I had just been released from the maternity ward, my body still sore, legs trembling, my newborn daughter curled against my chest, warm and impossibly small. A nurse eased me into a wheelchair and asked softly, “Is your husband here to take you home?”

I glanced toward the hospital entrance, already knowing the answer. Marcus wasn’t there.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang. His voice was sharp and rushed. “Lena, just take the bus. I’m tied up.”

I stared at the floor. “Marcus, I just gave birth. I can barely walk.”

He exhaled loudly, irritated. “Stop exaggerating. The bus stop is right outside. I’ve already told the driver to take my parents and my sister out for dinner. They’re hungry.”

The line went dead before I could say another word.

Moments later, a black luxury sedan glided past the entrance. Through the dark glass, I saw his mother laughing, his sister recording videos on her phone, and Marcus leaning back comfortably. Not one of them looked toward me.

Holding my baby closer, I pulled my coat around us and slowly made my way to the bus stop. Each jolt of the ride sent pain through my body. Strangers offered their seats, some whispered, others watched with pity. I said nothing and swallowed the humiliation whole.

At home, I placed my daughter in her crib and finally cried. This wasn’t new. Ever since Marcus’s company started bringing in money, he’d changed. Designer suits, expensive dinners, constant reminders: “Without me, you’d have nothing.”

What he never bothered to ask was how his success had begun.

Two hours later, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Missed calls and messages from Marcus, his mother, his sister. Confused, I answered one.

“Lena!” Marcus sounded frantic. “Where are you? Something’s wrong.”

Before I could respond, his mother’s voice cut in, hysterical. “Tell us the truth! Who are you really?”