Goodbye, My Ex-husband! You're Nothing!

The smell of garlic and onions filled the kitchen as I stirred the soup pot. My hands moved automatically—chop, stir, taste—while my mind drifted above the noise spilling in from the living room.

They were all there—Mike, Nico, Sasha, Maureen—sitting around the dining table, giggling like teenagers about what they’d wear for the big Disneyland trip.

“Oh, maybe I should wear the pink summer dress!” Sasha squealed, her voice syrupy sweet.

“No, no,” Nico cut in, “the red one suits you better. Mike, remember that one?”

Mike laughed, low and easy. “Yeah. Wear the red. You’ll look… perfect.”

I kept my back to them, my hands steady on the knife. I’d learned to tune them out like white noise. Their excitement barely stung now—just another bruise layered on old ones.

I set the table quietly, serving them while they kept laughing, not once acknowledging me. I was invisible again.

I’d just turned my back to wash the dishes when a sharp cough cut through their chatter. Then another, harder this time.

“Micah?” I heard Maureen say, her voice tightening.

I spun around. My granddaughter’s face was bright red. She clawed at her throat, eyes wide and wild. Panic shot through my spine.

I ran over, pushing past Maureen and Nico. “She’s choking—move!”

I turned Micah around, hooking my arms around her tiny ribs. A sharp thrust once, twice—finally a sticky piece of candy popped out, hitting the table with a wet smack.

Micah gasped for air, tears streaming down her cheeks. I pressed my hand to her back, feeling her breathing slow.

“She’s okay now,” I whispered, my own heart pounding so hard I thought it would crack open.

“Okay?” Maureen’s voice sliced through me. “You could’ve killed her!”

“What?” I stepped back, my hands still trembling. “She was choking—”

“You probably gave it to her to make her choke—”

I felt something inside me snap. “I didn’t give her the candy! It was Sasha. Maybe if you were watching your child instead of gossiping about dresses—”

Mike slammed his palm on the table. “Are you blaming Sasha now? For giving her candy? Are you that pathetic?”

Nico crossed his arms, sneering. “Always blaming someone else. No wonder no one wants you here.”

Maureen lunged at me, tears streaking her mascara. “You’re useless! I hate you! You’re not even a real mother—”

I didn’t even feel my hand move until the sound cracked in the air. The slap echoed. Maureen’s eyes widened, her cheek red and trembling.

For a heartbeat, the room fell silent. Then chaos.

Mike stormed toward me, his face twisted in rage. “You dare touch my daughter? You worthless piece of trash—”

“She’s my daughter too,” I shot back, my voice low. “But maybe if you all watched your own kid—”

A sharp slap split my lip open. My head whipped to the side. Another hit followed. Then another. I lost count of how many times Mike’s palm cracked across my face. The sting turned to numbness. I tasted blood and salt and the bitter taste of the soup still clinging to my tongue.

Somewhere through the haze, Nico’s voice cut in. “Apologize to her, Karylle. Get on your knees and apologize for slapping her.”

I laughed. Or maybe I sobbed—I wasn’t sure. “No. I won’t.”

Another slap. Then another. The room spun, the floor rose up to meet me. When I opened my eyes again, the kitchen was empty. My ears rang in the silence.

I dragged myself to my corner, leaning my swollen cheek against the cold cabinet door. The only sound was the buzz of my phone. One ping. Then another.

My eyes focused on the screen, blurry through the tears.

Sasha: “Sweet dreams, darling.”

Attached was a photo. Mike and Sasha at the dining table, smiling wide. Another ping—Sasha’s lips pressed to Mike’s mouth, his hand on her thigh. A family portrait where I didn’t belong.

I pressed delete. Gone. I didn’t even feel the sting anymore.

Another notification buzzed in. This time it was from my lawyer’s office.

Lawyer: “Mrs. Reid, Mr. Kier is asking to reach out. Should I share your number?”

My brows drew together. Kier? That name felt like a ghost from another life. Kier Dela Cruz—my high school rival, the boy who challenged me at every design contest, who always fought me for top spot in class, and later, in the business world.

Why now? Why him?

I typed back, “Yes. Sure.”

Seconds later, my phone lit up with a call. I hesitated, then pressed answer.

“Karylle.” His voice was deeper, older, but the same teasing warmth lingered beneath it. “I heard about the divorce.”

I swallowed, tasting blood on my tongue. “Didn’t realize gossip traveled that far.”

He laughed softly. “It does when it’s about you. Listen, Karylle—”

“What do you want, Kier?”

“No,” he said. “It’s supposed to be real. I want you, Karylle. I’ve always wanted you. You were just too blind back then.”