Book 5:1 Escaped the Marriage Crematorium
On my son’s birthday, I spent the entire day making his favorite flower cake.
When he found out, he simply gave me a cold look and told me to deliver it to a private
room.
I casually asked, “Aren’t you celebrating your birthday at home?”
My ten–year–old son immediately lashed out, “What’s it to you? You’re spending my dad’s money, and now you want to control me?”
“I’m going to eat with Aunt Yuna. What do you know, you country bumpkin!”
My husband, standing nearby, grabbed his phone. “You smell like grease. The cake
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doesn’t even taste good anymore. I’ll have someone bring it over.”
That night, I saw a happy group photo of the three of them on my son’s social media.
Meanwhile, I sat alone at home, staring blankly at the family photo on the table, clutching my phone tightly.
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Book 5 I Escaped the Marriage
Crematorium
On my son’s birthday, I spent the entire day making his favorite flower cake.
When he found out, he simply gave me a cold look and told me to deliver it to a private
room.
I casually asked, “Aren’t you celebrating your birthday at home?”
My ten–year–old son immediately lashed out, “What’s it to you? You’re spending my dad’s money, and now you want to control me?”
“I’m going to eat with Aunt Yuna. What do you know, you country bumpkin!”
My husband, standing nearby, grabbed his
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phone. “You smell like grease. The cake doesn’t even taste good anymore. I’ll have someone bring it over.”
That night, I saw a happy group photo of the three of them on my son’s social media.
Meanwhile, I sat alone at home, staring blankly at the family photo on the table, clutching my phone tightly.
I sat motionless into the late hours, the sound at the door finally breaking the silence.
Instinctively, I rushed to meet them, preparing slippers for my husband and son, then went to hang up their coats.
“You’re home! I’ll run a bath for you, are
you hungry? Should I prepare a late–night snack?”
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This had become a part of me after I became a full–time housewife.
But tonight, there was a woman standing behind them.
She wore a gentle smile, her voice sweet: “I think Mrs. Watson is doing just fine. She’s not as useless as you said.”
But the words were laced with hidden barbs.
Our eyes met, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. I couldn’t help but recall their attitude earlier in the day, freezing me in place.
“Aunt Yuna, don’t be fooled by my mom’s appearance, she’s really good at pretending,” my son Noah immediately interjected, pulling her hand and leading her inside.
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My husband Adrian gave me a brief glance: “Go tidy up the guest room, Yuna will be staying here from now on.”
His words were as though it was a matter of
course.
As a full–time wife, it was my duty to care for my son and husband, but this Yuna, someone who hadn’t even formally introduced herself to me, was now expected to stay in our home without a second thought. It felt far too much.
“What are you standing there for? Yuna can’t stay up late, Adrian frowned and urged, his tone sharp.
“Ari, don’t be harsh with Hazy. It’s normal for her to be upset, since I’m staying here unexpectedly.” Yuna immediately took his
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hand, her face full of understanding.
Their hands intertwined, and Adrian showed no sign of pulling away.
A sharp pang of discomfort twisted inside me, and before I could confront him, my son, hearing the conversation, stormed over, his toy knife raised in anger.
“You live off my dad’s money every day, and now you’re still not satisfied? What more could you possibly want?” Noah swung the toy knife, landing it with a thud on my knee.
I had spent the entire day in the kitchen, making the beautiful cake he had asked for, and my knee, already sore from standing, throbbed with pain now.
I winced instinctively.
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Adrian’s frown deepened. “Stop pretending. I wasn’t asking you, I was informing you.”
“You promised that you would listen to me, that you’d take care of this family with all your heart.”
It felt as though my heart was torn open, the wound fresh and bleeding.
Looking at the father and son, a doubt began to creep in, casting a shadow over the choices I had made.
Was my life as a full–time housewife really as happy as it seemed to others?
I forced myself to suppress the discomfort in my chest and went to prepare the guest
room.
Ten minutes later.
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“Why are you taking so long?” Adrian’s impatient voice echoed.
I looked at him, and finally asked, “What position is Yuna staying here in?”
His expression darkened with irritation. “You’re a housewife, just follow my arrangements. Yuna is the daughter of my mentor. She’s having some family issues and just needs to stay here for a few days to sort things out.”
“Hazy, don’t let your filthy thoughts cloud your judgment about our relationship.”
“If there was anything between us, would I really bring her home and expect you to prepare a guest room?”
His words had some truth to them. Based on
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what I knew of him, they hadn’t crossed that line.
But the way he was acting now, so impatient and unable to speak calmly, made me feel that day might not be too far off.
“Alright, stop overthinking. Later, I’ll rub some ointment on your legs” he said, his voice softening a little.
I thought back to the beginning, when I first started cooking. He was so tender and caring, buying me all kinds of skincare products to protect me from the oil fumes. I’d told him it was a waste of money, but he insisted he just wanted me to feel better.
Every time I got burned or hurt, he would fret for hours, gently applying medicine to my wounds.
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That lingering tenderness pulled me in, and before I could stop myself, I followed him back to the bedroom, longing to feel that flutter of emotion again.
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