My Husband's First Love

On our tenth wedding anniversary, I uncovered my son and husband's secret. Those annual "accidents" on our anniversary were never coincidences. Ryan Scott, my son, had been staging them to keep me home so that I wouldn't interrupt my husband's meetings with his cherished first love. Through the door, the voice of the son I'd loved with all my heart came through with startling clarity. "Dad, go ahead and meet Maeve like always. I've got things covered here. This is so annoying every year. It's all Mom's fault. Why does she still make such a fuss over anniversaries? Dad, I want Maeve to be my mom. She's definitely not as dramatic as Mom." That same day, I told Andrew Scott, my husband, I wanted a divorce when he came home late, reeking of another woman's perfume. They'd both forgotten. I was not just a wife, not just a mother. First and foremost, I was myself. The voices inside gradually faded. Standing at the doorway, I felt as if someone had poured ice water over me, the chill penetrating my bones. For a fleeting moment, I wondered. 'Maybe I'm just exhausted. Maybe this is all a bad dream.' Lost in thought, I let the cup slip from my hand. Hot milk splashed across the floor, the droplets burning where they touched my skin. The door creaked open. Ryan's eyes flashed with panic when he saw me, then turned accusingly. "What are you doing? Spying on us? Dad's right. You're always sneaking around like we're criminals." At eight years old, he'd grown tall, inheriting Andrew's features and even more of his father's cold, harsh temperament. His furrowed brows and the disgust in his eyes were identical to Andrew's impatient expression, as if cast from the same mold. But on reflection, Andrew had never shown me patience. I just simply hadn't noticed it before. The once sweet and affectionate Ryan had quietly become his father's mirror image. Suppressing my turmoil, I watched him silently. For a split second, I wanted to get angry, to scream, to demand answers. But then I thought, 'what's the point?' I managed a weak smile at Ryan. "I just got here and almost fell. I wasn't eavesdropping," "Really?" Ryan eyed me suspiciously. When he confirmed there were no signs of me about to explode, he gave a light snort. "Hurry up and clean this up. Where's my milk?" Crouching down, I gathered the shattered glass, fighting back tears. Suddenly, I felt drained. "I'll ask Amanda. I'm tired." His accusation came sharply. "You're just upset I got sick today and ruined your chance to go out with Dad, aren't you? Can't you be less petty? You've always handled these things. How would Amanda know what temperature I need?" Ryan had a sensitive stomach. I always made sure his hot milk was exactly 113 degrees Fahrenheit every single time. That wasn't all. I'd been meticulous about everything, big and small. And in return, I got called petty. I finished picking up the pieces and held back my tears. I stood, refusing to meet his eyes, and turned away. The only response was the angry slam of his door. Back in my room, I turned on my computer and searched online for templates to draft divorce papers. Just then, a news alert popped up—photos had surfaced of the Scott Group's CEO dining with his first love. Andrew must have been too distracted to notice being photographed. In the photos, he and a radiant woman were smiling at each other. I'd never seen him smile like that before. The woman was stunning, as flawless as a doll. Meanwhile, the mirror beside me reflected my own weary, expressionless face. Our marriage had been arranged by our parents, leaving us little choice. I had resisted, but it was futile. In the end, an unexpected pregnancy accelerated our wedding plans. Because of this, he lost his chance with the woman he'd secretly loved for years. Yet I still remember his words on our wedding day that the past was behind us, and he wanted to build a life with me. I believed him. So for ten years of marriage, I devoted myself wholeheartedly to being a housewife. My days revolved around children and household chores. Life's trivialities wore down my ambitions, dimmed my looks. Just as the printer whirred to a stop, I heard the front door open downstairs. Then came Andrew's voice, tinged with irritation. "Where's Jules?" Perfect timing—the divorce papers finished printing. I picked them up and stepped out.