is in a meeting. Could you call back later…” Before he could finish, a soft, breathy moan echoed through the phone. My mother-in-law was no fool. She knew exactly what kind of “meeting” was happening. Her face turned ashen. “You tell Vivian,” she roared into the phone, “that if she still considers me her mother, she will get her ass to this hospital right now! Otherwise, she can consider herself an orphan!” She slammed the phone down, tears finally spilling from her eyes. She gripped my hand, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Brad. This is all my fault. I never should have forced you to stay with her. I never should have let you suffer so much…” 2 Our marriage had been Nelly’s creation from the start. She arranged for us to meet right after I graduated from college, telling Vivian that I, and only I, was worthy of being her husband. Vivian had screamed, fought, and thrown tantrums, but in the end, her mother’s will was iron. She agreed to the wedding. In the beginning, I thought I’d finally found the warm, loving home I’d always dreamed of. I was filled with such hope for our future. I threw myself into being the perfect husband, attending to her every need, making her the center of my universe. When my colleagues would go out for drinks after work, I’d always decline, worried she wouldn’t eat properly if she were home alone. After a while, they just stopped asking. My world had shrunk to contain only her, and I didn’t care. I thought if I gave her my whole heart, she would eventually give me hers in return. I was a fool. Not long after we were married, Vivian started staying out all night. I told myself it was work, that she was busy. I’d use my lunch breaks to cook nutritious meals and bring them to her office, just so she’d remember to take care of herself. Then one day, at a gala, a man in a bespoke suit swaggered over to me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Mr. Hayes,” he drawled, “your cooking is quite something. I guess a kept man has to be good at something, right? Must’ve taken a lot of practice.” That’s when I learned that the meals I’d poured my heart into were ending up in another man’s stomach. We had our first real fight that night. Or rather, I had a fight. I raged, I yelled, I let out all my pain and frustration. She just stood there, watching me with a calm, detached expression, as if I were some madman having a fit. When I had finally exhausted myself, she spoke, her voice cool and even. “Brad, have you ever considered that your ‘self-sacrifice’ is just you feeling sorry for yourself?” That one sentence shattered my world. All my efforts, all my love… it meant nothing to her. She was just a spectator in my life, watching my devotion with cold amusement before delivering her casual, devastating critique. How utterly pathetic. I didn’t know how to face her after that, how to face our future. So I retreated. I stopped trying. Soon after, the tabloid headlines started. Yesterday, she was at a fashion show with a male model. Today, lunch with a flight attendant. Tomorrow, checking into a hotel with a business partner. The news broke me. I wanted a divorce. But Nelly pleaded with me. “It’s all for show, Brad, it doesn’t mean anything. She loves you, she really does, she just doesn’t know how to show it. Please, for my sake, just try a little longer.” She had been my sponsor since I was five, the reason I’d had a safe and comfortable childhood in the orphanage. I owed her everything. So, for her, I stayed. Over time, the pain of her infidelities dulled into a familiar, hollow ache. I grew numb. Then, last year, Nelly found the bottle of sleeping pills I needed just to get through the night. That’s when she finally relented. “As soon as Vivian gives you a child,” she promised, her voice heavy with regret, “boy or girl, I will grant you your divorce.” For the sake of that freedom, I forced myself back to life, taking supplements, trying to get healthy. But Vivian wouldn’t let me near her. She started sleeping at her office just to avoid me. So, Nelly took matters into her own hands. She… arranged things. A drugged bottle of wine, a locked bedroom door. And it worked. Vivian got pregnant. She delivered the baby. I was finally going to be free. 3 It didn’t take long for Vivian to show up at the hospital, her face a mask of cold fury. When a nurse mentioned that my ulcer had caused severe internal bleeding, a flicker of shock crossed her features before she quickly composed herself. “He bled out and he’s still not dead?” she muttered. Her mother, who had just stepped back into the hallway, overheard her. Her face went pale with rage. “Vivian Sterling! Brad is in the hospital because of you, and that’s what you have to say? Are you even human?” Realizing she’d pushed her mother too far, Vivian quickly backpedaled. “I was just kidding.” I heard her too. But I wasn't angry. She’d been wishing me dead for years. I’d told her once I would divorce her. She hadn't believed me. So I'd stopped talking about it. Nelly ushered her into my room and then left, giving us space. Vivian stood by the door, keeping her distance, looking at me as if I were a stranger she’d been forced to visit. I didn’t care. The silence in the room was thick and heavy. Finally, she walked a little closer, her voice still sharp. “It’s your own fault for not taking care of yourself. You being in the hospital has nothing to do with me.” As she spoke, she watched my face, trying to gauge my reaction. I just offered a faint smile. “You’re right. It was my fault. I won’t put you in such a difficult position again.” My response seemed to displease her. She frowned. “Mom brought the baby home. You’re the ones who wanted him, so don’t expect me to raise him.” “Don’t worry,” I said, cutting her off gently. “Nelly has already hired a top-of-the-line maternity nurse. She’ll handle everything. You won’t have to lift a finger.” My placid acceptance was not what she expected. Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. She was silent. I knew she was remembering what I’d told her when we first married: that if we ever had a child, I would give him the complete family I never had, shower him with the love of a father and a mother that was stolen from me. Now, I expected nothing from her. She opened her mouth to say something, but her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the caller ID, then back at me, before turning and stepping out of the room. Even through the door, I could hear the excited voice on the other end. “You had their damn kid, so you’re done. Forget it. I got tickets to your idol’s concert. Let’s go, right now…” She left to take the call and never came back. A moment later, an older man shuffled past my door, supported by his wife. “Honestly,” the woman scolded gently, “if you can’t handle your liquor, you shouldn’t drink. Is a little money worth more than your health? What would the kids and I do if something happened to you?” Her words were a complaint, but her voice was filled with love. Her husband just grinned sheepishly, nodding along. A wave of pure, unadulterated envy washed over me. To be loved like that. What would that feel like? Just then, my phone chimed on the nightstand. A notification. “You have received a payment of $50,000.” I picked it up. The transfer description simply read: Medical Expenses. I stared at it for a moment, then closed the app. I didn't send it back. After all she’d put me through, I’d earned it. After a few more days in the hospital, Nelly arranged for me to be brought home to recover. She promised me that the day of the baby’s one-month party would be the day our divorce was finalized. With her word, the restless, wandering part of my soul finally found a place to rest. I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t known in years. That night, I got a call from the head of my old orphanage. She’d found my birth parents. They had passed away a long time ago, but they’d left a letter for me, and a key. I had to go to the police station in their old hometown to retrieve it. I jotted down the address, and as I was tucking the note into my phone case, I heard the bedroom door open. Vivian. A thick cloud of alcohol followed her into the room. Before I could say a word, she collapsed onto the bed beside me. “You’re a clever one,” she slurred, her eyes closed. “My mother actually told me to try and make things work with you.”
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