99 Divorce Agreements

That was what Finn's father had said about me on our wedding day.

Back then, Finn was young and impulsive. The moment he heard his father's words, he slammed down the microphone.

"She's my wife," he said. "No one has the right to speak ill of her."

Father and son—cut from the same cloth after all.

Our son threw a toy at me.

"You bad woman! Apologize to Daddy right now!"

The sharp edge of the toy split the skin on my cheek. I touched the wound instinctively. I could feel my heart break a little more.

This was the child I'd carried for nine months and brought into the world—a little wolf cub that could never be tamed.

Eight years of love, undone by one year of Lisa's sweet talk.

When I didn't respond, my son's smirk deepened.

"Not even mad? Figures. You're just a useless leech of a woman. You should smarten up and divorce my dad already. We don't need a maid like you here."

With that, he bounced away toward his room.

Before closing the door, he stood on his tiptoes to hang up a little sign: [Heather is not allowed inside.]

I wiped away the tears that had come with my laughter and went back to my room—the small storage space next to the kitchen.

It was less than ten square meters, with a narrow, plain bed.

Even the housekeeper refused to stay there, but for the past year, it had been the only place in this house where I could breathe.

I put away the seventeenth bracelet he'd given me, then opened the drawer and took out the divorce papers—the ninety-ninth divorce agreement Finn had thrown at me.

In eight years of marriage, every argument ended with him tossing me another one.

He knew I was starved for love, knew I couldn't let go—and he used those papers, again and again, to humiliate me.

But this time, I was really going to sign.

My husband. My son. This ridiculous marriage. I didn't want any of it anymore…

…

The next morning, I was woken by pounding on the door.

"Get up! Make me breakfast!"

My son's toy slammed against the door of the storage room, the sound echoing through the house.

I used to wake up at five every morning to make breakfast for him and his father. Now, lying in bed, I wished I could just go deaf.

When I finally opened the door, he was standing barefoot on the cold floor, his face twisted with anger.

"Where's my breakfast?"

I looked him in the eyes, my voice flat.

"In the fridge. Get it yourself—or ask your father or Lisa."

He froze. It was the first time I'd ever spoken to him that way. Then his face contorted again, as if remembering something.

"You're my maid! If you don't listen, I'll tell Dad to divorce you!"

He stamped his foot. "Go make breakfast now! Or I'll walk barefoot all day. When I get sick, you'll have to stay up all night taking care of me again!"

That was when I noticed his bare feet on the floor.

He'd been born premature, always prone to illness. Every time I saw him barefoot, I used to panic—rushing after him, pleading softly for him to wear shoes.

He'd wait until I bent down to help him, then stomp hard on my clothes, leaving dirty footprints all over me—and only then would he laugh and let me finish dressing him.

The memory stung. I turned my gaze away, walked past him, and went to wash up.

His face flushed red with rage. He followed me, shouting, desperate to pull my attention back to him.

But this time, I didn't turn around.

When I finished washing, Finn walked in carrying a bag.

The moment he saw our son crying, his expression darkened.

"Heather," he snapped, "what kind of mother are you? Can't you see Michael is crying?"