After a sleepless night, I steadied my emotions and replied calmly, "I’ll be waiting for you when you come back—for the divorce."
On the other end of the phone came Dwayne's almost roaring rebuke, "How long are you going to make trouble? I’m exhausted and don’t have time for your nonsense!"
In the end, Dwayne refused to sign the divorce agreement. Instead, he continued his cold, silent aggression and resorted to harsh threats, "You’re a failure who’s stayed home for eight years and never worked. What will you do without me after the child is born? Even if we divorce, the custody of the child will be mine. Think carefully about that!"
Hearing his angry words, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at myself. To Dwayne, I had always been nothing more than a tool for childbirth, and our child was just another checkpoint in his self-serving life.
Consumed by grief, I gathered every item we had prepared for the baby—from clothes to toys—and burned them one by one.
In the end, only a small portrait of the baby remained.