Walking Away for Good

That shirt—I was the one who gave it to Shawn.

Back then, we were still struggling. He had to attend business events, but he didn’t even own a single branded shirt. So I survived on plain bread and instant noodles for a whole month just to buy it for him as a birthday gift.

My eyes burned red. "Shawn, that was my birthday gift to you!"

Lucille looked utterly aggrieved. "I’m so sorry… My belly is just too big. I couldn’t find anything to wear, so I… I’ll leave now. I didn’t mean to intrude."

However, Shawn grabbed her wrist. "It’s late, and you’re pregnant. Why would you leave?"

The concern he had for me was completely gone. All that remained was impatience.

"It’s just an old shirt. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it? And to think I was worried about you earlier. You don’t even realize you’re in the wrong."

Right… just an old shirt.

To Shawn, I was nothing more than an old shirt now, wasn’t I?

I let out a pained laugh and lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the shirt, and ripping at it with all my strength.

Lucille screamed, her nails digging sharply into the back of my hand.

The pain made my whole body go weak, and I collapsed. Nevertheless, Shawn held Lucille protectively in his arms instead.

"Imelda, what the hell is wrong with you?! It’s just a shirt! Did you really have to push Lucille down like that? If she loses the baby, are you going to take responsibility?!"

Lucille clutched her arm, where there was barely a small scrape. "Shawn, I’m fine… Please, go check on your wife…"

Still, Shawn only looked down at me from above and sneered. "What, are you addicted to putting on this act?

"Did you even get a real doctor for your little show? Talking about some fake miscarriage… If you had that much backbone, you wouldn’t have ended up as a stay-at-home wife, mooching off me!"

I sat on the ground, drenched in cold sweat from the pain, but Shawn didn’t care.

"Apologize to her."

I let out a hollow laugh, emphasizing each word, "And what if I don’t? I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?"

Shawn yanked me up by my arm and threw open the door. The window in the stairwell was open and the freezing wind rushed in, cutting through my thin gown like a blade.

"If you want to throw a tantrum and run away from home," Shawn said mercilessly, "then don’t bother coming back!"

He shoved me out the door and slammed it shut with a loud bang.

…

Curled up in the stairwell, I shivered uncontrollably in the piercing wind. My mind was foggy, barely able to think straight. The pain in my abdomen became unbearable. I raised my hand and pounded on the door in desperation.

"Shawn, let me in! I really did get an abortion! The doctor said I can’t be exposed to the cold—"

I banged on the door for what felt like forever before it finally cracked open just a sliver. Shawn stood there, looking down at me, his face twisted in mockery.

"Imelda, you always act like you’re so high and mighty, huh? Look at you now. Without my protection, you don’t even have anywhere to go."

His eyes were full of contempt.

"You hurt Lucille, and you won’t even say sorry—and now you want to just walk back in? Trying to use the baby to threaten me? It’s just a little cold air. Stop acting like it’s going to kill you. If you apologize, I’ll let you in right now."

Looking at his face, I lost all desire to give in. I gritted my teeth, each word sharp as a blade, as I said, "I did nothing wrong. I won’t apologize."

Shawn’s expression darkened.

"Then, go find somewhere else to stay."

With that, he shut the door in my face again.

But where could I go? I didn’t even have the strength to stand up.

With shaking hands, I reached for my phone, trying to call someone for help, but in my dazed state, I accidentally opened my social media feed instead.

A new post from Lucille popped up.

[Pasta made by the CEO himself—who else gets this kind of treatment? If only he weren’t married… I would love for my son to call him ‘Daddy.’]

In the comments, their colleagues were envious. Some even encouraged her.

[Imelda is nothing compared to you.]

[You’re beautiful and talented. It’d be a waste if you weren’t the next Mrs. Sutherland.]

I stared at the photo—a bowl of spaghetti bolognese—and let out a bitter laugh. Shawn never knew how to cook. The only dish he could ever make was this one.

Back then, he had once told me, "In this lifetime, I’ll only ever make this for you."

However, now, that same bowl of pasta appeared in another woman’s social media post.

My phone battery died, the screen going black. And as the last of my strength drained away, my vision blurred.

I collapsed into unconsciousness.