I Set Him Free

Ever since my husband replaced the framed wedding photo above our bed with an oil painting done by his former college mentor, a sudden, heavy exhaustion washed over me. When I slid the signed divorce papers across the table to him, his face turned to ice. "I don't even have the right to change a single painting in my own home?" he snapped. "You want a divorce over this? You're just going to abandon the son you coddle so much?" I nodded slowly. I didn't want any of it anymore. After all, my precious little boy was exactly like his father. They both put another woman first. 1 Arthur sat across from me, his face expressionless as he flipped through the divorce agreement I had just handed him. He didn't read it carefully, merely skimming the pages before slapping the folder shut. "Just because I swapped out a piece of art? You're throwing a tantrum and demanding a divorce over something this trivial?" He looked at me as if I were a toddler throwing a fit. "Think this through. I don't have the time to play these games with you. Are you seriously giving up custody of Oliver? The son you hold in the palm of your hand?" I glanced toward the living room. Oliver was sitting on the sofa, eyes glued to the television, even though it was well past his bedtime. "I'm giving it up," I answered. Arthur scoffed, pulled a pen from his pocket, and carelessly scribbled his name on the dotted line. Earlier this afternoon, I had cooked dinner just like any other day. Braised short ribs. It was the absolute favorite of the two men in my house. I watched the hands of the wall clock tick by, hour after hour, but the front door remained shut. I called Arthur. It rang twice before the line went dead. He had deliberately rejected my call. Finally, just past ten o'clock, the father and son returned. They were carefully carrying a heavily wrapped canvas. I had reheated the food three times. Yet, moving in perfect unison, they completely ignored the dining table and rushed straight to the master bedroom. I followed them to the doorway and watched Arthur take down the wedding portrait that had hung above our headboard for years. "Why are you taking that down all of a sudden?" I asked quietly. Arthur didn't pause his movements. He didn't even look back. "Do I not even have the right to change a painting?" Oliver was standing right beside him, standing on his tiptoes to help his father steady the new frame. The little boy's eyes crinkled into a sweet, bright smile. "Dad, when can we go eat burgers with Aunt Valerie again?" Arthur immediately clamped a hand over Oliver's mouth, shooting a nervous, sidelong glance at me. "I didn't tell you we saw her because I didn't want you to misunderstand." Valerie was Arthur's former college mentor. She was also mine. Recently, due to a corporate transfer, she had been assigned to the exact same research facility where Arthur worked. I lowered my eyes, looking back toward the dining room where the food was growing cold once again. "Just don't take Oliver for fast food next time," I said softly. "You know he has a sensitive stomach." "Alright, I get it," Arthur brushed me off, lifting the new painting onto the wall. He adjusted it slightly, stepped back with a satisfied smile, and pulled out his phone to snap a picture. "Dad, Aunt Valerie is so amazing. I didn't know she could paint, too," Oliver said, staring up at the wall with pure admiration. I finally looked at the canvas. It was a lush, romantic oil painting. So, Valerie painted it. Arthur didn't answer our son. He was too busy smiling warmly at his phone screen, his thumbs typing away at lightning speed. Oliver scrambled up onto the mattress, craning his little neck to peek at Arthur's screen. "Dad, what are you texting Aunt Valerie? I want to talk to her, too!" After Arthur signed the divorce papers, I decided to leave that very night. But as I looked around the house I had painstakingly maintained for nearly eight years, I didn't even know where to begin packing. "It's too late tonight. You can just leave tomorrow," Arthur said, watching me from the hallway. I shook my head. "No. Tonight is fine." I packed only my absolute essentials. I took off my wedding ring and left it on the nightstand. I didn't take a single thing that belonged to the life we built together. As I dragged my suitcase to the front door and bent down to change my shoes, Oliver walked over. He stood there silently, staring at me with wide, timid eyes. Looking at the tiny human I had raised with every ounce of my being for six years, a sharp, uncontrollable ache pierced my chest. "I'm divorcing your father," I told him, keeping my voice steady. "You need to listen to him from now on. Eat less junk food. And remember you are allergic to seafood. Don't let him feed you crab." Oliver blinked, then rolled his eyes with a look of pure indifference. "Hmph. Dad said you'll be back in a few days anyway. You don't even have any friends in this city. You only have me and Dad." Then, he stepped closer, stood on his tiptoes, and whispered directly into my ear. "Mom, you should just stay away forever. I don't like you. I like Aunt Valerie. If you never come back, Aunt Valerie can be my new mom." Those words obliterated the last remaining soft spot in my heart. People say children speak the innocent truth. And it is exactly because he was a child that he didn't sugarcoat his true feelings. The son I had held in the palm of my hand, the boy I had given up everything to nurture, had never actually liked me. I didn't say another word. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, opened the door, and walked out into the night. 2 Oliver was not entirely wrong. I truly had no friends in this city. Years ago, Arthur and I were in a long-distance relationship. Terrified of losing him and desperate to build a future together, I packed my bags, left my hometown, and resigned from a career I genuinely loved. I was fueled by blind, passionate love, fully believing that the right man would be waiting for me at the finish line. For a while, we were deeply in love. And then we had our beautiful son, Oliver. A baby required constant care, and Arthur refused to step back from his demanding career path. "Someone always has to make a sacrifice in a marriage, right?" he had hinted. I understood what he meant. The job I had found in this new city wasn't nearly as prestigious or high-paying as his. So, convinced that our family's happiness was all that mattered, I willingly stepped into the role of the devoted housewife. I managed our lives. I raised our son. That was until Valerie transferred to Arthur's lab. From that moment on, I watched our relationship decay day by day. The warmth faded into coldness. The cracks splintered into shattering breaks. Even Oliver changed. More than once, he had casually mentioned that he wished Valerie was his mother. I stood on the desolate street corner in the early hours of the morning, waiting for a cab. The midnight wind cutting through my coat was bitter, but my heart felt even colder. I rented a small, cozy apartment. It had large windows that welcomed the morning sun. Back when I was a housewife, I used my sparse free time to write independent research papers and compile data analysis. Just today, I received an email confirming I had won a mid-tier industry award for one of my submissions. The prize money wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to cover my living expenses for at least half a year. When I woke up the next morning, a rare, profound sense of peace washed over me. I didn't have to jolt out of bed the second the alarm blared, nor did I have to scramble to make breakfast and pack Oliver's school bag. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I took my time applying a light, fresh layer of makeup. I styled my hair properly. Looking at my reflection, the exhausted, hollow ghost of the housewife was gone. I looked alive again. I even signed up for a membership at a local fitness studio. When I lived with Arthur, keeping up with a hyperactive child and managing an entire household was physically draining, but it wasn't the kind of movement that made me feel strong. Society loves to gossip about stay-at-home mothers, branding them as lazy or useless. I never cared about the whispers. I knew the truth. If we had relied solely on Arthur's paycheck, Oliver would never have been able to live the pampered, spoiled life he enjoyed. My endless unpaid labor was what kept that house afloat. I shook the thoughts from my head and sat down at my laptop to polish my resume. I wanted to go back. I wanted to stand in a real laboratory again, not just sit at a makeshift desk in a laundry room. That afternoon, I treated myself to my absolute favorite cuisine. A blistering, tongue-numbing Szechuan hot pot. Because Arthur and Oliver preferred mild, sweet flavors, I had practically banished chili peppers from my kitchen for years. Taking that first bite of spicy, boiling broth, the heat rushed to my head. It was a sharp, painful reminder of how completely I had erased my own identity to accommodate theirs. That evening, Arthur called. His tone was perfectly casual, as if nothing had changed. "I'm just calling to ask about a sealed box of your things in the closet. I didn't open it. Give me your new address, and I'll mail it to you." I paused for a moment, then replied smoothly. "You can open it. It's just a bunch of useless junk from the past. I don't need it anymore. Throw it all in the trash." Arthur hesitated on the other end, his breathing faltering. "Oh, and by the way," I added. "If you find anything else that belongs to me, just throw it out. Save yourself the trouble of calling me." I ended the call. That box contained every single keepsake from the early days of our relationship. Movie tickets, handwritten notes, little gifts he had bought me when we had nothing. I had clung to them for years, unable to let them go. Now, they were just garbage. After a few rounds of interviews, I successfully landed a position at a private biotech firm. They were impressed by my independent research and offered me my own lab space to lead a small project. Leaving work that evening, I stopped by the supermarket. In the past, my grocery cart was always filled with ingredients tailored exclusively to my husband and son's cravings. Today, I was going to spoil my own appetite. Just as I was pushing my cart down the produce aisle, my phone rang. It was Oliver's kindergarten teacher. "Oliver's Mom, I just wanted to check if you forgot the time today? All the other children have been picked up. Oliver is the only one left waiting here." 3 I checked my watch. It had been over an hour since the kindergarten dismissed its students. I didn't stop walking. I kept pushing my cart toward the fresh seafood section, absolutely refusing to alter my plans. "I'm sorry, Teacher," I said calmly. "Oliver's father and I are divorced. His father has full custody now. Please contact him from now on. Let me give you his number." "Oh! I had no idea," the teacher stammered, clearly embarrassed. "Because you've always been the one to pick him up, and Oliver insisted I call you. I'm so sorry to bother you." I was about to tell her it was fine and hang up, but I suddenly heard Oliver snatch the phone from his teacher. "Mom, you are being so petty!" his shrill voice barked through the speaker. "Dad is super busy at work! You don't even do anything all day, why can't you just come pick me up?" "Hmph. If it were Aunt Valerie, she would definitely come get me." Hearing those words, my heart didn't even skip a beat. "Oliver," I said, my voice cold and flat. "Your father and I are divorced. I am never coming to pick you up again. If no one comes to get you, tell your teacher to call your father. Or, if you prefer, you can tell her to call your precious Aunt Valerie." I hung up and slipped the phone into my pocket. I truly didn't remember raising him to be this entitled. When he was little, Arthur was always working late, and I would constantly tell Oliver how hard his father worked and how we needed to be understanding. But children are incredibly adaptable. Give them endless devotion, and they will soon view your sacrifice as their birthright. I massaged my temples. Whatever. He wasn't my problem anymore. But my phone refused to stay quiet. Later that night, as I was finishing my dinner, Arthur called. "Eleanor, what am I supposed to do? Oliver's stomach is acting up again. I tore the whole house apart and I can't find his medication. Where did you hide it?" I swallowed the rising irritation and spoke evenly. "Bottom drawer of the cabinet beneath the television." "Oh. Found it." A brief silence hung on the line. "Uh, also... Oliver's teacher called you today, right? I got tied up at the lab and ran late. Did they bother you?" I had no idea what Arthur was playing at. He sounded like he was awkwardly grasping for small talk. "Yes, it bothered me. So please, do not call my number ever again." For years, my calls to him had been sent straight to voicemail. He had never once initiated a call just to check on me. Yet, in the few days since I left, my phone hadn't stopped ringing. The next day, I went to the carrier and changed my phone number. Finally, the calls from Arthur ceased. I threw myself entirely into the laboratory. I often stayed from dawn until dusk, losing track of time among the equipment. Here, in the sterile white room, I felt the original spark of my ambition reignite. It felt like stepping back into my college days. I remembered who I was—a brilliant student fiercely passionate about scientific discovery. I just couldn't pinpoint the exact moment I had allowed life to drain that passion out of me, volunteering to bury my own dreams for his. One afternoon, the department director knocked on the glass of my lab. He told me a partnering research team was here for a project handover. I peeled off my latex gloves and walked toward the reception room. Through the glass wall, I spotted a painfully familiar silhouette. Arthur. And sitting right beside him was Oliver. Arthur was awkwardly trying to explain to the bewildered director why he had brought a six-year-old child to a corporate facility. I pushed the door open. Arthur looked up, his brows furrowing slightly as if my presence offended him. "Mom..." Oliver mumbled, clutching the fabric of Arthur's shirt, his voice small and timid. "Ah, let me introduce you. This is the lead researcher for our side of the project. She will handle the handover," the director said, gesturing toward me. I offered a polite smile. "No introduction necessary, Director. This is my ex-husband. I'll take it from here. You can get back to your work." The director's eyes widened. He offered an incredibly awkward chuckle and practically sprinted out of the room. I sat down across from them, flipped open the project file, and didn't miss a beat. "According to the roster, your team should have one more representative present." Just as the words left my mouth, the door clicked open. Valerie walked in. "My apologies. Traffic was terrible," she said smoothly.