He Cheated For Three Years And Asked Me To Save Her Baby Chapter 08

He Cheated For Three Years And Asked Me To Save Her Baby Chapter 08

The car braked hard.

He pulled over to the side of the road and turned on the hazard lights.

“Don’t bring her up.”

“Today is about us.”

“But she’s the one you loved most, isn’t she?”

I turned to look at him.

“You loved her back in college.”

“You waited all those years for her to come back to you.”

“You should have been happy.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles blanched.

“You said she was the woman you loved most.”

“You said you’d been cheating for three years.”

“You said I had everything except your heart.”

“But Blythe was different, right? Blythe grew up in foster care.”

I repeated every word he had said to me, one by one.

He closed his eyes.

“Stop.”

I only smiled faintly.

“Why?”

“You loved her so much you slapped me for her.”

“You knew I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t even push her that hard. She fell on purpose.”

He went still

The car sat by the road, hazards blinking steadily.

The wipers had stopped. Rainwater slid down the windshield in crooked lines.

His fingers tightened on the wheel until they looked almost blue.

“What did you say?”

I turned to face him.

“I didn’t push her. She threw herself backward.”

“Did you hear what she whispered in my ear?”

“She said I would be abandoned for the rest of my life. She said I had stolen her husband again.”

“When I lifted my hand, she was already falling.”

I looked straight into his eyes.

“You didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t see anything.”

His lips parted.

“I…”

“When you rushed over, did even one part of you wonder if it had been an accident?”

His face went pale, inch by inch.

“Maren.”

“Drive.”

I looked ahead again.

“The courthouse is close.”

When I received the final divorce decree, I felt lighter than I had in years.

I bought a ticket for the next Amtrak train home.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I didn’t cry.

It was strange.

I thought I would.

But maybe all my tears had run out that day.

I arrived home that evening.

The roses in the yard were blooming, climbing over half the fence.

Mom was cooking in the kitchen, and the smell reached all the way to the front walk.

Dad was in the living room watching the news with the volume far too loud.

“Dad. Mom.”

I stood at the doorway.

Mom poked her head out of the kitchen, spatula still in her hand.

“Mare?”

She froze for a second, then smiled.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I would’ve made more food.”

Halfway through the sentence, she looked behind me.

“Where’s Calloway?”

“He didn’t come.”

They still didn’t know we were divorced.

I changed my shoes and walked inside.

The dining table was already covered with dishes.

All my childhood favorites.

Braised short ribs. Lemon-butter trout. Garlic green beans. Mashed potatoes. Tomato basil soup.

Mom’s cooking had never changed.

Dad lowered the TV volume and took off his reading glasses.

“Did you two fight?”