I Buried My Son, You Pampered Your Mistress

At the sound of his words, Greta straightened up and shot me a mocking look, her eyes full of contempt.

The others perked up, their greedy eyes fixed on me, as some of them began placing bets.

"I’ll bet 100 bucks she won’t kneel. She actually thought she could challenge Greta? She’s completely lost it."

"She’s probably going to cry and beg James to forgive her. That fake-dead kid might show up too and both of them are begging together."

Without a second thought, I forced myself up and slammed my forehead to the floor, desperate to show my submission. "I’m sorry! I was wrong!"

The broken toy plane jabbed into my forehead and blood spilled out, but I felt nothing … numb to the world around me. I continued to kneel and bow, again and again, but I never reached the end.

Every time I moved forward, Greta laughed cruelly and took a step back, as if she were playing with a dog, forcing me to crawl in endless circles.

The crowd’s tone around me slowly changed from entertained to worried.

"James, Greta, maybe it’s enough? She’s bleeding heavily. What if something terrible happens to her?"

"Yeah, look at her lips … she’s so pale. What if she dies here?"

"Honestly, if she’s leaving, now’s the perfect time. James, it’s time you give Greta her rightful title."

I stopped and glanced back. Blood from my forehead had left a long, shocking streak.

I wasn't planning to stop. Just as I was about to kneel once more …

James kicked me down mercilessly and threw the signed divorce papers at me.

"Enough! I signed it! Stop pretending! You’re pathetic. Do you really think I wouldn’t divorce you?"

"Take your kid and leave! But remember, if you walk out that door, your son won’t see a penny from me!"

"Don’t even think I’ll ever acknowledge you two again!"

I had lost so much blood that standing felt like an impossible task. But I forced myself to rise, grabbing the divorce papers with trembling hands.

James glared at me, his gaze burning into me. I turned to the last page, checked the signature and allowed myself a bitter smile.

"Fine. I’ll go pack my son’s things and take him with me."

I turned and walked into my son’s room, feeling the weight of the moment.

As soon as the door closed, the chaos outside went quiet. I leaned against the door and my vision blurred with tears.

My son’s small blanket was still rumpled. The fairy tale book we didn’t finish reading last night was still on the bedside table.

It felt like any moment, he would jump out of the wardrobe pretending to be a ghost to scare me.

I wiped away my tears and grabbed a suitcase from the wardrobe to pack my son's things.

His clothes, toys, books and the little crafts he made in kindergarten … I packed them one by one, laughing and crying. Then I found a small drift bottle.

Inside was a yellowed piece of paper. I opened it and froze. It was an IOU note between James and our son.

When our son was three and super clingy, he insisted on sleeping with me every night. James, frustrated, would sneak in halfway through the night, carry me back to our room and mutter.

"This is ridiculous. I gave birth to a jealous little rival!"

"Honey, I miss you too. Can't you spend more time with me?"

But before he could go far, our chubby little boy would wake up, chase after him and hit him with his little fists, yelling that he was “stealing mommy.”

Then they had no choice but to make a deal: one night each. If either of them wanted an extra night, they had to write an IOU.

James had plenty of tricks to win our son over and eventually, he had a pile of IOUs.

Our son kept asking for them back, but James always came up with some excuse to avoid it.

After Greta returned from abroad, I started sleeping with our son more often. I thought he'd be happy, but instead, he became quieter with each passing day.