Her name was saved with three emojis—man, heart, woman.
A simple, blatant declaration of love.
The gallery held over ten thousand photos—every single one of them was Anthony, Vanessa, and their child, smiling and embracing.
All those “business trips” of his were trips abroad with them, for shopping, sightseeing, and luxury vacations.
Transfer records of staggering amounts, receipts for designer goods—each one a slap in the face for my stupidity.
Even worse, every night, after my daughter and I were asleep, he would go upstairs to be with Vanessa.
And then I read the messages—each one a blade twisting into my chest.
[Anthony, thank you for turning down that multi-billion contract just to be with me during childbirth. With you here, I’m not afraid of anything...]
[Look at you—it’s not even your first time being a father, yet just to make our son call you ‘daddy’ a few more times, you built him an entire playground?]
I remembered when I gave birth to my daughter—it was difficult labor, and Anthony was only two streets away, having dinner with a client.
I thought I was going to die.
Terrified, I called him, begging him to come see me just once.
All I got was his cold reply, “Diana, it’s just childbirth. Every woman has to go through it. Even if I come, I can’t help you give birth. I don’t like doing this kind of pointless, ceremonial stuff."
"You’ll be fine. Be strong. I’ll bring you a gift when I get back.”
Upstairs, laughter spilled down the walls—birthday songs, the clinking of glasses.
The sound pierced my chest like needles.
Whenever our daughter wanted Anthony to celebrate her birthday with her, he would push her away with the same cold dismissal.
“I’m busy with work. You’re six years old already. You should be mature enough not to bother adults all the time.”
Love or the absence of it—it was that obvious.
I didn’t know when Anthony came home that night.
All I knew was that when I woke up the next morning, he had already set the table with a full spread of dishes.
“Diana, I made these myself. Come taste them and see if they’re good.”
I glanced at the food and almost laughed aloud. Yes, he had “made” them.
But I’d seen Vanessa’s social media post last night—these were nothing more than their leftover dishes.
“Oh, by the way, Diana,” he said casually, “after I left yesterday, you stayed in the bedroom the whole time, right? You didn’t see anything in the living room?”