My 3D Lovers

Episode 4

Andrew, for all his cruelty, loved his son, or so she hoped. She had told him, as she left, that she wouldn't take Anthony. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had nothing. Stagnant business, no job, no stability, no peace. "One day," she whispered each night to the stars, "I’ll come back for you."

On the fifth day of her return, her old friend Queen came knocking. A loud, lively woman with a fierce spirit and a mouth that never stopped moving.

"I heard you’re back," the Queen said, barging in without waiting for an invitation. "And I heard things. Is it true? You left Andrew?"

Rose didn’t answer right away. Instead, she offered a weak smile. "It’s true."

The Queen studied her for a moment, then sat beside her on the couch. "You don’t have to tell me what happened. I know that look. I've seen it in my own mirror."

Rose turned to her, shocked. "You?"

The Queen nodded. "Long ago, before I knew my worth. But I’m still here, and so are you. That’s What matters?"

At that moment, something inside Rose shifted. She wasn’t alone. Her pain wasn’t unique. And maybe, just maybe her healing didn’t have to be either.

The Queen pulled out a flyer from her handbag and handed it to her. "There’s a women’s support group at the community center. They meet every Friday. You don’t have to speak. Just come."

Rose stared at the flyer long after the Queen left. A support group? The thought terrified her. But something deeper urged her to go.

That night, she lay awake thinking about Jeffery’s quiet love, Andrew’s violent control, Josh’s patient support.

And her own silence.

She had been silent for too long. It was time to speak.

To live.

To begin again.

Not for any man or anyone. But for herself.

Rose stood outside the community center, her arms crossed over her chest as if trying to shield her from more than just the breeze. The chatter and soft laughter coming from inside made her heart pound. Part of her wanted to turn back. Another part, a quieter, stronger part, told her to go in.

She took a breath. Then another.

And stepped through the door.

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh flowers. Plastic chairs were arranged in a circle, and about a dozen women filled them with different ages, different stories, but the same haunted look in their eyes. The same tight smiles. The same tired courage. The Queen spotted her and waved enthusiastically. "Rose! Come sit by me."

The session was already in progress. A woman named Kim, tall and soft-spoken, was sharing her story of betrayal, of rebuilding, of finding herself again.

KIM: I married my husband twenty-three years ago. Everything went smoothly at first. I was the one with

The money because I was more educated, and I was from a wealthy home. My dad, with his influence, got me a good job in a very good company where I was well paid.

My husband, on the other hand, was just a shoemaker. No education and no strong family to back him up.

I got my first car within just two years of marriage. And I got that car in my husband’s name because he insists I get the car in his name or else, I won’t drive that car in his house.

Not only that. I got houses and other landed properties in his name.

We had three children. A boy and three girls. I never got any of the properties in their name. I trusted my husband to provide the properties for our children.

After I had acquired a lot of properties, my husband demanded I quit my job if I wanted to continue with the marriage.

To save my marriage, I quit my job and started a small clothing business.

Whenever I want to deliver clothes to my customers, my husband will stop me from driving the car and insist I use public transport, which would cost me more money and stress.

I never complained.

He asked him to come home one evening with a pregnant woman and insisted I pack my things and leave his house. I refused at first, but I had to agree later on due to how intense the argument was becoming.

All my properties are in his name. I left with nothing.

I only left with my clothes and my children. This is six years.

The woman he came with that day had borne him a son. Now they have two children.

And she is the one answering the homeowner in the house I built.

Rose listened, hands clenched in her lap.

When the circle came to her, she shook her head. "I’m just here to listen." No one pressured her.

That first session, she didn’t say a word. But she left with something she hadn’t carried in a long time: lightness.

She returned the next week, and the week after that.

She started writing in a journal. The Queen gifted her scribbled thoughts, fragments of songs, poetry she didn’t even realize she was capable of. Each word felt like a breath, a piece of her slowly returning.

Her father began noticing the change, too. She hummed while cleaning. Laughed while cooking. He didn’t ask questions. Just offered a gruff, approving nod when she made pounded yam for dinner one evening.

"Haven’t had this in a very long time," he said between bites. "Your mother only makes it when she is happy."

Rose smiled. "Maybe that’s why I made it."

She began taking walks in the evening, watching sunsets from the neighborhood hill. One day, she brought her journal and started writing lyrics again. Her voice, which had been locked away for years, found its way back.

And then, one morning, she received a call. It was Jeffery.

She hadn’t heard his voice in over six years.

"Rose... I heard what happened. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to reach out too soon. I just wanted to know if you’re okay."

Her breath caught. She hadn’t thought of him in weeks, maybe months. Yet hearing his voice now felt like coming across a photograph of someone you once loved, faded but warm.

"I’m better now," she said, her voice steady. "Thank you." "Can we meet?" he asked. "Just to talk."

She hesitated.

"Not for anything serious. I just want to see how you're doing. As a friend." "Okay," she said softly. "Just as friends."

When she hung up, her hands were trembling not out of fear, but out of something she hadn’t felt in years: anticipation.

Maybe breathing wasn’t enough. Maybe it was time to start living again.

And maybe, just maybe, she could write her own song, this time one where she was no longer a background note in someone else’s melody, but the lead voice.

Clear, strong, unapologetic.