In December 1975, I had a miscarriage at the military base hospital. When the nurse came out to find my husband, Arthur, to sign the paperwork, he was crouching at the end of the hallway, gripping the payphone. "Clara, please don't cry. I'll figure out the money for the baby formula..." After he finally signed my papers, he barely glanced at me. "Hazel, just hold on for a bit. Clara's kid is sick." And then, he left. I lay on the hard wooden bench in the corridor all night long. What I eventually got was a freezing, congealed bowl of cafeteria macaroni. I didn't cry. Because I had already died once. In my past life, I waited for Arthur for thirty years. I waited until he climbed the ranks and got rich. I waited until Clara got severely ill and he stayed by her hospital bed, refusing to leave her side for even a second—while I was left to die alone in our freezing house with a 104-degree fever, completely ignored. Reborn into this life, I took that bowl of cold macaroni and dumped it straight into the trash can. "Arthur, we're getting a divorce." He froze. His metal thermos dropped to the floor with a loud clatter, splashing cold soup all over his boots. Arthur couldn't believe it. "Hazel, what kind of nonsense are you talking about?" He stood in my hospital room, legs planted apart, arms crossed over his chest. He wore that classic Hazel, you're being unreasonable again expression. I knew that look too well. I had stared at it for thirty years in my past life. "I'm not talking nonsense. We don't have a kid now, so the paperwork will be simple." "Is this because of last night?" He furrowed his brows. "Clara's kid was genuinely sick. I just ran to the clinic to help out—" "And gave her the cash for the baby formula?" His jaw dropped, but no words came out. "That was the money I saved up for six months. A few dollars every week, hidden under my pillow. I counted it over and over." I looked at him, my voice dead quiet. "I figured when our baby was born, I couldn't let him go hungry." "But my baby died last night. He never even got the chance to use it." Arthur's arms slowly dropped to his sides. "About that formula money—" "I'm not just talking about the formula money." I threw off the thin blanket and got out of bed. My knees were weak, and I had to grip the bedframe to stand steady. "Arthur, when I married you, my mother gave me five hundred dollars in savings, a bolt of imported blue velvet, our emergency grocery fund, and an antique silver bracelet. Where are those things now?" His face changed color. "You took the velvet, saying you were going to have winter coats made for your unit. But on Christmas, Clara wore a brand-new dress. The exact same shade of blue as my fabric." "You took our grocery fund last month, saying the squad was pitching in for a banquet. The mess hall never had a banquet." "You stole my silver bracelet and pawned it for a hundred and twenty-five bucks. On Clara's son's hundredth day, he was wearing a brand-new pair of leather shoes that cost exactly a hundred and twenty-five bucks." "As for that five hundred dollars, you claimed you mailed it to your parents our second month of marriage. Your brother wrote to us last year saying they hadn't received a single dime." He went from red to white, and from white to a sickly green. After a few seconds of dead silence, he managed to choke out one sentence. "How do you know all that?" Even though I had mentally prepared myself, my nose still stung. "You don't need to explain." I bent down and slipped on my shoes. "I'll write the divorce application. You just need to sign it." "Hazel!" he roared. "Over a few material things, you're really going to divorce me?!" I straightened my back and glared at him with dead eyes. "That silver bracelet was slipped onto my wrist by my mother right before she died. She told me to wear it, to pretend she was still with me." "You pawned it for a hundred and twenty-five bucks. To buy Clara's kid shoes. He outgrew them in a month, and she threw them in the trash." "My mother's last memory of me. A hundred and twenty-five bucks. One month. The garbage dump." "You tell me—is it worth a divorce?" His mouth hung open. He couldn't force out a single syllable. I grabbed my duffel bag from the bedside and walked out. At the military base housing. I pushed open the front door to pack my things. Someone was sitting in the living room—Clara. She was wearing a vibrant, aqua-blue blouse. I recognized the color instantly. It was the exact shade of the last few yards of my blue velvet. Seeing me walk in, she stood up, her face plastered with the perfect blend of fragility and apologetic concern. "Hazel, I heard you weren't feeling well. I came to check on you." "Clara, your intel is pretty fast." I walked right past her, crouching down to pull my trunk from under the bed. The trunk was completely empty. The grocery cash was gone, the fabric was gone, the wages I had saved up were entirely wiped out. All that was left was a few worn-out clothes and an enamel washbasin. Clara stood behind me, her eyes sweeping over the empty trunk, the corners of her lips twitching into a micro-smirk. "Hazel, I heard you and Arthur got into a fight?" "Not a fight. A divorce." Her eyes lit up for a fraction of a second. Then, she quickly lowered her eyelashes, swapping her expression for one of deep worry. "Hazel, you need to think this through. Arthur is a military officer; a military divorce isn't easy. With your health like this, if you leave, you'll be all alone—" "Clara." I stood up, dusting off my knees. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." "Go ahead." "You're wearing clothes made from my fabric, spending the cash he pawned my wedding gifts for, and eating the groceries I skimped and saved for—and you have the nerve to stand here and tell me to think it through?" Her face stiffened. "I—those weren't—Arthur said they were issued by the military—" "Issued by the military?" I pointed at her blouse. "My mother bought that fabric in town right before she passed. Blue velvet, imported. The local tailor only got one shipment. Clara, do you want me to dig out the receipt and show it to you?" Clara's lips drained of color. She took a half-step back, subconsciously tugging at the hem of her shirt, as if trying to hide it. "Hazel, don't just spit venom at people—" "What venom am I spitting? You're literally wearing my stolen property, flaunting it in my face. Pointing that out is spitting venom?" I took a step forward. She took another step back, her spine hitting the wall. "Clara, your brother saved Arthur's life. I acknowledge that debt. But Arthur should be the one paying that debt, not carving the flesh off my bones to do it. If you want to eat well, dress well, and live the good life, go ask Arthur for his own paycheck. What right do you have to take mine?!" "I never asked for it! Arthur gave it to me himself—" "Himself? When he was stealing my dowry behind my back, you didn't know? When he pawned my dead mother's bracelet, you didn't know? When your son was running around the yard in those expensive leather shoes, you didn't know where the money came from?" Tears spilled from Clara's eyes. I had seen those tears too many times. In my past life, every time she cried, Arthur would rush over to shield her, then turn around and berate me for being petty. But in this life, Arthur wasn't here. It was just the two of us women in this room. "What are you crying for?" My voice turned to ice. "Do you have any right to cry? The one who should be crying is me. I lost my baby yesterday, and my husband ran off to call you about baby formula. I lay bleeding in a hospital hallway all night, and all I got was a bowl of cold macaroni. What right do you have to cry in front of me?" My words choked Clara's sobs right back down her throat. She glared at me. The layers of her fragile facade peeled away, revealing what lay beneath—pure hatred. "Hazel, you've changed." "I've changed? Good. The old, unchanging Hazel was almost bled dry by you two parasites." I stuffed a few old clothes into my duffel bag and pulled the drawstring tight. As I walked to the door, her voice chased after me from behind. "Do you think you'll have a good life after you divorce him? You have nothing! The second you walk out that door, you're just a—" I didn't look back. "It's true that I have nothing. But at least from now on, every bite of food I eat and every inch of fabric I own will belong to me. And nobody will ever take a single thread from me again." I slammed the door behind me. There was an old elm tree by the gates of the base housing, its bare branches dusted with snow. A man was standing under it. It was my cousin, Wyatt. He was wearing a heavy winter coat, a layer of snow settling on his broad shoulders. "Hazel!" He ran over to take my heavy bag, his thick brows knotting together. "I heard what happened. Arthur, that son of a bitch—" "Wyatt, let's just go. We can talk on the way." Wyatt drove his rusted Chevy pickup, and I sat in the passenger seat. Aunt Martha was already bustling around the house when we arrived. Seeing my face as pale as a ghost, she didn't say a word. She just pushed me onto the warm sofa and went straight to the stove to bring out a massive bowl of hot chicken stew. It was a rich, golden broth, steaming hot and comforting. I took one sip, and a tear dropped right into the bowl. How long had it been since I had a hot meal? Married to Arthur for six years, every penny and grocery I saved went straight into Clara's stomach. I ate stale bread and pickles every day, leaving me weak and anemic, barely able to stand while doing chores. Aunt Martha watched me devour the soup, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and turned to Wyatt. "Go! Butcher that fat hen in the yard! I'm making Hazel a proper chicken roast tomorrow!" "You got it!" Wyatt rolled up his sleeves and marched out the back door. That night, Aunt Martha brought out a freshly made quilt for my bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress, gripping my hand tightly. "Hazel, this is your home. You stay here as long as you want." I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak. I rested at my aunt's house for two days before Arthur finally came looking for me. He wasn't alone. Clara came with him. Aunt Martha was in the yard feeding the chickens. When she heard the noise at the gate and saw who it was, her face instantly darkened. Arthur stood in the front. Clara stood a half-step behind him, holding Toby, her head bowed like a fragile flower about to be blown over by the wind. "Martha, I'm here to take Hazel home," Arthur said. Aunt Martha didn't even put down the chicken feed bucket. She looked him up and down. "Take her home? What kind of nerve do you have to show your face here and say that?" "Martha, what happened between me and Hazel—" "What happened between you and Hazel is the talk of the entire base!" Aunt Martha slammed the feed bucket onto the ground, her voice booming. "You took her dowry to feed a woman on the side! You left her to miscarry alone! What right do you have to stand at my door and demand to take her back?!" Clara gently tugged at Arthur's sleeve from behind, whispering something in a low voice. Arthur's face shifted. He glanced back at her, then turned back to my aunt. "Martha, there's a huge misunderstanding here—" "What misunderstanding?" I stepped out of the house. I hadn't planned on coming out. But hearing Clara's voice made me change my mind. Some things are better handled face-to-face than gossiped about behind closed doors. Seeing me, Clara's eyes immediately reddened. "Hazel, I know you're angry, but you can't just—" I completely ignored her. I looked straight at Arthur. "Why did you bring her here?" "She said she wanted to explain things to you—" "Explain what? Explain where the clothes on her back came from? Or explain whose money bought the shoes on her son's feet?" Clara's face went white, and the tears immediately began to fall. Aunt Martha let out a cold scoff, marching over to stand beside me, hands on her hips. "I recognize that blue blouse you're wearing. That fabric was bought by Hazel's mother right before she passed. She only bought a few yards. Do you think our family is blind?" Clara's tears fell like a broken string of pearls, but she kept defending herself. "I really didn't know..." Aunt Martha snorted, turning her crosshairs to Arthur. "Arthur, you're a military man. You're supposed to have honor and logic. You steal your wife's wedding gifts to subsidize an outsider, refuse to admit it when you're caught, and then bring that outsider to our doorstep to put on a soap opera? Do you think our family has nobody left to defend her?!" Arthur's face turned the color of bruised liver. "Martha, I didn't steal—" "Then what do you call it? Borrowing? Did you ever pay it back?!" Arthur was struck dumb. Clara suddenly stepped forward, her voice pitching higher. "Hazel! What makes you so special?! So what if a few of your things were used? Arthur helped me because my brother saved his life! Since you married him, you should be willing to stick by him through thick and thin!" "Through thick and thin?" My voice overpowered her crying. "Clara, touch your conscience when you say 'thick and thin'. Where was the 'thick'? I was married to him for six years. I wore patched clothes and ate stale bread. And you? You wore brand-new winter coats, and your son wore imported leather shoes. Where was the 'thin'? I swallowed all the suffering, and you swallowed all the sweetness. And you have the audacity to lecture me about sticking through thick and thin?" I backed Clara into a corner with my words. The toddler in her arms, Toby, got scared and started wailing. "You—you're crazy!" "I'm not crazy. I'm completely sober." I looked at her, enunciating every word. "Clara, what exactly did you come here for today? Did you come to persuade me to go back, or did you come to confirm that I'm really leaving so you can comfortably take your place as Mrs. Arthur?" That sentence acted like a scalpel, slicing off the very last layer of her disguise. Her lips trembled. The tears were still falling, but her eyes had changed. There was no more grievance in that gaze—only the furious resentment of being completely exposed. "Hazel, don't think you're going to live a good life just because you divorce him. You have nothing—" "It's true that I have nothing. But at least I have myself. What about you? Even the tears on your face are fake." Aunt Martha grabbed my arm and pulled me behind her, waving her hand at Clara. "Alright, alright! You've done your crying and you've done your acting. Now get lost! Our family doesn't welcome you!" She pointed at Arthur next. "You leave too! If you want to take your wife home, start acting like a real husband! If you can't do that, sign the papers and let her go! Stop wasting Hazel's time!" Arthur, his face ashen, opened his mouth several times, but not a single word came out. Clara, clutching the screaming Toby, turned and stormed off. After a few steps, she looked back and shot me a vicious, venomous glare. Arthur stood there for a moment longer, before finally turning and leaving as well. Aunt Martha slammed the yard gate shut, dusted her hands off, and looked back at me. "That woman is bad news." "I know." "You were right to leave him." "I know." After resting for three days, I got down to business. I found a notebook and listed every single dollar, every single item, and every single grocery run Arthur had taken from me over the last six years. The date, the quantity, the destination—I wrote it all down, line by line. Wyatt helped me corroborate the list—he had helped me transport some of those items originally, so he remembered them clearly. On the fifth day, Arthur showed up again. Wyatt blocked the doorway, refusing to let him in. Arthur's lips were purple from the freezing cold. Standing in the snow, he yelled into the house, "Hazel! Come back with me! It's completely inappropriate for you to be living in someone else's house!"
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