THE REGRET OF MY EX-HUSBAND

Lidia. I was at my art exhibition. I came as just another guest; I like to keep my public image private. It is also satisfying to hear what others think without them knowing the artist is listening. Before, I didn't think achieving something like this was possible. The road here has been very difficult, filled with tears, sweat, and effort, but I finally made it. Finally, I can feel proud of myself. I can boast that I didn't choose the wrong vocation. Maybe I'm no Picasso, and I don't even come close to van Gogh, but I am good—the prices of my paintings prove it. "Mommy!" I heard a shout, and then I felt tiny hands wrap around my waist. "Who are you?" This wasn't a child from the orphanage I usually visit; I know all of them. Or almost all of them. I tried to understand why he was holding onto me. "Little one, you have the wrong person," I tried to reason with him. How could I have a child and not know it? There was also the fact that I have never been intimate with anyone. "Mommy, you're alive." His green eyes, identical to mine, made me jump. Impossible. It can't be. This child is... "Byron." I could recognize that voice anywhere. It is etched into my memory as if it were my damn favorite song. "Daddy, I found Mommy." I was standing just a few feet away from the man I loved for more than a decade. The man who stood 6'2", with black hair, grayish-blue eyes, broad shoulders, sexy lips, and a handsome face. He was the definition of perfection. Have you ever given flowers to a man? I have. To the one standing in front of me right now. I remember him as a boy. How did I not notice it sooner? Perhaps because you have been fighting to forget everything about him. So you didn't notice that the little boy here is his spitting image, my inner voice answered. "Get away from me," I ordered the brat. My previously normal voice turned cold. "No. I won't leave you. You're my mommy." The boy clung to me, which irritated me. His father took long strides until he reached us. He picked up his son and looked at me with disapproval. The boy tried to hug me again, but I stepped back. I can't stand the child. I know it's cruel, but I can't bear it when he was the one to blame for my misfortune. "Keep your son away from me." I turned around, my eyes filling with tears. I subtly wiped them away and walked toward the exit; I didn't have enough strength to stay at my own event. No one knew I was the artist anyway, so it didn't matter if I was there or not. "Mommy! Mommy, don't go!" The boy's screams broke something deep inside me. But no, I am not going to be that child's mother. Not when his father chose my sister over me. Luke. I tried to calm my son down, but he simply couldn't stop. I didn't know he would find her here. I didn't know her resemblance to Layla would be such a problem for my little boy. "It's Mommy. I want to go with Mommy. Take me to her," he wasn't asking; he was demanding, full of pain. It was killing me to see him like this. But that wasn't his mother. That wasn't even the Lydia I thought I knew. She used to be a warm, sweet, and cheerful woman, always covered in paint on her clothes, face, and hair, always trying to win my affection. I received a flower from her every morning, and a massive bouquet on my birthday. Cards with poems—she used to follow me around like a dog after its owner. She would look at me like a p*****t; she was an absolute nuisance. That was the only thing I could think of her back then. Now, there is no trace left of that woman. Her green eyes are colder than an iceberg, and her bright, colorful clothes have been replaced by a single color: black. For years, it has been the only color she wears. I know this because I happened to see her after being married to her sister for a while. Layla always said how worried she was about Lydia, that it hurt her to see what kind of woman she had become. "Daddy, take me to Mommy," my son pulls me back to the present. How am I going to explain to him that she isn't his mother? That she is the woman who tried to kill him when he was nothing more than a fetus.