Chapter 3: The Past Is Never Far Behind

I sat in the office, staring at the torn tights, lost in thought for a long time. The fabric felt like a metaphor for everything broken between Derek and me—fine at first, now stretched, ruined, and tossed aside.

For the first time, I realized Derek wasn’t pretending—he truly didn’t like me. He never had, not really. That truth felt cold, numbing, but honest.

When I was eighteen and brought into the Pearson family, I knew I was meant to marry Derek one day. My parents had both passed when I was little, and Grandma Pearson took me in like one of her own, raising me in the family’s old estate just outside New Haven, where the driveway always smelled like cut grass and the mailman knew my name.

He was naturally cold, and the high-society women of suitable background couldn’t stand such an iceberg. I remembered the way debutantes at charity galas would flirt, then walk away, rolling their eyes. Derek didn’t care about parties, about anyone’s expectations. So Grandma chose me as Derek’s backup bride in case he refused to marry.

I never felt wronged. If anything, I felt chosen. He was handsome, tall as a pine, and I admired him. I’d sit on the bleachers, the sun hot on my knees, pretending to read while I watched him serve. I wondered what it would feel like if he ever looked at me the same way.

When I turned twenty-one, Grandma brought up marriage to me. She served tea in her favorite blue china and told me, kindly but firmly, that I was Derek’s best chance at happiness—and mine too.

Derek wasn’t particularly happy, but he didn’t refuse either. He accepted the idea like he accepted everything: quietly, without enthusiasm or complaint. I convinced myself his silence was a sign of depth.

I always thought, as long as I worked hard, I could melt this iceberg. I learned his favorite breakfast, folded his shirts just right, and tried to be the perfect wife I’d always dreamed of being. But looking back now, I was so naive. Love can’t be forced, not even with the best intentions.

After sitting for a long time, I called the house manager at the old place, telling him I’d return tomorrow. My voice was steady, but my hand shook as I held the phone. The old house felt like the only safe place left.

I also spent ages figuring out how to tell Grandma I wanted a divorce. Every draft of my message sounded either too angry or too sad. In the end, I left it unsent, resolving to say it to her face.

It wasn’t until late at night that I returned to the bedroom, eyes red and swollen. I collapsed on the bed fully dressed, letting the exhaustion swallow me whole.