On screen, Victoria sat at a dining table with two children—a little girl around two, and a boy barely one. A birthday cake glowed before them. Victoria cradled both in her arms.
“Come here, Mommy will give you a hug.”
When she noticed me on the call, she froze, guilt flickering across her face. She didn’t even blame Andrew for showing me.
I was rooted to the floor. Though I had cut ties, the sight gutted me.
During the three years I fought for my life abroad, she and Andrew had two children.
Then Andrew, with cruel delight, twisted the knife.
“Oh, that’s right—you mean your son who died at birth? How unlucky. Today happens to be my and Victoria’s son’s birthday.”
“She has no time for the dead. Go visit alone!”
The call ended with a snap.
Moments later, Victoria sent me a message:
Hubby, you’re so understanding. I’ll visit our son with you tomorrow. Please, believe me—I still love you.
I stared at the words, laughing bitterly.
You never know pain until you’re struck, Victoria. And I will repay you in kind.
Masking my turmoil, I told Susan quietly, “Don’t tell anyone about the divorce. I have other plans.”
That very night, I booked a flight overseas, vanishing completely from her world.