I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chapter 10

I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chapter 10

On the last day of the third month, I left the divorce papers on the dining table.

It was printed on letter-size paper, black text on white, in duplicate.

I’d found a template online and filled in all the details.

The house was his. The car was his.

Cora would stay with me.

I didn’t ask for child support, not out of pride, but because I didn’t want any more ties to him over money in the future.

I already had an income. Not much, but enough for Cora and me to live on.

The design drafts in my study were piling up, and clients were slowly increasing.

Last week, a bed-and-breakfast owner reached out to me, saying he’d seen my work and wanted a long-term partnership.

A guaranteed eight thousand a month.

With other freelance jobs, that would be over twenty thousand a month.

In this city, for a mother and child, it was enough.

Jared came home from work and saw the papers on the table.

He stood there, staring at the two sheets, for a long time.

“Are you serious?”

“Serious.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down, flipping through page after page.

When he reached the property division section, his hand stopped.

“You’re taking nothing?”

“Just Cora.”

“The down payment on the house was thirty thousand from your family.”

“I don’t want it.”

“The car came from your money too.”

“I said I don’t want it.”

He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed. “Tisha, are you just angry?”

“Angry?” I sat down in the chair across from him.

“Jared, I chased you for ten years. Anger lasts ten days at most. Ten years of this isn’t anger.”

“It’s giving up.”

His fingers pressed into the page, his nails turning white.

“Can’t you give me one more chance?”

I looked at him, really looked at him for a long time..

His features hadn’t changed much from ten years ago, just a few more fine lines, and his eyes weren’t as bright as before.

Once, I’d thought this was the most handsome face in the world.

Handsome enough to chase for ten years.

“Jared, do you know?”

“When you used to say ‘Stop being dramatic,’ I wanted to die.”

He looked up sharply.

“Not literally die. That feeling like your life has no meaning.”

“In your eyes, I was like a fly, buzzing around you. You’d swat at me when you were annoyed, I’d fly away for a bit, then come back.”

“I hated myself for not being able to stop.”

“Until Cora said that.”

“A six-year-old child said what you wanted to say but never dared ‘Mommy, stop calling Daddy. He doesn’t want to talk to you.'”

“Do you know how I felt in that moment?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I deserved it.” I said, hanging my head and smiling.

“I even turned my own daughter into your mouthpiece.”

“She’s only six. She should be thinking about princess dresses and ice cream, not worrying about her parents’ relationship.”

“I dragged her into it.”

“Because I wanted your response so badly. All my emotions were written on my face, and Cora saw it every day. She learned to take care of my feelings before you ever did.”

“That’s not right. So I have to stop.”

I pushed the pen toward him.

“Not to punish you. But to stop hurting Cora.”

He held the pen and didn’t move for a long time.

“What if I change? You’ve seen me change these past two months, haven’t you?”

“You are changing. But what’s your motivation for changing?”

He didn’t speak.

“It’s fear. Not love.”

“You’re afraid that someone who chased you for ten years suddenly disappeared. What you’re uneasy about isn’t losing me, it’s losing the feeling of being chased.”

“You’re used to having someone orbit you, text you, wait for you to

come home, chase you asking ‘Do you love me at all?'”

“When that person is gone, of course you can’t sleep.”

“But that’s not love. That’s withdrawal.”

His hand was shaking.

The pen drew a wobbly line across the paper.

“I’m not…” His voice was hoarse. “Tisha, I really regret it.”

“I know you regret it. But regret isn’t the same as love either.”

He closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek.

He’d cried in front of me twice in his life.

Once when Cora was born. This was the second time.

I watched him cry, and felt no pain, no satisfaction.

Only an indescribable peace.

Like a pot of water that had been boiling for ten years, finally gone cold.

“If you don’t want to sign, I can file for divorce in court.” I said, standing up.

“No.” he said, his voice rough.

He picked up the pen and wrote his name on the signature line.

Jared Rydell.

Heavy strokes, the last one dragging out long, like he couldn’t bear to lift the pen.

After signing, he put the pen down, his hands resting on the table.

“Can I see Cora every week?”

“Of course. She’s your daughter.”

“If you ever have any trouble…”

“I’ll handle it myself.”

He looked up at me, his lips moving.

In the end, he said nothing.

Just like countless nights over the past ten years.

Only before, he was the silent one.

Now, he was still the silent one.

But the weight of the silence was completely different.