Chapter 1

The night I decided to get a divorce, a single social media post blew my entire world apart.

I had just posted on Instagram when my phone screen started blowing up with fifty-six missed calls.

I shut the phone down immediately, without a single shred of hesitation.

Just a few hours ago, I had accidentally stumbled upon my husband Stockton’s private social media account. That was how I uncovered a fourteen-year-old lie.

It was filled with his endless yearning for his first love, Olivia, and even proudly documented how he had adopted Olivia’s child.

"Loving your child is just another way of loving you. Let our love flow through his veins."

Yet, I was the one who had managed the household, spent ten years raising this child by his side, and helped him through his hardest times. In the story of his life, I didn't even exist.

At first, when I saw that post, I actually scoffed. What kind of idiot would raise another woman's child for her husband's first love?

I scrolled down a few pages. It was all diary entries and quotes about unrequited love.

But the moment I looked closely at the handwriting in those quote images, I froze. That elegant cursive belonged to my husband, Stockton.

He had studied under my father, a renowned literature professor, for twenty years, starting from when he was just a young student.

My father always praised his handwriting; Stockton was his prized protégé.

I still couldn't believe it. I scrolled through his posts from the very beginning. The very first entry was dated June 10, 2010.

It read: "High school is over, but our youth isn't. To my dream girl, I wish I could protect you forever. I'm dedicating this account to my silent love for you."

It had been exactly fourteen years. And he had updated it every single day.

In the morning, after we made love, he would whisper "I love you" to me.

But then he would log onto that account and write: You are the blurry line between hopeless waiting and unwavering faith.

At noon, he would text me to ask if I had eaten, reminding me not to forget the fresh fruit he had packed for me.

But on that account, he wrote: Everyone has something they hold onto, even when they know it's completely pointless.

At night, he would hold me to sleep, a happy smile on his face, telling me tonight would bring sweet dreams.

But his account read: You cannot be my poetry, just as I cannot be your dream.

Our son, Julian’s smiling face was sprinkled throughout those posts, as if mocking my years of foolishness and wishful thinking.

Julian’s loud voice calling out for dinner broke my train of thought. I heard Stockton leading him through the front door. After soothing the boy, Stockton walked into the kitchen to cook.

When I walked out of the study, ten-year-old Julian looked at me in surprise.

"Mom? You're home? Why didn't you cook? Dad and I thought you were out."

Stockton walked out carrying two plates of pasta and was startled to see me.

"I didn't know you were home, honey," he said apologetically. "You and Julian go ahead and eat. I'll whip up another plate for myself."

I stared at him for a long time, trying to find a crack in his eyes. There was nothing.

Except for regret and warmth, I couldn't find a single trace of negativity. He didn't even show any impatience about having to heat up the kitchen again in the middle of a scorching summer.

I shook my head, signaling I had no appetite.

I was too disgusted to eat.

I watched Stockton take a picture of Julian eating. Suddenly, I asked him,

"You're always taking pictures of Julian, but I never see you post them on Instagram. Where do you keep them?"

Stockton's back stiffened. A tiny crack finally appeared in his perfect facade.

He forced a calm smile. "I don't post them much. They're all backed up on my cloud drive. They're just for memories."

Julian piped up from the table.

"Yeah, Dad shows them to me all the time! He writes these super cool captions for them. He's way more detailed about my growth than you are, Mom!"

With that, the two of them exchanged a knowing, playful look.

Ah. It turned out father and son were cut from the same cloth. Neither was innocent.