By admin Collection-Married 40 Years But My Husband And Son Spoil My Best Friend Chapter 02
Once I was home, I sat at the kitchen table and meticulously went through the divorce papers. One clause after another, I made sure everything was in order.
Ryan had probably hidden assets in places I could never track down. Men like him often did. But I had no energy left to hunt down every last penny. The settlement, combined with selling the house, would be enough. Enough to live simply, peacefully, and on my own terms.
When I finished, I leaned back in the chair and gazed at the walls—the very same walls I had cleaned, patched, painted, and decorated over the span of forty years. They felt like an extension of me. This house had grown alongside me, like a second skin. Each weathered floorboard, each chipped mug tucked away in the cabinet, told a story. My story.
For years, I believed it was a happy one.
Before Madeline came into the picture, I had never imagined Ryan could be capable of romance. In all our years together, not once had he brought me flowers. Every time I asked for small, thoughtful gestures, he would sigh, scoff, or just remain silent. But when it came to the big things—mortgages, medical bills, our son’s tuition—he was always there, always handling it. I convinced myself that was his way of showing love.
When our son was born, Ryan seemed to care in a way I hadn’t expected. He held my hand through the pain, took time off to look after me as I recovered. I thought, perhaps he was just a quiet, practical man, not one to show emotions, but dependable nonetheless.
Then Madeline entered the picture, and everything changed.
She had always insisted she would never marry. Laughed it off, claiming to be a free spirit.
For the longest time, I believed I was the fortunate one. That I had what most people envied.
But Madeline crept into the cracks of my marriage, slipping into places I hadn’t noticed.
At some point, she and Ryan became… closer. Too close. Every time I tried to mention it—even subtly—Ryan would fly off the handle, accusing me of being paranoid or jealous.
He claimed it was all innocent. That Madeline was my best friend, and he was simply being polite.
Madeline played along perfectly—acting shocked, offended, hurt by even the suggestion. And I believed them. I convinced myself I was just being insecure.
Now, I know better.
Maybe Ryan never physically cheated. Maybe there was no affair in the traditional sense. But while I got his domestic side—the grocery runs, the bill payments, the chores—she got the romance.
He sent her flowers. He remembered the little details about her. He fought for concert tickets just because Madeline loved music.
I was the fallback. The safe choice.
It took me forty years to realize I’d been chewing on undercooked rice, and I kept chewing until it gave me early-stage stomach cancer.
But even now, with all that bitterness, I think—maybe it’s not too late.
I was in the process of packing up the house, preparing for the new owners to take it in a week.
I didn’t bother with Ryan’s things, or our son’s. I was only taking what was mine.
As I worked through piles of memories, I heard Ryan’s voice behind me, breaking the silence.
“There you go. This is more your speed anyway—packing, cleaning up… and you thought you belonged at a concert?” He scoffed, his brow furrowed in that familiar expression of disapproval that had been etched into his face since his mid-thirties.
I didn’t say a word. I simply handed him the divorce papers.
He took them without a second thought until his eyes scanned the words. His expression shifted immediately.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he snapped, throwing the papers onto the floor. “A divorce? Over this? You caused a scene and now you want to destroy everything over a damn concert?”
Just then, our son walked in, saw the papers, and let out a loud, drawn-out sigh full of disdain.
“Seriously, Mom?” he groaned. “You’re still stuck on this? You really think skipping a concert is the end of the world? We’ve never gone to concerts. What’s the big deal now?”
I looked at him—the boy who once clutched my hand and promised to take me to every concert hall on Earth. He had said he would get rich one day and that I’d sit in the front row while orchestras played just for me.
He had forgotten all of it.
Now, he was Ryan’s son—completely and entirely.
“You really think you can compete with Maddie?” he sneered. “She’s your age, and still looks amazing. When she goes to a concert, no one notices her. They think she belongs. But you? You walk in and people assume you’re the janitor who snuck in.”
He laughed as if he had just delivered the punchline of a great joke.
I looked at him, this bitter, rotten version of the son I once knew, and whispered, “I didn’t end up like this overnight. If I hadn’t spent my life in the kitchen, mopping floors, washing dishes… If I hadn’t given everything to raise you, to keep this family going, maybe I’d still be—”
“God, stop acting like you were some tragic martyr,” he interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You did some chores. Big deal. If Maddie had married Dad, she would’ve handled it better. Balanced everything. She wouldn’t be whining like you are.”
Then, without missing a beat, he added, “Mom, stop. You’re too old for this. Divorce at your age? No one cares. Do you really think anyone will stand behind you? You don’t even know if you’ll be here next week.”
The room went completely still.
I stood there, frozen. My ears rang with the sound of his words.
That was my son. The child I had carried, fed, and soothed through nightmares.
And now… he couldn’t wait for me to be gone.
My hands trembled, my throat tightened. For a moment, I thought my heart might stop beating altogether. Ryan looked uneasy, maybe even a little ashamed, but not enough to speak up.
He never would.
Years of being supported by my devotion had made him forget who had built the pedestal he stood on.
Instead, he gave me a little shove toward the kitchen.
“You know how he is,” he muttered. “Don’t let it bother you. Just finish the dishes and go to bed.”
Then, without missing a beat, he bent down, picked up the divorce papers, and waved them in front of my face. “I’ll pretend I never saw these, okay? No need to embarrass yourself. You’ll regret this.”
He said it like he was doing me a favor—like staying in this miserable prison was a privilege I should be grateful for. He turned his back to me, and I turned toward the sink.
It was a mess. Plates caked with food, sticky counters, red solo cups from some party our son had thrown days ago. I hadn’t cleaned up—couldn’t.
Because no one ever did.
I was the cleaner. The maid. The ghost who stayed in the background.
I reached for the sponge, then froze.
Something glimmered in the murky water.
I pulled it out. My fingers trembled as I held it up to the light.
It was a necklace.
My necklace.
The one Ryan had given me on our wedding day. He couldn’t afford a ring, so he gave me this instead. He said he’d spent all his money on it. That one day, he’d get me more.
I believed him.
Now, it lay there, forgotten, lost in dirty water—just like everything else he had ever promised me.
The final veil lifted.
This marriage had always been lie.
I was never his love—only his labor.