Around us, voices clashed—scolding, pleading, and trying to comfort—all tangled together with the child’s wailing until the whole shop felt suffocating, like a net closing in.
I didn’t turn to him. My fingers tightened around the diapers until my knuckles stood out pale.
“I don’t want anything,” I said flatly. “Just your signature on the divorce papers.”
Jonathan stepped forward suddenly, practically pressing Ethan into my arms. “Angela, hold Ethan. Look at him. He’s crying so pitifully. For the child’s sake, let’s not get divorced, alright?”
Ethan’s small face was flushed from crying, his tiny hands clutching at my clothes.
His muffled sobs escaped between choked words.
"Mama.”
Warm tears slid down the back of my hand.
My heart twisted tightly.
My fingers trembled with the urge to grab Ethan and hold on forever. But then the image of that fish tank flickered in my mind—Jonathan standing in front of it in the dead of night, whispering words I couldn't understand. The unease it stirred in me strengthened my resolve. I clenched my teeth and stepped back, avoiding Ethan’s frantic little hands.