The skies opened up, and heavy rain poured down in sheets, drenching everything in sight. I stood there in the doorway, shivering, my clothes sticking to my skin as I watched his car disappear down the road.
He didn’t look back.
I hadn’t brought an umbrella, and taxis were nowhere to be seen. With no other choice, I started walking.
The road home stretched endlessly before me. The rain blurred my vision, and my body—already weakened by pregnancy—stumbled more than once. I fell hard, my palms scraping against the cold pavement, my knees bruising. But I forced myself to stand and keep going.
By the time I reached home, my whole body was frozen, feverish.
That night, I burned with illness, drifting in and out of consciousness. In my dazed state, I reached for my phone and dialed Tristan’s number.
The call connected, but instead of his voice, I heard a familiar, sweet tone.
“Sister-in-law, are you looking for my brother?” Faye’s voice was laced with feigned innocence, but the smugness underneath was unmistakable. “He’s cooking for me right now. He doesn’t have time to answer the phone.”
I froze.
In the two years we had been married, Tristan had never once cooked for me.