Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

The living room fell silent in an instant.

Mila sat quietly at the dining table, her expression dazed. She'd known Adrian would have trouble accepting this, but she hadn't expected such an intense reaction let alone for him to say those things.

They said... Who?

No, this wasn't the time to get lost in questions.

She needed to go to him. Comfort him.

This could turn out to be a big deal or maybe nothing at all.

But... when she tried to get up, her body felt impossibly heavy, as if she was anchored to the chair-like she was drowning, unable to muster the strength to stand.

She couldn't move.

Her heart felt just as weighed down, a leaden ache in her chest.

The cozy warmth and the scent of food had faded from the room, leaving behind only a cold, hollow stillness.

After a moment, Mila flexed her fingers, stiff from holding her fork for so long, and slowly reached for the food on her plate. Her movements were sluggish; she ate bite by bite, barely tasting anything.

"It's cold now. Not good anymore," she murmured, swallowing mechanically.

She only managed a few bites before giving up-though she didn't feel hungry at all. Forcing herself to her feet, she began to clear the table, stooping to pick up the chicken drumstick that had been kicked under the table. She steadied herself against the tabletop, then dumped the cold leftovers into the trash.

Her stomach hadn't been the same these last few years; she'd long since stopped eating leftovers. She never let the kids eat them either.

After washing the dishes, Mila paused, then set about tidying the mess in the living room, restoring the scattered furniture to its rightful place, smoothing the chaos little by little.

As the house regained its order, her thoughts gradually settled too.

Only then did she climb the stairs.

She stopped first in the guest bathroom to take a shower. It was late-she had no idea if Adrian had gone to sleep. Standing outside his bedroom door, she hesitated, choosing not to turn the knob right away, but instead knocked softly.

No answer.

She knocked again, and again—three times in total. Still no response.

At last she turned the handle and stepped inside. Light from the hallway spilled in, stretching long across the floor and cutting through the darkness just enough to reveal a small lump beneath the covers on the bed-still and unmoving.

She walked over and lay down beside the bed, gently resting her hand atop the bundled-up blanket. Beneath her palm, the comforter trembled ever so slightly. She sighed inwardly.

Softly, Mila spoke: "I never said I didn't want you."

She paused, then continued, "But, sweetheart, I have my own life too. I have things I want for myself. You don't have to force yourself to accept it. If you don't like it, you don't have to call him 'Dad.' Call him whatever you like."

But she wasn't going to change her mind.

She'd thought it through her life was her own.

She had her own wants, too.

Maybe she wasn't desperate to find another partner, and maybe it was mostly for Jade's sake, but now... she wasn't so opposed to the idea. Life would go as it would. No one could predict the future, and she didn't want to lie to Adrian about that.

At the very least, he needed to know where she stood.noveldrama

She wouldn't give up her right to choose her own path just because of Adrian's feelings—nor would she expect him to do the same.

She refused to repeat old mistakes.

"Even if I don't know who told you those things, aren't you here with me now?" Mila went on, her voice gentle. "Can you try to ask me about things that happen in our family? Trust me a little more?"

Moonlight spilled through the window.

The lump beneath the covers quivered.

The room was utterly quiet.

After a long time, a muffled, hoarse voice finally emerged from under the blanket -he must have been crying. "If I don't like it, can't you just not get remarried, Mom?"

"I can't."

Even love had to have its limits.

When it came to her own life, Mila would not yield.

Adrian fell silent.

He seemed to think it over before asking, "If get married again, will you have another child? If you have a better kid, someone who listens to you, will you stop wanting me?"

"...No."

Mila shifted closer, pressing her forehead gently against the quilted mound. "No matter what happens, you... you're my one and only. My precious."

At her words, the trembling under the covers stilled.

Silence stretched out between them.

Then, after a while, Mila softly asked, "Do you still hate me?"

The blanket trembled.

A moment later, it began to wiggle, and a little head with tousled hair peeked out. Whether from shyness or simply not wanting her to see his tear-streaked face, he burrowed straight into Mila's arms, clinging to her nightgown so tightly that the fabric wrinkled beneath his grip.

His voice was muffled.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"I don't hate you. I could never hate you." He paused, then, in a very small voice, added, “I was just scared... I keep making you angry, and I'm afraid you'll stop loving me."

In the darkness, Mila's eyelashes,

fluttered. She slid her hand down to gently stroke Adrian's back. After a long while, she finally spoke, "know, sweetheart. But next time, talk to me, okay? Don't keep it all inside."

"...Okay."

Time passed, and as their worries faded and sleepiness crept in, Mila heard the

little voice in her arms whisper, "Tomorrow I want to go out and play. If you're busy, it's okay if Mr. Whitmore takes me."

Mila blinked in surprise.

She stared into the darkness for a long moment, then let out a quiet laugh.

"All right."

She pulled her child close and let herself drift off to sleep.

Under the silver moonlight, the quiet bedroom was peaceful. A mother and her

child slept entwined on the bed, gentle beams streaming through the window and

bathing the room in a soft, silvery glow.

The door-closed before-shifted slightly.

Slowly, it opened.

Light from the hallway spilled in through the gap, stretching long and thin, casting

the tall shadow of a man in the doorway.

The glow caught on the doorknob,

and the hand resting there-long-fingered, graceful. On

the fourth finger, a simple, unadomed silver ring glinted faintly in the warm light, oddly out of place against the man's refined bearing.

He let go of the handle.

Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him.