After the Divorce, My Ex Begged to Give Me a House

He didn’t have time to eat breakfast at home, but he had time to go out and eat food someone else brought him?

Before he left, he came over and hugged me again.

“Baby, your stomach’s not great. Remember to warm up the milk before you drink it.”

My hands hung stiffly at my sides.

My whole body was rigid, like a block of wood.

I answered with a faint “mm.”

When I was finally alone, facing the spotless kitchen I’d just cleaned and the neatly arranged home I’d put together, there was none of the warmth and satisfaction I used to feel.

I never thought there was anything wrong with being a housewife.

Back then, when Liam came home, he’d automatically help me wash vegetables, wipe down the table, and praise my cooking.

Because there was love, I was happy to give.

But when one person’s love outweighs the other’s by too much, it stops being love and turns into pleasing.

My love hadn’t changed. His had faded.

This past year, whenever I asked, the answer was always that the company was busy, he had to socialize, entertain clients.

He’d say, “You’ve worked hard, baby,” but when was the last time he actually warmed up a glass of milk for me?

I believed those pretty words. I genuinely thought I was happy.

Even when I occasionally annoyed him and he grew impatient, I felt vaguely guilty.

But it turns out, between us, it had already become one-sided—me constantly trying to please him.

And those were the two words I used to hate most.

I grew up in an orphanage.

Before I was adopted, I’d seen so many kids in there desperately trying to please the adults.

Back then, I swore I would never be like that.

If someone liked me, fine. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t bother with them.

My adoptive parents later told me, “When we first saw you, we knew right away you were a kid with a strong personality.”

But after three years of marriage, I seemed to have changed a lot.

I withdrew from the company the three of us had founded together.

When Liam said he needed my shares, I didn’t hesitate to transfer them to him.

I settled into being a full-time housewife.

I thought as long as I devoted myself to taking care of our home, it didn’t matter—what was Liam’s was mine.

I was intoxicated by a love that felt blissful.

But that same love blinded me.

When my vision finally cleared, I realized all I had was a handful of bubbles.

The people who truly had my best interests at heart—I hadn’t contacted them in a long time.

I opened my messages.

The last conversation with the contacts saved as “Dad” and “Mom” was back around New Year’s.

When Liam asked me for my shares, they were firmly against it.

But Liam kept stressing how urgent it was, how much pressure he was under.

He kept saying, “We’re a family. If I do well, you’ll do well too.”

I had a huge fight with my adoptive parents over it.

Ignoring their objections, I signed the share transfer agreement.

Looking back now, I was fucking stupid.

That evening, I sat alone in the living room.

Liam texted me, saying there was an urgent contract he needed to sign in the neighboring city.

He wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

I stared at the message for two seconds.

My gut told me he was lying.

Something stirred in me, and I suddenly remembered the place I had by the sea.

He’d worked on a project with a real estate company back then and bought that place for a discounted price, putting it under my name.

Later, when we bought this villa, we followed the idea that each of us would have one property, taking turns staying in them, so that one was under his.

After we got married, he was the one running the company, and I stopped asking about any new properties we bought.

He never mentioned them to me either.

I found the keys.

Following that sudden intuition, I got in the car and drove straight to the coast.

When I arrived, the place was dark.

I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Since I hadn’t been there in so long, I decided I might as well go in and take a look.

But the moment I opened the door, I froze.

I stood in the doorway for a long time, unable to move.

Was this still my house?

The shoe cabinet by the entrance was lined with several pairs of flashy high heels—thin stilettos I’d rarely worn since getting married.

The soft, understated rugs and curtains I’d picked out myself had all been replaced by pink ones I hated.

Upstairs, the sea-view room I’d reserved for myself to relax in was buried under piles of makeup and other women’s things.

The balcony where I used to stand and feel the sea breeze the instant I opened the door had turned into a dumping ground for delivery boxes.

There was hardly anywhere to step.

My eyes burned red.