I Watched My Mother Kneel For His Family, Then I Ended His Chapter 02

I Watched My Mother Kneel For His Family, Then I Ended His Chapter 02

At 1:20 AM, the door clicked open.

Dillen’s footsteps drifted in from the entryway, dress shoes tapping against the floor, one after another.

Then came the sound of the fridge opening.

Chopping ingredients.

Turning on the stove.

I sat on the edge of the bedroom bed, unmoving.

Fifteen minutes later, he pushed the door open carrying a bowl of lobster ravioli.

“Still awake?”

He had changed into loungewear, his hair slightly rumpled, looking cultured and gentle—just like a good husband coming home late from work.

“I made your favorite lobster ravioli. Want some?”

He placed the bowl on the nightstand and sat beside me.

He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Elva, I was wrong today.”

His voice held just the right amount of guilt.

“I shouldn’t have treated your mother like that in front of everyone. I drank too much, and I went way out of line.”

“Tomorrow I’ll bring her a gift and apologize properly, okay?”

I stared down at the ravioli.

It was so familiar.

Every time he hurt my mother, he would make this exact dish.

Over five years, he had done this at least a dozen times.

The first time was three months into our marriage.

That time, he had merely called my mother useless because she came over to cook and added too much salt, supposedly disdaining his parents’ taste.

That night, he came in just like this, holding a bowl of ravioli, apologizing, hugging me, and promising to treat me well for the rest of his life.

I had cried and forgiven him then.

Because he really was good to me.

For five years, he had never raised his voice at me.

Whenever his parents criticized me for not conceiving or for being inefficient, he would always shield me.

He’d shower me with designer things, jet me off on holidays, and post couple shots everywhere.

Everyone told me I’d landed a good one.

But what was the cost?

The cost was that whenever I did something that displeased him or his family, my mother was always the one who paid.

“Elva?” He waved a hand in front of my face. “What are you thinking about? Come on, eat.”

I took the bowl and ate a bite.

“Is your mother asleep?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How’s her face? Tomorrow I’ll have someone send over good ointment for the swelling.”

“No need.”

He gave me a long look, weighing how upset I still was.

Then he reached out and pulled me into his arms.

“Babe, don’t be mad anymore. I went too far this time. I promise it won’t happen again.”

His chin rested on the top of my head.

A steady heartbeat thudded against his chest.

So gentle.

But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was my mother on her knees, blood running down her chin.

I didn’t push him away.

I didn’t hug him back either.

I sat there rigid for a moment, then set the bowl down.

“I’m tired.”

He nodded and turned off the light for me.

In the dark, I kept my eyes open, listening as his breathing gradually evened out.

In less than ten minutes, he was fast asleep.

Completely at ease.

Because in his experience, this was already over and done with.

Tomorrow he’d send flowers, bring gifts, take me out for a nice meal—and everything would go back to normal.

Then he’d find something else to be unhappy about, and we’d do this all over again.

On and on.

I stared at the ceiling, counting my own heartbeat.

One.

Two.

Three.

Dillen, this is the last time.

I woke up at six in the morning.

He was still sleeping.

I dressed quietly and stepped out of the bedroom.

I checked on my mother first. The door was ajar; she was curled on her side under the blanket, breathing evenly.

I pulled the door shut.

Sitting on the living room couch, I unlocked my phone.

Celia’s message had arrived at three in the morning.

A divorce agreement.

And a full list of design patents under my name that were licensed to Guzman Group.

The list was long.

The entire line of hit womenswear for Guzman Group’s “Elva” Collection this season had come from my hands.

Twenty-seven original design licenses, covering cuts, prints, and fabric techniques.

These designs were intellectual property held in my personal name under a revocable licensing agreement.

That was the sole condition I had insisted on before joining Guzman Group.

Dillen had laughed and agreed. “Whatever you want,” he’d said. “You’re my wife, after all.”

He probably never imagined that one day I would actually revoke them.

I texted Celia back.

Elva: [Revoke all licenses. Start the process today.]

Elva: [Print two copies of the divorce agreement and ship them to me.]

Elva: [Also, I’m heading to the office today to resign.]

Celia replied quickly.

Celia: [All set up. But are you sure about today? Do you want to think it over?]

Elva: [No need.]

I locked my screen and went into the kitchen to warm a glass of milk.

I left breakfast and a note for my mother: [Mom, I’ve got some things to handle at the office. I’ll be back by noon.]

I left at eight-twenty.

Dillen was still sleeping.

He was probably dreaming—that a bouquet of roses could fix anything.