A Broken Urn, A Broken Man

When I pushed open the door, the hallway light was still off. Colin Davis said he was on a business trip for three days; today was the second day. In the trash bin by the hallway, a crumpled piece of white packaging caught my eye. I bent down to pick it up, and when my fingertips touched the hard plastic case, my heart clenched sharply. It was a pregnancy test, the display showing two bright red lines, sharp and glaring like blood. Since Linda, the daughter Colin and I had, left us, I haven't touched one of these again. This isn't mine. The living room light suddenly flicked on, Colin's voice coming from behind, carrying a faint but unmistakable anxiety. "Susanna? Why are you home so early?" I turned around, holding the pregnancy test up before him: "Whose is this?" His eyes flickered. He reached out to grab it, but I quickly stepped aside. "It's... it's my assistant's. She came by to pick up some documents and must have left it here by mistake." I sneered; the excuse was so clumsy it was laughable. Before I could ask any more, he pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase and handed it over, his tone softening: "Don't overthink it. I've already taken care of it. This is her abortion operation slip, just done." I took the operation slip; the signature on it was blurred, and the date was yesterday. Clutching that paper, my fingertips grew icy cold. He thought I would believe him. Late at night, I lay in bed; beside me, Colin breathed evenly, as if truly without guilt. The cell phone screen suddenly lit up; a message from an unknown number appeared. "Ms. Chapman, Colin said you believed that abortion operation slip? How ridiculous. The child in my womb is perfectly fine; he even accompanied me to the prenatal checkup yesterday." Behind it was a photo— the woman leaning against Colin's chest, her lower belly slightly rounded, both of them smiling dazzlingly at the camera. I held the cell phone, my knuckles white, yet I wasn't surprised in the least. I had known all along that he was having an affair. And I had long since prepared a "gift" for him. Half a year ago, I slipped a slow-acting sterilizing drug into the tea he drinks every day. The dosage was small, harmless to his health, but it would render him permanently incapable of fathering children. I opened the photo album, which held countless pictures. They were all of this woman named Whitney Scott and Colin Davis, intimate photos from various occasions, including some explicit shots—I had hired someone to take them. These all serve as my bargaining chips for revenge. Closing my eyes, Linda's little face surfaced in my mind. The day she left, it was raining. Colin said he was with a client, but in truth, he was with Whitney. I had to work overtime unexpectedly, so I told him to come home at noon to look after Linda, who had just turned six months old. He promised so earnestly, but it wasn't until I got home that night that I found Linda lying in the stroller, her face pale and bluish. The doctor said it was choking on milk, suffocation—we missed the critical window for rescue. If he had come home on time, if he had paid just a little more attention, Linda would still be here. This scar is carved deep into my heart and will never heal. Colin's betrayal was no accident; it was the final straw that broke me. I gently turned to the side, looking at his sleeping profile. Colin Davis, you owe me, and you owe Linda. We're going to settle every last debt, old and new.