The moment Sasha replaced the wedding photo above our bed with that enormous oil painting—a piece her lab colleague, Blake, had gifted her—I felt an utter, bone-deep weariness settle over me. When I finally put the signed divorce papers in front of her, she kept her expression perfectly cool. “Am I really not allowed to redecorate the bedroom, Ronan?” she snapped. “And divorce? You’re willing to walk away from your little princess, the one you’ve practically molded with your own two hands?” I simply nodded. Yes, I was walking away from both. After all, my precious daughter was just like her mother. They both had already put another man first. … 1 Sasha sat across from me, her face blank as she flipped through the divorce papers I’d presented. She didn't read them closely, giving them a cursory glance before snapping the file shut. “All this because I changed a painting? You want a divorce over something this trivial?” “Think carefully, Ronan. I don’t have time for a tantrum. Are you really giving up custody of the daughter you adore?” I glanced at Gwen, who was still camped out on the sofa watching TV, long past her bedtime. “I am.” Sasha signed the agreement without a moment’s hesitation, as if I were the one acting unreasonably. Her gaze on me was detached, almost bored. Just this afternoon, I’d cooked dinner as usual. Roasted short ribs—their favorite. I watched the clock tick past, but the front door remained silent. I called Sasha. It rang twice, then switched to a 'user busy' signal. She'd obviously declined the call. It was after ten when the two of them finally came home, cautiously carrying a heavily wrapped canvas. It was the third time I’d reheated dinner. Yet, mother and daughter were in silent agreement, gliding past the kitchen as if the table didn't exist, rushing straight to the master bedroom. I walked to the doorway and watched Sasha preparing to swap out the framed wedding photo. “Why the sudden change?” I asked. Sasha didn't pause in her work. “Am I not allowed to hang a piece of art in my own home?” she countered. Gwen stood beside her, stretching onto her tiptoes to help her mother steady the painting. Her eyes sparkled. “Mom, when can we go get Five Guys with Uncle Blake again?” Sasha quickly put a hand over Gwen’s mouth, then shot me a fleeting, defensive look. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want you to misinterpret things.” Blake was Sasha’s mentor from her graduate program, and also, technically, a former colleague of mine. He’d recently transferred jobs and was now working in the same research lab as Sasha. I lowered my gaze, the image of the cooling ribs and mashed potatoes on the kitchen table burning in my mind. I spoke softly. “Next time, don’t take Gwen to eat fast food. Her stomach is sensitive.” “Fine,” Sasha conceded dismissively. She hung the new canvas above the headboard, replacing the spot where our smiling faces had lived for eight years. After adjusting the position to her satisfaction, she smiled, took a photo, and immediately checked her phone. “Wow, Mom, Uncle Blake is so talented. He painted that?” Gwen stared at the wall in awe. The painting was a lush, romantic oil landscape. So, Blake was the artist. Sasha’s attention was completely fixed on her screen, her face alight with an unfamiliar, almost giddy joy. Gwen, impatient, clambered onto the bed and peered over her shoulder at the phone. “Mom, what are you and Uncle Blake talking about? I want to text him too!” After Sasha had signed the divorce agreement, I planned to leave that very night. But looking around the house we’d shared for nearly eight years, I felt stuck. Where do you even begin? Sasha watched me. “It’s late. You can leave tomorrow, if you want.” I shook my head. “No. Tonight.” I packed a carry-on with only the essentials. The wedding ring went back into the jewelry box; I took nothing else. As I dragged my suitcase to the door and went to change my shoes, Gwen walked up to me, silent and timid. Seeing this tiny creature I had dedicated six years of my life to, my chest tightened, an involuntary surge of paternal affection. “Your mother and I are getting divorced,” I told her. “You need to listen to her, and remember to cut out the junk food. And you’re allergic to shellfish—don’t forget that.” Gwen simply rolled her eyes. She sounded utterly unconcerned. “Hmph. Mom said you’ll come back in a few days anyway. You don’t have any friends here; only me and Mom care about you.” Then she stood on her toes, whispering into my ear, her voice a poisonous dart. “Dad, you should just stay gone forever. I don’t like you. I like Uncle Blake. If you don’t come back, Uncle Blake can be my dad.” Gwen’s words annihilated the last shred of tenderness I held. They say children are honest, and it’s true—only a child would bypass all social filters and speak her rawest thought. The daughter I had held in my heart and pampered since birth, never actually liked me. I said nothing more. I picked up my suitcase and walked out the door. 2 Gwen was right, in a bleak, undeniable way. I truly had no friends here. I had been in a long-distance relationship with Sasha back then. Desperate not to lose her, convinced we had a future, I left my familiar hometown, resigned from a job I loved. I was young, burning with a lover’s conviction, believing the ‘right person’ was waiting for me at the end of the road. And for a time, we were deeply in love. We even had our beautiful daughter, Gwen. When Gwen needed full-time care, Sasha refused to put her own career on hold. “Marriage doesn’t have to mean only the woman makes sacrifices, right?” she’d said. I heard the implied plea. Coupled with the fact that the new job I’d found in this city was objectively less significant than Sasha’s high-stakes research position, I decided to become her ‘support system’—her stay-at-home husband. I was content, believing that our happiness mattered more than my title. That was, until Blake was transferred to Sasha’s lab. That’s when I watched our connection erode, day by day. It faded, it fractured. Even Gwen joined in, more than once asking me to step aside so Blake could be her father. I stood on the curb of the empty street at 1 AM, waiting for a cab, dragging my suitcase behind me. The late-night breeze felt less desolate than my own heart. I rented a small studio apartment. It was bright and faced the sun. Before, I would work on research materials and papers from home in the evenings. Just today, I’d received good news—I’d won a small, prestigious grant. The funding wasn’t life-changing, but it was enough to sustain me for a year or two. I woke up this morning to a rare, delicious feeling of leisure. No immediate leap out of bed to the alarm clock, no mad dash to get Gwen ready for school. I looked in the mirror, shaved carefully, and styled my hair. I instantly looked healthier, more energized. I even signed up for a fitness class. While running around the house and playing with Gwen kept me moving, I’d lost significant muscle mass. Other men were rushing to catch the morning subway to their corporate jobs; I was riding the city bus, fighting with retirees over the best produce at the market. Outsiders had whispered that I was 'eating soft rice'—a gold-digger. I never cared. I knew the truth: Gwen wouldn’t have lived such a pampered life on Sasha’s salary alone. I cleared my head of those thoughts and started working on my résumé. I wanted to go back to work, to stand in a real lab, not just sit in front of a computer screen. That afternoon, I treated myself to my favorite food: spicy fried chicken. Because I was always catering to their mild palates at home, we rarely had anything spicy. Now, biting into the tender chicken, it hit me like a rush. This was another small piece of my old life, gradually returning. That night, Sasha called. Her voice was flat, typical of her professional tone. “Listen, I’m calling about a box of sealed things of yours. I haven’t opened it. Give me an address, and I’ll mail it to you.” I thought for a moment. “You can open it. It’s just useless junk I kept from when we were together. I don’t need it. Throw it out.” Sasha hesitated on the line. “Actually,” I added, cutting in, “if you find anything else of mine, just dispose of it. Don't bother calling again.” I hung up. That box held old ticket stubs, notes, and silly gifts—all those insignificant things you keep when you’re building a life. They were just garbage now. After a few successful interviews, I landed a position at a respected research corporation. They offered me a private lab for my own studies. I was at the grocery store that afternoon after my shift. At home, I spent hours trying to invent new dishes to satisfy their picky tastes. Now, I needed to satisfy my own stomach. As I pushed my cart, my phone rang. It was Gwen’s school. “Mr. Ronan,” the teacher’s voice was strained, “I was wondering if you might have forgotten to pick up Gwen today? All the other children have gone home, and she’s the only one left.” 3 I checked the time. Gwen had been out of school for over an hour. But I kept pushing my cart. I had no intention of changing my plans. “Teacher, this is the situation: Sasha and I are divorced. She has full custody now. I’m going to give you her number. Please call her.” “Oh, I see. My apologies. It was just always you who came, and Gwen insisted I call you first. Sorry to bother you.” The teacher sounded genuinely apologetic. I was about to say, 'No problem,' and hang up, but Gwen snatched the phone. “You’re so petty, Dad,” she said into the receiver. “Mom is busy. You have nothing to do; can’t you just get me? Humph, if it were Uncle Blake, he’d definitely come get me.” Her words barely registered. They carried no sting. “Gwen,” I stated clearly, “Your mother and I are divorced. I won’t be picking you up anymore. If no one comes for you, you must tell the teacher to call your mother. Or, yes, you can call your Uncle Blake.” I hung up. I couldn’t recall how I had raised her to be this way. When she was little, and Sasha was working non-stop, I’d always told Gwen that her mother was working hard and we needed to be understanding. But children quickly internalize the care and devotion of the adult who is always there, viewing it as an inalienable right. I rubbed my forehead. Whatever. Let her deal with the consequences. But my phone didn't stop. After dinner that evening, Sasha called again. Her voice was the same as always, cool and even. “Ronan. Gwen’s stomach bug is back. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find her medication. Where did you hide it?” I gripped the phone, forcing my anger down. “In the cabinet under the TV.” “Oh. Found it. Listen, did Gwen’s teacher call you today? I was in a meeting and ran late. Did I… inconvenience you?” I didn’t know what she was driving at—she sounded clumsy, like she was trying to start a conversation with thin air. “Yes, you inconvenienced me,” I said flatly. “So, can you please stop calling me?” In the past, my calls were rejected; she never called me. Now, in just a few days, the calls were stacking up. I changed my number. Over the next few weeks, Sasha didn't call. I immersed myself in the lab, often staying an entire day. Here, I reconnected with my earliest ambition. It felt like college again. I used to be a student who lived and breathed research. At some point, my dreams, my core, had been subsumed by the demands of a life I had willingly chosen to abandon myself for. The department head walked in to tell me I had a new project I needed to take over. I pulled off my gloves and stepped out. In the waiting area, I saw two familiar figures. Sasha. And beside her, Gwen. Through the glass, Sasha was awkwardly explaining to the department head why she had brought her daughter to the office. I walked into the room. Sasha’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly at the sight of me. “Dad…” Gwen muttered, tugging on Sasha’s jacket. “Ah, here he is,” the department head said, pointing to me. “This is the head of the project; he’ll handle the transition.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and offered a faint smile. “Director, no need for introductions. This is my ex-wife. I’ll take it from here. You can go back to your work.” The director offered an uncomfortable laugh and left the room. I looked at the file in my hands. “By my count, your team should have one more person.” Just as I spoke, a knock came at the door. Blake walked in. “Sorry, I’m late.”
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "390567", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel