8 Years In An Estranged Marriage

Just as Nate was about to read the document, his phone rang.

Selena's panicked voice spilled through the speaker. "Nate, my stomach hurts... can you come get me? Please? I'm really scared…"

Without a second thought, he responded, "I'll be right there."

He soothed her anxiously, didn't glance back at the page, picked up the pen and scribbled his signature in haste, then rushed out the door without another word.

I watched his retreating figure and let out a cold, quiet laugh.

'So this is how it ends. This house, this family—finally gone.'

That afternoon, Nate sent a message. He'd arranged for a courier to deliver our daughter's birthday present.

When I opened the package, I froze. It was a Barbie doll.

Last year, during a company retreat, I brought our daughter along.

Selena, behind my back, took her into a haunted house. Inside, actors dressed as grotesque Barbie dolls had terrified her so badly, she sobbed uncontrollably.

Selena, annoyed, left her there—alone—in the dark for a full hour.

We combed the entire venue before finally finding her. She had passed out from fear.

When she woke, she told us through trembling lips that Selena had left her on purpose.

Selena denied it flatly. Nate, of course, stood by her side, brushing our daughter off with a dismissive, "Don't imagine things."

Since then, the mere sight of a Barbie gave her nightmares.

And now, he sends her this—for her birthday.

How absurd. What a ridiculous excuse for a father.

I thought about quietly replacing the gift, but it was too late—my daughter had already seen it.

That night, after coming home, Nate said abruptly, "I'm planning to have Selena move in for a while."

His tone was casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"We're still keeping our marriage a secret. I don't want her to know about us. You and the kid should move out temporarily. Keep your distance."

"So you're kicking us out… just so you can play house with her?" I asked.

Nate frowned, clearly irritated. "Don't twist my words. It's just temporary. We can't go public with this marriage. You don't have the status for that."

I said nothing, just let out a low, mirthless laugh.

So that's what we were to him—my daughter and I. A hidden shame. A burden.

The kind of anger I felt didn't even leave room for arguments.

I was simply tired. So tired.

Fine. Whatever.

He noticed my expression, and suddenly softened his voice. "I'll bring you two back in a few days. I'll make it up to you."

I nodded, playing along, and walked upstairs without a word.

It didn't matter anymore. Whether I left now or later, the outcome was the same. The damage had already been done. Whatever he thought he could "make up," I didn't need it.

I packed quickly and quietly, and took my daughter's hand.

As we reached the door, it opened.

Selena stepped in, dragging a suitcase behind her.

Nate rushed forward immediately to take it from her. "I told you I'd come get you. That's too much to carry. Don't wear yourself out."

But mid-sentence, he seemed to realize something. He glanced at me, uneasy and alert.

Selena saw me and paused, visibly surprised. "Christine? Why are you at Nate's place?"

Before I could respond, Nate cut in, "She and her kid didn't have anywhere to go. I felt bad for them and let them stay for a while."

Felt bad?

Once, he used to say we were distant relatives. Now, we were homeless charity cases.

I thought I was numb to all his excuses by now. But somehow, every one still managed to stab a little deeper.

And then—

"Hello, Uncle Nate." My daughter's voice rang out, polite and clear.

Hearing her call him "Uncle," Nate froze.

"What… what did she just call me?"