Chapter 2

2

Once, I had some fire in me. The first time he cheated, I threw down the gauntlet and demanded divorce.

But Mark always knew how to play me. He knew my weak spot: the kids.

The kids!

Mark's mom is about to say something, but his sister pulls her back.

They know the kids are my weakness. As long as they mention the kids, I'll put up with anything.

But now I don't give a damn about the kids.

I think God is good to me, that I can live again after death.

This time, I'm not going to wrong myself for anyone.

I don't say a word. I just get up and go back to "my" room.

"Mom, see? I told you. She can't leave him."

I ignore Brenda, roll my eyes, and start packing my things.

Actually, it's not really my room. It's a tiny alcove off his dad's bedroom.

After my father-in-law had his stroke, they needed someone to keep an eye on him. I thought I would take care of him during the day.

Mark's mom would take care of him at night, so I could rest.

But she said she had neurasthenia, and couldn't stay up late.

So they moved me into the tiny room to be closer to him.

I started to laugh.

Mark lives alone in the master bedroom and gets a good night's sleep every night.

Now I have decided, whoever wants to take care of it can take care of it.

Isn't Mark's mom always telling the neighbors that I'm not filial?

So I'm not filial, let Mark be a filial son!

I hurriedly packed my bedding and moved to the master bedroom.

When Mark saw me moving into the master bedroom, he frowned and followed me in.

"What are you moving in here for? What happens if Dad needs to go to the bathroom at night? What happens if he needs to drink water?"

I threw Mark's clothes out, "We're getting divorced, your dad is no longer my dad, whoever's dad takes care of him."

"Are you crazy? Enough is enough."

I smiled, "So what if I'm making a scene."

He says I'm making a scene, and I used to think I was really making a scene.

Quarreling with him is making a scene, hysterically smashing things is making a scene.

Starving myself is making a scene.

But now I know that tormenting yourself is not making a scene, tormenting them is making a scene.

Look, just moving out of the small cubicle, Mark couldn't wait to come in and talk to me.

You know, at home, Mark never said more than three sentences to me every day.

So it turns out that making a scene like this can make them feel uncomfortable.

Mark walked out of the room with a dark face.

I didn't bother to care what their family was saying outside, changed the sheets on the bed with a sneer, and went into the bathroom to take a bath.