My Husband Called Me Crazy, and My Son Believed Him

She only studied me with a smile that carried a meaning I could not make out.

Only now did I finally realize it.

Back then, I had been completely, foolishly naive.

My dry throat scraped like it had been torn by blades, each word dragging through with pain as I spoke.

Raspy and worn, I answered her, “After the divorce procedures are done, I’ll go with you.”

I spent one night at the hotel where my mom stayed.

The following morning, I changed into the new clothes she bought for me, then went back to the home I had lived in for six years.

When I stepped inside, my son, Bryson Hester, who was playing with his toys in the living room, shot me a look of surprise mixed with impatience.

He muttered under his breath, “Didn’t you say you’d be in there for five days? Why are you back in only three?”

At that moment, Adriel came down the stairs.

Once he noticed me, a quick flash of surprise crossed his face too, as if he had not expected me to return this soon.

But he quickly settled his expression and spoke in a light tone, “Since you’re back, go clean up and get some rest. Stop causing trouble.”

I shook my head. “No need. We are going to the City Hall now to file for divorce.”

When those words came out, Bryson’s expression changed.

He hurried behind Adriel and shouted at me, “If you’re getting a divorce and walking out of here, don’t even try to take me! I will never go with you!”

Seeing his angry face full of rejection toward me, I quietly curved the corner of my lips.

Yesterday, after Adriel left, he had left the essay behind.

That essay, I went through it again and again.

Every line he wrote stayed clear in my mind.

“My mom is really like a crazy woman. My dad works very hard, but she keeps making trouble for him. At home, she acts like someone who has lost control, breaking things and hitting Dad. If I could choose, I honestly wish this crazy woman weren’t my mom.”

The first time Adriel brought up divorce was when I uncovered his affair.

Calmly, I had taken photos of the messages and the hotel records I found on his phone.

When he walked into the house, I laid the proof in front of him and turned through each piece one by one.

With my hands clenched tight, I held back every spark of anger, quietly waiting for his regret, waiting for him to kneel and say sorry.

During that waiting, I pictured him asking for forgiveness in every way I could imagine, but he didn’t.

Calm and cold, he only coldly stared at me.

There was not one bit of guilt in his eyes.

Instead, backed into a corner, he looked bold, nearly daring.

He said, “Melanie, either erase those photos and stay as Mrs. Hester, or we'll divorce.”

Before that point, I had stupidly believed that if he apologized, I could try to let it go just once.

Because when a family broke apart, the child always took the hardest blow.

I didn’t want my child to walk the same road I did, forced at five years old to choose between Dad and Mom.

But he didn’t apologize.

His pride lit every part of my anger.

In hopeless rage, I grabbed whatever I could reach and hurled it at him over and over.

But when the voices of the nanny and our child reached me, I forced myself to stop the breakdown.

I did not want my child to witness such shameful scenes between his parents, but my attempt fell apart.

Bryson saw me hurling things at Adriellike someone who had lost control.

But he did not hear the things Adriel had said earlier.

Now, as I looked at the child I had carried, who stared at me as if I were something dangerous, I once again took in the strike cutting into me, a strike I had created myself.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want you. After the divorce, I’ll leave.”

I stayed unusually composed, my face showing nothing at all.