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When I found myself back at the moment Dean handed the pickles to the widow next door, I immediately told him I wanted a divorce. He chuckled. "Are you serious? You want a divorce over a jar of pickles?" I looked at him calmly. "Yes, precisely because of this." =========================================== My mother-in-law, Valerie, specifically requested pulled pork with mashed vegetables, so I carefully prepared it. Just as I was about to bake it, I realized the chopped pickles were missing. An entire jar I'd painstakingly chopped despite my tendonitis, knowing that if she wasn't satisfied, it would once again lead to chaos in the house. Valerie had suffered a fall and afterward, her mind became like that of a six-year-old. Her eccentric and unpredictable behavior drove away several hired caregivers, so the responsibility naturally fell to me. When she asked for pulled pork with mashed vegetables, I went out and bought all the ingredients. At that very moment, she was seated at the dining table, tapping her plate, counting down the minutes. Meanwhile, my pickles had vanished. If dinner were even a minute late, all hell would break loose tonight. While I searched frantically, Dean returned with an empty jar, a couple of pickle remnants still clinging to its sides. My mind buzzed as I asked him, "Did you take my pickles?" He replied carelessly, "Davina suddenly wanted pickled rolls, and since we had some here, I gave them to her." The way he casually said "I gave them to her!" Hearing it again, I couldn't help but raise my voice, "Do you realize Valerie only eats these specific pickles? If she doesn't get them, she'll start screaming. I drove an hour to get them, and you just handed them over without even asking me?" Dean's face showed irritation, his eyebrows furrowing. "What’s your issue? If they're hard to find, why not buy more at once? Leighton is raising a child on her own. As her late husband's best friend, I can't just ignore her, right? Check your conscience. Is it right to argue over trivial matters like this with a widow?" It was the same old story. Ever since Leighton's husband tragically died in a rescue operation, she had seeped into my life like a ghost. Dean constantly lamented her difficult situation, urging me to help out. At first, I went along with it, often sending over good meals or sharing little joys. It took time before I noticed something was off. Gifts from Dean’s office were given to Leighton without my knowledge. Out of his eight days off each month, seven were spent fixing plumbing and changing light bulbs at her place. A man who never wore cologne began sporting the same scent Leighton used. Soon after, he stopped letting me handle his paycheck, giving me only £400 a month as an allowance. Instances like these piled up. The most painful moment was when he missed our daughter's school meeting. There she stood, lost, scanning the crowd, questioned by classmates about her absent father, while he played dad to Leighton’s daughter. Afterward, he brushed it off, saying, "I was just being considerate, playing a role. You're my real wife. Just think of it as doing a good deed. Even our daughter gets it. Why can't you?" In my previous life, I was trapped by his moral manipulation, his sweet-talking convincing me to endure it all for years. Unknown to me, he secretly paid for Leighton and her daughter’s acting classes, launching them into successful entertainment careers. Meanwhile, I slaved away in the kitchen, scrimping for meals, reduced to a mere maid. Even when I fell ill, no one cared. Our daughter, Promise, frustrated by the lack of financial support for her dreams, married early and left me behind. Thinking of all this, I resolutely declared, "In that case, let's divorce. After that, you can support her however you wish. I won't interfere."

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Yearly Must-Read TOP Romance Novels