When I got home, I gave away all the wedding decorations I had carefully chosen to an elderly woman who collected recyclables. In this home, which had never truly been mine, not a single trace of me remained. All that was left were 500 gigabytes of memories stored on my phone—photos and videos of the few happy moments we had shared. I deleted them all, one by one. As the storage on my phone cleared, so did the weight in my heart.
Once I was done, I made myself some chicken soup. Just as I was about to take a sip, Yzail walked through the door. He cooled the rest of the soup and poured it into a thermos.
“Did you make this for Zolenn? It’ll be great for her recovery,” he said casually.
I didn’t bother to correct him—that by “recovery,” he really meant “nourishing the pregnancy.” Instead, I grabbed the thermos and downed the soup in one go. “If you want some, make it yourself!” I snapped.
His smile froze in place. “Lanaya! You know Zolenn was almost hospitalized because of you. And now you’re so petty, you won’t even give her a bowl of soup?”
“Exactly,” I said without hesitation.