"Amber Brown, what are you up to now?"
He slammed the car door shut, noticing my packed bags, and his brows furrowed.
His tone made it seem like I was always being unreasonable.
River spoke sweetly, "Amber, are you upset with Tom because of what happened that day? His dog got hurt, and it scared me to tears, so Tom came to help. I didn't know it was your daughter's birthday that day."
Doggie was her dog.
I only felt it was both sad and laughable.
It turns out that, in Tom's heart, our daughter was less important than River's dog.
My daughter had been hospitalized for years, and he rarely visited her, always using work as an excuse.
But he had time to take care of River's dog.
Whether he loved me or not was very clear.
"Tom, let's get a divorce."
The moment my daughter died, any lingering warmth I had for Tom vanished.
But Tom thought I was just angry. "Amber, what kind of game are you playing this time? It was just a birthday, nothing serious. But the dog got hurt, and River is helpless. I couldn't just ignore that."
Just a birthday, nothing serious.
He'd said similar things countless times whenever it involved our daughter.
He never cared about her.