So I gritted my teeth, forgave her, and chose to believe her one more time.
And then what happened?
Less than a month later.
She'd gone into early labor. She'd just been told the baby had died inside her. She needed to stay in the hospital to recover more than anything.
But all it took was one text from Humphrey saying "my stomach hurts," and she walked out without a second thought.
I broke down completely. Like a man possessed, I snatched up the fruit knife from the bedside table, my voice raw and shredded.
"Ida, are you really choosing him? If you walk out that door, we're done. For good."
Ida's face twisted, and she looked at me the way someone looks at a lunatic.
"Roland, stop this. I have a family doctor at home, and the doctors already said everything's fine."
"Humphrey just got back to the country. He doesn't have anyone here, and his health has always been fragile. I have to go. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
She turned and left without looking back. All she gave me was the rigid line of her retreating shoulders.
The moment the hospital room door clicked shut, the knife slipped from my hand.
The blade caught my wrist on the way down, carving the ugly scar I still carried.
The buzz of my phone dragged me back from that distant memory.
It was a voice message from Ida. She sounded drunk.
"Roland, stop being mad at me. Give me another baby, okay?"
A baby?
My thumb found the scar on my wrist without thinking. I'd gone numb to the pain a long time ago.
But hearing her mention a child again sent a fresh wave of agony through my chest, wave after wave, until I felt like I was drowning.
It took a long time before I could steady myself. I lifted my hand and wiped away the last tear.
Then, silently, I blocked both Ida and Humphrey.
I dialed an overseas number.
"Dad. Three days from now. Meet me at the airport."
Over the next few days, Ida didn't come home.
I didn't ask her when she'd be back. I just started packing.
But seven years of marriage leaves marks that run deep. Almost everything I touched had her shadow on it.
The white scarf she'd given me on our first date.
I'd worn it for years and could never bring myself to throw it away, because she'd spent months knitting it by hand.
There were so many other firsts she'd given me, gifts she'd poured her heart into, staying up until her eyes were red and raw to make with her own hands.