On Our Anniversary, I Gifted Him Divorce Papers

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"Wow, did I hear that right? You love that Edmund guy so much, and now you’re offering your shares to me?"

The man's deep voice rose by two pitches, laced with disbelief, and when I stayed silent, he let out a low chuckle.

"Then I’ll gladly accept. But in return, I’ve got a big gift for you, Victoria. How about signing a lifelong contract with me?"

"Aren’t you into traveling? As it happens, I’ve just invested in a large-scale travel show. I’m still looking for the perfect host."

I froze. "But I’m old now, and my image—"

Edmund cut me off. "It’s never too late to begin again, especially when you’re only fifty-five. Back then, Victoria was the brightest, most dazzling host to come out of an Ivy League university."

He didn’t ask what I’d gone through. As if everything was already within his grasp, his tone allowed no room for refusal.

"Forget that washed-up Stephen and look ahead. I’ll come get you when I’m back from this trip."

Honestly, he was still just as overbearing as he had been in his youth.

A few seconds later, I let out a long sigh. "Alright. I accept, Edmund."

Yes, my life was only beginning, and this time, I would finally live it for myself.

Stephen didn’t come home that night.

Early the next morning, he called and asked me to bring breakfast to the company. "Make sure it’s a double portion. We have a guest."

He never liked anyone else’s cooking. For the past thirty years, whether I was running a fever, had insomnia, or just felt unwell, I still got up in the rain or cold to cook for him.

An hour and a half later, I opened the door to Stephen’s office, only to see Eleanor standing there in an elegant champagne-colored blazer and pencil skirt.

At her feet lay my favorite painting, roughly torn and scattered in shreds across the floor.

In the spot where it had once hung proudly, there now stood a new sculpture.

My mind froze for several seconds. Then, unable to hold back the fire in my chest, I shouted, "Who did this? That was my painting!"

Eleanor widened her eyes with an innocent look, then lightly covered her mouth.

"Oh no, I thought it was just some worthless junk, it looked so ugly. I gave Stephen my own piece instead. Sorry, Victoria, I’ll make it up to you with a new one."

But that was the only painting Stephen and I had ever completed together during a trip we once called our most precious memory.

Stephen, flipping through documents at his desk, didn’t even glance in my direction. He walked over and casually took the thermal container from my hands.

"No need. That thing was worthless anyway. Now that your artwork’s here, this whole office feels elevated."

As he walked toward her, he brushed past me carelessly, knocking me off balance. I fell hard.

The nails from the broken frame jabbed into my palm. Blood surged out instantly, the sting sharp enough to send cold sweat running down my back.

I bit my lip and tried to push myself up. But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of pink underwear tossed carelessly in the corner.

It felt as if an invisible hand clutched my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, leaving me breathless.

But Stephen didn’t notice the blood dripping from my palm. Nor did he see the pink underwear, Eleanor’s, the one he had taken off himself.

Instead, when she looked up at him with teary eyes and a pout, saying, “Stephen, there were peanuts in the oatmeal. I’m severely allergic… I could’ve died,” he immediately scowled.

Without hesitation, he slammed the oatmeal I had spent an hour preparing into the trash.

Then, glancing at me, still sprawled on the floor, he let out a cold scoff.

“Stop pretending to be fragile, Victoria. Get up and clean that ugly painting. And don’t you dare put peanuts in the food again.”

With that, he turned and took Eleanor out to enjoy a Michelin breakfast.

My entire body trembled. The pain in my palm throbbed harder, and warm tears finally spilled from my eyes.

Later that evening, at Eleanor’s celebration banquet, I saw him take her hand, refusing to let her carry even the smallest bag.

“Your hands create art, they should be treated like a goddess’s.”

And yet I had spent half my life tending to him like a maid, scrubbing, cooking, enduring, and no one ever asked if I was okay when I bled.

When I got home, I casually dabbed some ointment on my bleeding hand, then began sorting through all the gifts Stephen had ever given me.

Every holiday, he would buy things in twos. I used to think it was generosity until I checked his social media through a hidden account and saw the truth. Everything he ever gave me, he also gave to Eleanor. Not one thing was meant solely for me.

He simply couldn’t bear for her to go without.

By the time I finished sorting, the sun was already dipping. I didn’t even have time to fix my disheveled hair before rushing off to pick up my first-grade grandson, Henry.

When Henry walked out with his classmates, a few boys nearby pointed and snickered, "Hey, Henry, is that your grandma?"

His face flushed instantly. With panic in his eyes, he shouted, "No, she’s our housekeeper!"

"This is my grandma, she’s a famous sculptor!"

Henry held up a fashion magazine photo of Eleanor looking elegant and stylish. My head buzzed loudly.

My head went numb. This was the boy I had raised with my own hands.

While my son and his wife were busy managing the business with Stephen, I had changed every diaper, nursed every fever, and sung every lullaby, and now he denied me.

And now, I was nothing but his shame.

In the car, Henry kept his head down the entire ride. He either stared at his shoes or watched the world blur past the window as if afraid I might scold him.

But this time, I said nothing. No nagging, no lectures. I just sat there in silence, mocking the pitiful woman I had become.

When we pulled up to my son's house, Henry kicked at the curb as he climbed out, his voice barely a whisper. "Grandma, aren’t you mad?"

I looked at him, my gaze steady and calm. "Henry, do you want a different grandma? If you do, I’ll help you get what you want."