Ongoing · — reads

After the divorce, he cried and begged me to forgive him.

After the car accident, I lost my child. When I went back to the hospital for a follow-up, my husband, John, once again made an excuse and left in a hurry. It was the ninety-ninth time—by now, it had become routine. I had grown used to it. At first, the sting of being abandoned cut deep, but slowly, I stopped feeling anything at all. I took my medicine alone, walked home alone, the weight of loneliness settling quietly over me like dusk that never lifted. At home, I picked up my phone and, without a word, opened her—his “white moonlight,” Pearl’s—social-media page. “Shout-out to someone special. I just said my waist hurts, and he dropped everything to come over.” “Such a rare man—values friendship over love. Keep it up.” The photo beneath the post showed John sitting on the sofa, massaging her waist. His head rested casually on her thighs; his hand brushed against her intimate body. She didn’t pull away—just smiled faintly, content. The image was blinding, yet I didn’t break down or scream this time. I simply pressed “like.” John was stunned that I wasn’t angry. Later, he brought his “darling” to a company retreat. I even received photos of them—close, laughing, intertwined. Was I angry? No. Another time, I ran into him on the street. He was carrying Pearl’s child in his arms, the three of them looking every bit a family. I had to admit—I smiled, calmly. “Children need their fathers,” I said softly. “You should spend more time with them, John.” But John froze, panic flashing across his face. He grabbed my arm, his voice trembling. “Mabel… why don’t you care at all?”