My Son Told Me I Was Too Ugly And Stupid Compared To Her Chapter 02

My Son Told Me I Was Too Ugly And Stupid Compared To Her Chapter 02

It turned into the worst nightmare of my life.

I didn’t remember how I got out of the hotel. I clutched my torn clothes and stumbled out into the night, wanting to go to the police.

But Charles caught me in his arms, his voice full of pleading. “Emily, I will never look down on you. Let’s not call the police, okay?”

“That settlement money will get me through this. It’ll pay for Jacob’s private school tuition.”

My raw, heartbreaking sobs faded. In that moment of extreme agony and despair, I thought of Jacob, of him, of everyone but myself.

In the end, Charles’s company succeeded. Jacob got into his private school. But I fell ill.

At one point, I even cut myself with a knife.

Two years of misery later, I finally put myself back together. And then Charles decided I was dirty.

I lunged, grabbing his collar, holding back the tears teetering on the edge. “I was raped. For your company. You are the last person on earth who gets to call me dirty!”

Charles’s gaze wavered. His lips moved like he wanted to say something.

Then his phone rang. It was Jessica.

He answered immediately and, within seconds, was rushing for the door.

I heard something shatter inside me, piece by piece.

I ran after him, sobbing, tearing at him. “You’re not going anywhere! Are you even human? You’re my husband!”

Charles looked at me in silence, his expression unreadable.

But Jacob burst out of his room and shoved me hard to the ground, his voice dripping with disgust. “Mom’s having another breakdown. Dad, I’m coming with you. Jessica must be waiting.”

And so, to the sound of my crying, father and son walked away without a second glance.

The neighbors, feeling sorry for me, came over to comfort me. “Maybe he had something urgent to handle. You know how men are. Sometimes they just have to go.”

Late that night, I stared at my phone like a zombie. Sure enough, Jessica had posted an update.

A luxury hotel. She was lying in a bathtub, and the photo showed a man’s hand intertwined with hers. Just one hand.

Her post read: [Thank you for always showing up for me, no matter what.]

A metallic taste rose in my mouth. My hands trembling, I called Charles.

After a long wait, just as I thought he wouldn’t pick up, his voice came through, choppy and distant.

“You don’t get it. Being with her is just too much pressure. She’s been with me since she was a minor.”

“She had my kid. She was hurt because of me. She even took a knife for me.”

“When I look at her, I just feel exhausted. Sometimes I wish she had just left me back then instead of me having to see her face every day.”

The phone slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. My head throbbed, and I slowly reached up to touch my scalp.

There was a scar there, about three inches long. From a knife I’d taken for Charles.

We’d been in our early twenties. He’d made enemies quickly because his business was taking off too fast. When a blade came for him, I’d pushed him out of the way without thinking.

When I fell, Charles went berserk, swinging wildly. He’d cradled me in the pool of blood, crying like a child.

“Emily, why are you so stupid? Why did you take that knife for me? You can’t die. God, please. Take my life instead. I’ll trade mine for yours.”

Maybe his prayer worked. Maybe I was just meant to live. Either way, I’d cheated death that day.

Now I touched my chest and there was nothing left inside me.