My career taught me that numbers never lie, and a clear head is a woman’s greatest asset. I never imagined that my precision and love for facts would one day become a weapon used against those I once loved.
I had spent three days in the hospital following a difficult C-section, and every movement felt like a hot blade pressing against my skin. My little boy, Leo, slept peacefully in my arms, completely unaware that his father, Jeremy, had only visited us twice for fifteen minutes each time.
Jeremy always claimed there were emergencies at the plumbing firm where he worked, his voice tired and distant. “The contractors are breathing down my neck, Monica,” he would mutter while glancing at his watch.
His mother, Henrietta, didn’t show up at the hospital a single time. She sent Jeremy a text saying the clinical smell affected her migraines, which made me smile bitterly given how often she visited three different churches in a single day.
She used to tell me that once I gave birth, I would finally understand my place was in my husband’s house. I swallowed those insults for the sake of peace, but a bad peace is often just a slow-burning war.