She looked at the woman keenly, wondering if she didn’t know he was married, or if she simply didn’t care. Was she so determined to rip him away from her bosom just to watch her crumble?

Elena weighed her options. Anger surged within her, fierce and hot, but she couldn’t afford to lose control in front of her son. With quiet resolve, she walked past them, straight to the staircase, without saying a word.

"Honey! Come and join us," Paschal called out.

Her feet halted mid-step. Slowly, she turned her head and met his gaze. The look in her eyes was brief but piercing enough to send a shiver down his spine.

"Welcome, Mummy!" Timothy greeted.

"Hmm, thank you," she murmured, her voice low and restrained.

She climbed the stairs without another glance—neither at her husband, her son, nor the woman seated comfortably in her place. Her steps were steady, but her heart pounded with unspoken rage.

"Daddy, is Mummy okay?" Timothy asked.

"She’s fine, Timi," Paschal replied, offering a tight smile.

Upstairs, Elena undressed slowly and stepped into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and leaned against the cold tiled wall. Water cascaded over her, but it was the tears, silent at first, then choking, that truly drenched her. Her body shook as sobs escaped her throat, the pain of betrayal carving into her soul like a blade. She let it all pour out beneath the stream.

Later that night, guilt gnawed at her. Her son had witnessed her silence, her anger. She hadn’t even smiled at him properly. That wasn’t the impression she wanted him to have of her. She needed to talk to him. She also needed answers.

With tentative steps, she walked toward Timothy’s room, nerves tugging at her chest. But she paused at the doorway. Paschal was already there, sitting beside their son, tucking him in with the ease of routine.

He noticed her and hesitated, then quietly rose. As he walked past, he gave her shoulder a gentle pat. She didn’t flinch, but neither did she respond. Only after he closed the door behind him did she let a faint smile touch her lips for her son’s sake.

"Mummy, did you come to read me a story?" Timothy asked, his wide eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Daddy always reads me bedtime stories," he added, a hint of longing in his voice.

"Yes, love. I’m here to read you your bedtime story," Elena replied with a gentle smile.

She moved to the shelf, her fingers gliding over the edges of the books. Her chest tightened, she didn’t even know which book was his favorite.

She remembered the first time she signed a million-dollar contract. It had promised success, growth. And of course distance from Timothy. She had told Paschal she wouldn’t accept it. But he had taken her hands, looked her in the eye, and said,

"Please, accept it for your family, for your son. Timothy will be happy with you by his side, but he’ll be even happier if he can have everything a child deserves; best schools, fortune. I promise I’ll be there for him. For both of you."

And she had believed him.

"Mummy!" Timothy’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Startled, she grabbed a book with a colorful cover and sat down.

"Mummy!" he exclaimed, his two hands covering his ears. "I hate that story."

"The book with the blue cover is my favorite," he said when he saw her blinked in confusion.

Elena inhaled deeply, she closed the book and drop it on her labs. She looked at Timothy and gave an apologetic smile.

"I want to ask you something, love. Promise you’ll be honest."

Timothy nodded.

"Can you tell me about the woman who had dinner with you and Daddy?"

"She’s Aunty Ama, my lesson teacher," he replied, his small eyes scanning hers. "Is something wrong, Mummy?"

"No, no. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry I was a little off earlier. Mummy had a long day," she said, brushing his hair back gently.

"I know," Timothy said after a long pause.

"You didn’t come to read for me. You’ve never read for me. You don’t care about me. Aunty Pamela does."

The words sliced through her like ice. She held his small hand, looked into his eyes and spoke gently

"I love you, Timothy. More than anything in this world. I’m sorry I haven’t spent enough time with you, but I promise I’ll change. From now on, I’ll be here. Always. Mummy has…”

"Ahem," Paschal cleared his throat as he opened the door.

"Let him get some rest. He has to wake up early tomorrow," he said.

Elena nodded. She leaned in and kissed Timothy’s forehead. "Good night, my angel."

He didn’t respond. He just stared.

She walked back to her room slowly, her fingers resting on her chin as her thoughts spiraled. Were they trying to erase her from their lives? Just like that?

Yes, she’d been absent, but Paschal? He had promised to be her anchor, her partner. Had he been turning her son against her all along?

She was still lost in thought when Paschal returned and slipped into bed. He turned off the light.

"How are you?" he asked, planting a kiss on her cheek and reaching to hold her.

She pulled away.

"Baby, is everything okay?"

"I’m fine," she replied.

"You sure?" he whispered in her ear and rubbed her shoulder.

Her body tensed. Memories of their early marriage flickered. Nights filled with passion and laughter. She hated that even now, despite everything, his touch still stirred something in her. A traitorous heat pooled in her belly.

He leaned in, whispering, fingers tracing the places he knew so well. A moan escaped her lips.

She turned to him. Her gaze met his own, and they stared at each other for a while.

"Do you still love me?" She said.

He hesitated.

"Why ask that now? You know I always have."

"Who is Pamela?"

He pulled back slightly. "Where is this coming from? Who is Pamela and where did you even get the name from?" He asked, breaking off eyes contact as he fidget with her hair.

"Our son," she said quietly. "He said he likes Pamela more than me."

Paschal groaned and got out of bed. He opened the drawer and took out an envelope.

"Here," he said, handing it to her before disappearing into the bathroom.

Elena stared at the envelope and wondered what could be inside. A contract? A report?

Elena’s fingers trembled as she unfolded the white sheet from the envelope. Her eyes scanned the bold black letters at the top…SUPERIOR COURT OF...

Her breath hitched.

PETITION FOR DIVORCE.

A sudden chill crept up her spine.

“Paschal,” she whispered, then louder, her voice cracking, “Paschal!”

She staggered toward the bathroom, pounding her fists against the door.

“Open this door Paschal!”

There was no response.

She leaned her back against the cold iron door, and let herself slumped down slowly.

She clenched the divorce letter in her hand, her vision blurred, tears streamed down her cheeks as she read the remaining words.

She had loved him. Had trusted him.

And now this.

Paschal remained in the toilet.