Chapter 4

On the twentieth day postpartum, Martinez didn't come home until 3 a.m.

Reeking of alcohol and perfume.

He collapsed beside me, back turned toward me, and soon started snoring.

I didn't wake him.

I got out of bed carefully and picked up his phone from the nightstand.

I'd memorized the password long ago—his birthday.

I opened iMessage. The pinned conversation—Susan.

I scrolled through the chat history for half an hour.

The more I scrolled, the more my hands trembled.

"When is she going to get lost? I'm so sick of living in this dump."

"What's the rush? Wait until we trick that house under her name into our hands. I've got her completely under control right now."

"You don't still have feelings for her, do you?"

"Feelings my ass. Fat and slovenly, walking around in that ratty nightgown all day. I feel disgusted just looking at her."

"Then why do you still sleep in the same bed with her?"

"How else can I keep her stable? Her mom has a connection, someone with a project I need. Once I get that contract, I'll kick her out immediately."

I took screenshots. Then I kept scrolling.

I found something even more chilling.

Martinez's message to Susan: "Don't let her go to that postpartum recovery personal training class. Provoke her some more, best if you can push her into postpartum depression."

"That way we can claim she has mental issues and we won't even have to fight her for custody."

"You're so ruthless. The child is yours, after all."

"Once I get custody, my mom can take care of the kid. Then we can have as many kids as you want."

I put the phone back on the nightstand.

Then I got up and walked to the balcony. At 4 a.m., the city lights were dim and yellow.

I stood there for a long time. The C-section wound throbbed dully, and my breasts ached from engorgement.

I covered my mouth and cried silently.

Not from feeling wronged, but from cold.

A cold that seeped out from the marrow of my bones.

That man who had been married to me for three years, who picked out the wedding bed with me, decorated our new home together, tied my shoelaces when I was pregnant... he was conspiring with his mistress about how to push me into postpartum depression.

How to take my child away, how to drain me dry and then kick me aside.

When I finished crying, I wiped away my tears.

Then I picked up my phone and called my mom.

At 4 a.m., my mom was woken up, her voice still heavy with sleep.

"Hello? Ulysses, what's wrong? Is the baby sick?"

"Mom." I heard my own voice, surprisingly calm. "I want a divorce."

Three seconds of silence on the other end.

Then my mom's voice became completely alert.

"What happened?"

"Martinez is cheating. He's plotting with his mistress to push me into postpartum depression, to take the baby."

"Is the evidence solid?"

"Solid."

My mom was silent for another two seconds.

When she spoke again, her voice was no longer that of a mother, but the professional tone of someone who'd been a judge for twenty years.

"Alright. From now on, do exactly as I say. First, don't share a bed with him anymore. Second, back up all evidence in triplicate. Third..."

"Third?"

"I'm coming to get you tomorrow."