Chapter 4
That birthday, after scraping together rent money, our bank account was practically empty. Trapped in a damp, gloomy basement during the rainy season, we lived like shadows, barely seeing the sun. Grady was mortified; back then, every penny counted. On my birthday, he couldn’t even swing a discounted spiced honey cake. I lied through my teeth, claiming I hated sweets-especially cakes, with their cloying sweetness I pretended to despise. But let’s be real, what girl doesn’t crave a slice of cake now and then?
He whipped up a bowl of homemade vegetable ravioli soup for me and slyly slipped the only poached egg into my bowl. To this day, it’s the best soup I’ve ever tasted. Later, he splurged on a big house and a fancy car, but none of it could compare to the warmth of that humble bowl of soup. It wasn’t that his gestures changed over time-it was that I once felt the depth of his love. Now, I knew without a doubt that he didn’t love me the same way anymore.
‘Besides your birthday, there’s something else we need to talk about today; he said, giving me a pointed look to stand up. This morning, Catherine posted something on WhatsApp, and you, as the boss’s wife, made a comment that upset her.’ When I didn’t budge, he assumed I missed his cue.
‘Matilda, get up. Let’s toast to Catherine as an apology. He strode over, yanked me to my feet, poured wine into the glass in front of me, and shoved it into my hand. He downed his drink in one go, only to turn and see I hadn’t even touched mine.
‘Grady, I can’t drink this,’ I said quietly. Catherine jumped in, trying to defuse the tension. ‘If she doesn’t want to drink, let it go. Don’t let me come between you two.’
Her words only fueled his anger. ‘If you were half as considerate as Catherine, you’d just drink when I ask, he snapped.
He’d never raised his voice at me like that before.
I placed the wine glass down gently, pulled a report from my bag, and handed it to him. ‘Grady, I had a miscarriage. I can’t drink. Why are you pushing this?’
He picked up the thin sheet of paper, his eyes scanning the words that screamed about the child he’d lost. His grip tightened, his eyes turning red. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant sooner?’ he demanded, shaking my shoulders. ‘How could you keep this from me?’
The pain in my chest was sharp, but it brought clarity. Without another word, I walked out of that private room, leaving everyone stunned.
