Love and hate intertwined

I continued to play the fool.

I remained steadfastly devoted to Silas, pretending I couldn't smell the lingering gardenia perfume on his collar, pretending I hadn't seen the carefully cropped photos Serena posted on her Instagram stories—a familiar watch face resting on a coffee table, the sleeve of Silas's signature Tom Ford suit.

To the world, they were subtle; but to me, they were glaringly obvious.

I would stare at her posts until the screen dimmed, then carefully tap the little heart icon to like them.

I said nothing. I worked hard to keep the surface of our marriage as calm and reflective as a frozen lake, but beneath the ice, dark currents swirled, brewing a devastating storm.

However, things were changing.

I officially resigned from the art gallery. Nova finally came home from the vet, bringing a lively, joyful energy to the otherwise quiet apartment.

I also started writing in my diary again.

I bought a thick, leather-bound notebook and wrote in it every day. I recorded the trivial details of daily life, as well as the painful, rapid deterioration of my body.

Sleep became a luxury. The dull ache in my abdomen was constant.

I still cooked for Silas every day, but when I sat at the granite counter with my own plate, the smell of the food made my stomach violently revolt.

I went back to Queens one last time. We sat in my mother's living room and had the exact same fifteen-minute polite conversation.

While she went to make tea, I slipped a debit card—with the PIN taped to the back—into a novel on her coffee table. It held almost my entire life savings.

When I was leaving, she walked me to the front porch. Her eyes lingered on my pale face a second longer than usual. "Take care of yourself, Nina," she said.

"Thank you, you too," I replied.

My mother would be fine. She hadn't loved my father, and she had never really known how to love me, but she had fulfilled her duty. She raised me.

My father eventually went bankrupt, his fund wiped out in a massive scandal, which felt like poetic justice.

My mother, however, had found peace. She married a good man, had a son, and built the family she had always wanted.

I was just a ghost from a painful past she had moved on from.