The Mistress' Revenge

Chapter 8: The Lighting

Unpacking the box of my belongings retrieved from Peterson's house, anger surged within me. Memories were discarded—on the bed, on the carpet, on the couch—wherever they landed was the safest place, away from me.

In the midst of this chaotic expulsion, a crumpled piece of paper caught my eye. Nonchalantly stuffed into the bottom corner of the box, it revealed itself to be the best gift Peterson had given me in our almost 10-year relationship. Staring at it, I was transported back to the night when its contents had come to fruition.

It had been a particularly hard night after work for me. Three full weeks with no days off, battling nausea and fatigue, all to keep up with the bills. Peterson had fallen into a sense of entitlement, assuring me that this was for us, that we were in this together. With an exhausted body and an impending fever, I decided, rather than rest, to tackle the neglected chore of laundry.

As I finished up with the laundry and moved on to cleaning the apartment, Peterson arrived.

"Sam, you'd never believe what Professor Atlas said about my website," he started, the conversation predictably revolving around his day, his classes, and his friends.

He had stopped asking about my day or how I was. I often wondered why I was working so hard. What was it for?

But that momentary lapse of judgment was due to fatigue. "We were about to start a family," I reminded myself, resting my hand on my flat stomach.

I had just found out that I was pregnant. Multiple pharmacy pregnancy tests—all positive. Along with my recent nausea, tender breasts, fatigue, and a missed period, these were signs of pregnancy. I wasn't planning to tell Peterson until I had seen a gynecologist.

"What did he say?" was my eventual tired reply.

His eyes twinkled with excitement and his mouth opened to speak but just then the room seemed to sway, and the walls closed in as I, feeling weak and dizzy, stumbled backward. My vision blurred, and the sound of Peterson's voice became distant echoes. The world tilted, and then darkness claimed me.

When I regained consciousness, it was the worry lines on Peterson’s forehead that I saw first. His hands, initially gentle, helped me sit up as if waking from a deep slumber. I felt disoriented, and my head throbbed in sync with my heartbeat which was now too loud for my ears. Peterson, seemingly genuine, expressed his concern, but as the fog lifted, so did the realization of his departure.

"You should rest," he suggested, guiding me to the bed. Still grappling with the remnants of faintness, I complied without protest. Peterson tucked me in, a gesture that once would have been comforting, but now felt like an empty routine.

As he prepared to leave, a pang of frustration seized me. "You're just going to leave? Again?" My voice, a mix of exhaustion and frustration, held an accusatory tone.

Peterson, seemingly unfazed, replied, "I've got plans with my classmates. I can't bail on them." His casual dismissal fueled the growing fire within me.

"This isn't about your classmates, Peterson. This is about us. What happened to 'we're in this together'?" My words, laced with disappointment, hung in the air. Peterson's nonchalant demeanor only intensified my irritation.

“How can you just leave?”

"What do you want from me, Sam? I've got a life outside of this apartment," he retorted, his tone bordering on defensive. The atmosphere in the room shifted, the unspoken tension between us taking center stage.

Fueled by a cocktail of emotions, I couldn't contain my frustration any longer. "You've changed, Peterson. You've become so self-centered, so oblivious to everything else. We never have any time together anymore. We’re more like roommates than a couple or a more accurate term might be a booty call? friends with benefits?” I listed. “I’m the opposite of a cougar if that’s even possible.”I had exploded

Peterson's eyes flickered with a mix of irritation and indifference. "People change, Sam. We can't stay the same forever."

The argument escalated, the air thick with unresolved issues and unspoken fears. In the midst of the verbal sparring, feeling a surge of emotion, I blurted out the revelation that had been haunting me—I was pregnant.

The revelation hung in the air, a heavy truth that shifted the dynamics of our tumultuous conversation. Peterson, momentarily taken aback, was faced with a reality that demanded more than casual indifference. The gravity of the situation sank in, and his expression softened.

"What?" he uttered, a mix of surprise and uncertainty coloring his features.

My eyes glistened with unshed tears as I repeated the words that had changed everything. "I'm pregnant, Peterson."

The room, once a battleground for grievances, now became the stage for an unexpected revelation. Peterson, confronted with the prospect of impending parenthood, seemed to grasp the magnitude of the moment. As the echoes of our argument lingered, a profound silence settled, punctuated only by the weight of the words that had altered the course of our lives.

In the midst of this emotional turmoil, my gaze fell upon the crumpled paper—the forgotten contract that now held unforeseen significance. The promises it contained, once dismissed, now seemed like a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty that had enveloped us.

Peterson, sensing my contemplation, hesitated before explaining, "That paper—it's a contract. It wills over half of everything I own to you, tax-free. All taxes would come from my half where applicable. Any debts I have wouldn't be transferrable to you."

Recalling the reluctance I felt when Peterson insisted I sign it, I confessed, my voice a mix of confusion and realization, "I thought it was stupid. I didn't see the point."

Peterson, realizing the weight of the revelation, added, "I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, Sam. Especially if something like this happened."

The crumpled contract, a silent witness to the intentions Peterson had harbored, now added another layer to his demise—a dance that had taken an unexpected turn, leaving us both grappling with the storm that had upended our lives. He would regret insisting that I sign this contract like he would regret many things in the near future.