From Ex-Wife to His Boss

In the autumn of our third year of marriage, the wind, laced with chill, slipped through the windowpane and lifted a corner of the curtain. Cameron Lewis sat on the sofa, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke rising in wisps that blurred the lines of his brows and eyes. He didn't look at me; his voice was as cold as ice: "Let's live apart. I need absolute independence." I stood rooted to the spot, still clutching his freshly ironed shirt—its fabric warm—but my heart instantly plummeted to the depths. "Why?" My voice trembled uncontrollably, my fingertips pinching so hard they turned white. He lowered his head and tapped the ash from his cigarette; the ashtray was half-full of butts. "There's no reason," he finally looked up, his eyes void of any lingering emotion, "I just don't want to live like this anymore." "From now on, handle your own affairs. Don't bother me anymore." Those words were like a dull knife, cutting painfully into my chest. From that day on, this home turned into an icebox. He seldom came home, and when he did, he stayed in the guest room; the door closed with a resolute slam. We had become strangers living under the same roof—our very glances fraught with cold distance. Until my fever spiked to 39 degrees, my body burning hot, my mind growing hazy. I leaned against the wall and walked to the guest room door, gently knocking. "Cameron, could you please pass me a glass of warm water?" No response came from inside. After a few seconds, footsteps sounded but went straight toward the foyer. I clearly heard the sound of him changing shoes, followed by the door opening and closing, and the engine in the yard fading into the distance. I slid down against the cold wall, forehead resting on my knees, tears silently soaking my sleeves. It turned out that in his eyes, my life and death were utterly insignificant. Worse was still to come. On my way home from work that day, I was knocked down by an electric bike running a red light; my arm and knees were badly scraped, blood oozing from the wounds, the pain forcing me to grimace. Trembling, I took out my phone and dialed Cameron Lewis's number. The phone rang for a long time, so long I thought he wouldn't answer, until finally, amid a noisy ringtone, his impatient voice came through: "What do you want?" "I had a car accident, I'm in the hospital, can you..." "You have to bother me over something this trivial?" He cut me off abruptly, his tone thick with undisguised disdain: "Call a cab yourself, I'm busy." The phone was slammed down abruptly; the busy signal pierced my ear like a needle. I watched the steady flow of people in the emergency room; each accompanied by loved ones, while I sat alone on the bench, waiting for a nurse to tend my wounds. Wrapped in thick gauze, I limped back home.