“Will this stop your tantrum? Now call Sofia out here. I’ll speak to her myself. From now on, you stay out of how I teach her.”
I stared at him in silence.
In that instant, I understood something with terrifying clarity.
There was no reason to tell him that Sofia was dead.
He would not grieve.
He would only ask whether Roxanne had been slighted.
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
I reached forward and opened the box. Inside lay a bottle of perfume.
The same scent clinging to his coat.
He had not even bothered to be discreet. He had simply purchased two identical gifts, handing one to me as casually as one tosses spare change to a beggar.
Every perfume contains alcohol.
He knew that I was severely allergic to it and had never once worn fragrance in our entire marriage. Meanwhile, Roxanne, who constantly claimed to be allergic to alcohol, bathed herself in perfume without hesitation.
But he never cared enough to notice.
In the past, I had accepted every gift he gave me with gratitude, no matter how careless or unsuitable, because I loved him. I convinced myself that intention mattered more than thoughtfulness.
Perhaps that was why he believed my love had no value.