Chapter 4

I walked over to my desk drawer, the one that used to hold sketches for my game worlds. I opened it and pulled out a folder. Inside was a stack of papers, neatly stapled.

I placed them on the desk on top of the gift box.

"I'm done, Chloe."

The words hung in the air between us.

She stared at the papers. She didn't need to read the heading to know what they were.

"Divorce?" she hissed, the word full of venom. "You want a divorce? Absolutely not. You don't get to just quit."

"Quit?" I stared at her, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. "I'm the only one who's been trying. I'm the one who goes to Noah's parent-teacher conferences alone because you have a 'client dinner.' I'm the one who remembers our anniversary. I'm the one who's been trying to hold this together while you've been planning your grand escape with Mark."

She laughed, a cruel, sharp sound that echoed in the quiet room. "You? What have you contributed? You sit in this dark room all day playing your little games. I built this life! This house, our son's future, it's all because of me!"

My hand instinctively went to my left leg. A dull, familiar ache started to throb just below the knee. I looked down at it, at the slight, almost imperceptible way I favored it when I stood.

"I can't even argue with you, Chloe," I said, my voice tired. "Not on equal footing. Not since the lab fire."

Her face tightened. The lab fire. The "accident" that had happened right after college, a result of one of Mark's first reckless schemes that she had defended. The fire that almost killed her. I had pulled her out. A falling piece of equipment had crushed my leg in the process. It left me with a permanent injury, chronic pain, and an end to my dream of being a game animator, forcing me into the less physically demanding role of a coder. It was a sacrifice I had made for her, a sacrifice she now used as a weapon, a symbol of my weakness, my inability to provide in the way she respected.

"I've packed a bag," I said, turning away from her. "The papers are signed on my end. All you have to do is sign them."

I started to walk out of the room. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

"You're not going anywhere," she snarled.

Her eyes fell on the divorce agreement on the desk. With a sudden, violent movement, she snatched the papers and tore them in half, then in half again. The pieces fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.

"This is not happening," she said, her chest heaving. "You belong to me."

She looked at me, and her expression softened into something that was meant to look like pity, but felt like contempt. "You know, I pay for the best physical therapy for that leg of yours. I've done everything to take care of you after you were so... clumsy."

She weaponized my sacrifice, reframing it as a burden she had to bear.

"Fine," she said, turning away with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Go. Have your little tantrum. I'm taking Noah to see Uncle Mark this weekend. Maybe we'll go to that amusement park you said was too expensive. At least Noah has one strong role model in his life."

The door slammed behind her.

I stood there, surrounded by the torn pieces of my marriage. I could hear our son, Noah, in the other room, asking his mother if Uncle Mark was coming over. His voice was bright with an excitement he never had for me anymore.

I was alone. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the hollowness in my soul.