Husband and Sons Gave Their Love to Other Women, I Woke Up and They Regretted Novel – Ethan and Lucas finally returned home and offered a token performance of the birthday song. But instead of being moved to tears as I usually was, I felt a wave of visceral nausea rise within me. I pushed the plate away. “I’m not hungry. You two eat.” Ethan’s expression instantly darkened, as if I had committed some unforgivable sin. “I know you’re sulking about the Hannah situation. But can’t you be a little considerate of her position? She just got divorced; her mental state is fragile. Lucas and I only went over to help fix up her house, just to cheer her up.
That’s all. Stop being so paranoid.” Lucas chimed in, his mouth stuffed with pizza. “Yeah, Mom. Auntie Hannah is all alone. Can’t you have a little compassion?” Watching this father and son duo stand on the moral high ground to condemn me, my heart felt colder than the blizzard raging outside the window. It was my birthday, yet they had abandoned me in this empty house to provide free labor for a woman who certainly didn’t lack money. Every time I expressed dissatisfaction, they would roll out the same excuses: “She’s pitiful,” “We’re just friends.” It always made me feel like a narrow-minded, hysterical shrew. In the past, I would always compromise.
I would reflect on whether I was being too sensitive. But this time, I was tired. “You’re right,” I said, standing up calmly. “You really should go help her. In that case, I’m going to go find my friends to celebrate.” With that, I picked up my coat and clutch and walked straight toward the foyer. The father and son froze at the dining table, clearly not expecting such a reaction from the doormat of a housewife who usually took everything lying down. When Ethan finally realized I was serious, he rushed over and grabbed my wrist. “Sarah, you’re over forty years old. Can you stop acting like a petulant teenager? Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under running the firm? How heavy Lucas’s schoolwork is? We still carved out time to come back and cut the cake for you.
Isn’t that enough?” Pressure? I stared at them coldly. When they were designing that complex climate control system for Hannah, why didn’t I hear them complain about pressure? When they pulled all-nighters drawing blueprints for her, why weren’t they tired then? But when it came to me? A discount rug bought haphazardly by the roadside was supposed to be a divine blessing? “You’re overthinking it,” my voice was terrifyingly calm. “I’m not angry. I just want a change of scenery and a real martini. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any time to myself.” “You are simply impossible!” Ethan let go of my hand, roaring in anger. “You’ve been emotionally blackmailing us all this time—isn’t that enough? Are you not satisfied until you’ve torn this family apart?” Watching him scream hysterically in the hallway, even kicking my rainboots across the floor, I felt absolutely nothing.
All these years, I had given up my career for this family. Yet now, on my forty-second birthday, simply because I wanted a shred of reciprocal respect, I was branded a “control freak.” I really had failed spectacularly. I let out a self-deprecating laugh, my eyes stinging. Ethan turned to look at me, his gaze cold as iron. “Look at yourself. Since you’re so unhappy, let’s just get a divorce!” This was his trump card. In the past, whenever I heard those words, fear of losing my family would make me apologize immediately. But this time, I didn’t care. “Alright,” I whispered. As the door clicked shut, the last thing I saw was the look of shock and disbelief on their faces. Chapter 2 Even though it was late, my old friends rushed to the downtown bar. We sat in a dim booth, drinking stiff whiskey and eating fish and chips.
They teased me about how I had vanished from the face of the earth after marrying Ethan, practically becoming an invisible woman. As the alcohol burned in my blood, for a fleeting moment, I felt like I was back in our days at design school, back when I was a rising star brimming with talent. After hugging my friends goodbye, I glanced at my phone. The screen was clogged with missed calls, all from Ethan. Just as I was about to turn it off, a message from Hannah popped up: “Sarah, I am so, so sorry. I swear, the relationship between Ethan and me is purely platonic friendship. I was having a mental breakdown today, and they were the only ones who made me feel safe. I completely forgot it was your birthday. Please forgive me!” The whiskey in my stomach began to churn.
I grabbed a roadside trash can and retched until I was dry-heaving bile. Finally, I typed back: “Stop acting. I don’t care.” The chat box showed she was typing, but I tossed the phone into my bag. When I got home, the living room was a disaster zone—even messier than when I had left. Pizza boxes were strewn on the floor; beer bottles were tipped over on the table. I ignored it and walked straight toward the bathroom. Ethan came out of the master bedroom, looking impatient. “You finally decided to come back? Reeking of alcohol… look at you. Clean up the living room before you go to sleep.” “Whoever made the mess cleans it up.” Exhausted, I collapsed onto the sofa in the guest room. Something hard dug into my leg. It was Ethan’s tablet, unlocked.
The screen displayed his encrypted chat log with Hannah. “Ethan, I shouldn’t have made Sarah angry. It’s all my fault. Maybe we should keep our distance for a while.” “Don’t be silly. She’s just insanely jealous; probably hitting menopause. It’s just a birthday—not some national holiday. She’s acting like a spoiled child. It’s suffocating.” “Don’t say that. She has a right to be mad. You should go comfort her.” “Thank you, Hannah. If only Sarah had half your talent and empathy.” Ethan stormed in and snatched the tablet, his neck flushing red with rage. “Why are you always invading my privacy? We are innocent!” “Whatever,” I couldn’t be bothered to argue. “I’m going to sleep.” My indifference stunned him for a moment, but he quickly adjusted his expression. “Oh, right,” he said, seemingly trying to smooth things over. “I bought you a new coffee machine. It’s in the kitchen.
Fully automatic—it’ll make things easier for you.” I opened my eyes and looked at him coldly. “Ethan, have you forgotten? That model of coffee machine is the prototype I designed five years ago at my last firm.” He froze, his eyes darting around nervously. Then he gave an awkward, dry laugh. “Oh, right. Well… that’s perfect then. You’ll know how to use it.” Before marriage, I was a well-known designer in the industry. But after Lucas was born, Ethan said his firm needed his full attention and urged me to retreat to the domestic sphere to support him. Now, looking at that obsolete machine I had designed years ago, I felt nothing but irony. “I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight,” I said. “Get out.” “Fine,” he muttered. “Oh, and I have a client meeting tomorrow. I won’t be back for dinner.” “Noted.” With that, I pulled the blanket over my head. Chapter 3 Ethan paced in the hallway for a while before turning back to the bedroom. The next morning, I was woken by a rough shove. I opened my eyes to see Lucas standing by the sofa, holding his design tube, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Why aren’t you up yet? I’m going to be late! Where’s my breakfast? You haven’t done anything?” In the past, I would wake up at 5:00 AM every day to prepare a nutritionally balanced breakfast for him and double-check his blueprints.
The price was my increasingly haggard face and eternal dark circles. “I don’t need your money,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. “Auntie Hannah does yoga and makes French toast every morning. She’s never lazy like you…” Although he spoke quietly, I heard every word clearly. Strangely, the heartbreak was gone, replaced by a sense of liberation. “Set your own alarm from now on. As for breakfast, there’s a Starbucks on the corner. Do you have money on your card? If not, I’ll transfer some.” Lucas stared at me, dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe these words were coming from the mother who used to cater to his every whim. He stormed out, slamming the door so hard that items fell off the shelf.