Chapter 6: The Truth Hurts, But I Survive

Just as I got downstairs, Emily, a girl from Derek’s company, called me. She’s lively and straightforward—a very likable person.

Her voice boomed over the speaker, bright and familiar. I could picture her, curly hair bouncing as she gestured wildly, coffee cup in hand.

She asked if I was busy. When she found out I wasn’t, she started venting, asking if I was divorcing Derek.

I propped the phone on my shoulder, grabbing a soda from the fridge. “Fire away,” I said, bracing myself for whatever office gossip she had in store.

I didn’t hide it.

My voice was steady. I didn’t owe anyone apologies or explanations—not anymore.

She asked if it was because of Linda Moore.

I felt my jaw tighten. I wasn’t surprised—news traveled fast in small circles, and even faster through office chat.

I didn’t know why she brought that up—maybe Derek had made it public.

I imagined the watercooler talk, the way people’s eyes would flick to my empty parking spot.

When I didn’t answer, Emily cried out:

"Ms. Rachel, I knew it was because of that woman. No wonder you haven’t brought us afternoon coffee lately. I miss you."

Her words made me smile in spite of myself. Back then, those coffee runs were my way of staying close, a small act of kindness in a busy world.

Back when I was with Derek, I used to bring Starbucks for everyone almost every week. Some colleagues even joked they’d work there forever for Mrs. Sanders’ afternoon coffee.

They’d line up in the break room, teasing me about my complicated orders. I always brought extra cake pops for Emily, just because she loved them.

"It’s okay, I’m about to open a coffee shop. Come by and I’ll treat you."

I pictured her wide grin, the sparkle in her eyes. Maybe I was starting to look forward to new beginnings, after all.

Emily cheered and asked for the address. I said I’d send it later.

Her excitement was infectious. I promised to text her the location, already planning the best drink for her first visit.

She agreed and continued complaining:

"You don’t know about Linda. Since you left, she went from receptionist to admin supervisor, and her attitude changed completely. She used to smile at everyone. Now she finds fault all the time, always looking smug. She even started buying dresses and high heels like yours—anyone can see it. What’s Derek thinking?"

I pictured Linda strutting through the office, teetering on too-high heels, adopting a confidence she’d never shown before. The image was almost comical, and for the first time, it didn’t sting as much.

She said if it weren’t for her mortgage, she’d quit to avoid seeing such faces.

I told her I understood—sometimes, you stay for the paycheck, not the people. Emily laughed, promising to hang in there, at least until the next round of bonuses.

When I got to my door, Emily was still talking. I comforted her for a while before she reluctantly hung up.

We said our goodbyes, promising to meet for coffee soon. As I slid my key into the lock, I felt a little less alone.

By now, I didn’t seem to care about Linda’s situation anymore. Unlike when Derek first confessed, and I obsessed over what made Linda so special.

The ache had dulled to a distant throb, replaced by something like indifference. I realized I didn’t need answers—I just needed peace.

I opened the door and, unexpectedly, saw Derek’s shoes. He was playing games with our son.

The sound of laughter drifted from the living room—Tyler’s giggle, Derek’s low voice guiding him through a video game level. I stood for a moment, letting myself feel the bittersweet mix of nostalgia and relief.

My son saw me and shouted excitedly, "Mom, come play! Let’s beat Dad together!"

His face was flushed, eyes bright with joy. I knelt down, ruffling his hair, and kissed his cheek.

In the past, Derek would pick up our son and make him laugh, then come to catch me. The whole house would be filled with laughter.

Those were the nights I used to cherish—the three of us, tangled together on the floor, forgetting the world outside. Now, it felt like watching a rerun of an old sitcom, comforting but somehow distant.

Now Derek coughed, patted our son’s head. "Mom was out all day. She’s tired. Next time, okay?"

His voice was gentle, but I could hear the uncertainty beneath it. Tyler pouted, but nodded, slipping off Derek’s lap.

"Okay. Dad, when will you stop going on business trips?"

His question lingered in the air. I looked at Derek, waiting for his answer.

Derek thought for a while, then softly said, "Soon," and urged our son to go to bed.

He sounded tired, older somehow. Tyler didn’t argue, just hugged him tight before heading off to brush his teeth.

After a day at the coffee shop, I had no energy for small talk, so I just reminded him to lock the door when he left.

I pulled off my shoes, rubbing my sore feet. “Don’t forget the deadbolt,” I said, not unkindly. I was too worn out for another argument.

He said he promised our son to sleep with him tonight.

I nodded, biting back a sigh. Some routines were harder to break than others.

I said nothing more. Just closed my bedroom door.

The click of the latch felt final. I leaned against the door, breathing out slowly, letting the day fade away.

I heard Derek’s phone ring in the living room. He answered and repeated a few words. Finally, his voice, lowered, sounded a bit impatient:

"I said, I only came home to be with Tyler. What are you afraid of? We’ve already agreed to divorce. How many times do I have to say it—we’re not sharing a room."

The walls were thin, every word echoing in the quiet house. I felt a strange satisfaction hearing him set boundaries—for once, the chaos wasn’t mine to control.

Finally, I heard Derek hang up.

There was a thud, maybe his phone hitting the couch cushion. I closed my eyes, letting the silence settle.

He came over and knocked on my door.

His knock was soft, hesitant, the way he used to do when he wanted to apologize after an argument.

"Rachel, something came up at the company. I have to go back. I’ll come see our son tomorrow."

His voice was muffled. I pictured him standing there, hand on the knob, unsure of what to say next.

I didn’t open the door, just said "okay."

My tone was flat, final. I wanted him to hear the boundaries I’d built, even if he couldn’t see them.

Not too loud, just enough for Derek to hear.

The quiet after felt oddly peaceful, like the pause after a storm.

He hadn’t left yet when I received a bank transfer of $5,000 to our son’s account.

My phone buzzed, the notification lighting up the screen. I stared at the memo—five grand, just like that, for Tyler.

Note: Take Tyler out for a nice meal tomorrow.

I almost laughed. Money for memories, as if that could make up for lost time. Still, I made a mental note to let Tyler pick the restaurant.

I didn’t reply. I opened my laptop to look at the coffee shop’s plans.

I scanned through supply lists and recipe cards, letting myself get lost in the details. The future felt uncertain, but it was mine to shape.

A message popped up on Facebook Messenger from a stranger. No words, just a smiling emoji.

The little yellow face winked at me, unsettling in its simplicity. I scrolled through the sender’s profile—flowers, no posts, no mutual friends. My stomach twisted.

Her profile picture was a bouquet of flowers. Clicking in, I saw a simple profile, no posts. I couldn’t even remember when I’d added this person.

I racked my memory, searching for any hint of recognition. Nothing. The name didn’t ring a bell.

Looking at the chat history, it dated back two years.

I scrolled through old messages, most of them blank. The gap in time made me uneasy, like a stranger peering in through my windows.

As I was thinking, she sent another message.

[Are you proud of yourself?]

My heart thudded. The words felt like a slap, sharp and undeserved. I stared at the screen, hands trembling.

Almost instantly, I realized this must be Linda Moore.

My hands went numb. I wanted to throw my phone across the room, but all I could do was stare.

But hadn’t Linda only joined Derek’s company half a year ago? Why did she have my Messenger two years ago? Had she been secretly watching my life for nearly two years?

A chill ran down my spine. I tried to piece together the timeline, but my mind felt foggy, numb with shock.

I gasped.

My breath came short and sharp, my heart pounding in my ears. I typed back, hands barely steady.

I replied with a question mark.

The silence on the other end felt electric, expectant. I waited, the seconds ticking by like hours.

She typed quickly.

[No matter what you do to keep him, I can make him come to me in an instant.]

Her arrogance was unmistakable. The words were like poison, seeping through the screen.

It really was her—Linda Moore.

For a moment, all the stories I’d heard about her—her gentle voice, her shy smile—crumbled away, replaced by something much colder.

So Derek had known Linda two years ago? Or even longer?

The pieces clicked together, a sickening puzzle. My mind raced back over every conversation, every unexplained absence.

Linda sent a photo. I opened it and saw Derek sleeping shirtless in a hotel, a woman’s hand resting on his chest. In the bottom right corner, the red date read: "2023.2.16."

My hand flew to my mouth. The image burned into my brain—a betrayal captured in digital clarity. I felt the room spin.

I stared at the photo, my chest tightening, nausea rising.

The air felt thick, suffocating. I stumbled to my feet, trying to outrun the memory.

I rushed to the bathroom and vomited violently.

The bathroom tiles pressed icy against my cheek. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

February 16, 2023.

The date seared itself into my memory. My mind raced, calculating, remembering everything that happened that week.

That was the day of my dad’s first surgery after he got sick. Derek was very busy that February—always on business trips. To be with me, he even postponed several meetings. He comforted me gently over video the whole time. Told me to relax. Because I was so anxious I couldn’t sleep, Derek video-called me all night. Finally, he managed to rush back early on February 16. He stayed with me outside the operating room.

The betrayal was deeper than I thought. While I clung to his words through a phone screen, he was with someone else. I remembered the way he held my hand in the waiting room, the way he kissed my forehead and told me everything would be okay.

But on that day, while so busy, he still found time to sleep with Linda. How did he come back and face me so calmly?

I pressed my forehead to the cool porcelain, shaking with rage. How could he have lied so easily? How had I been so blind?

When I didn’t reply, Linda became even more arrogant. She sent several more photos, all with dates. There was our wedding anniversary. Our son’s birthday. Each time, he was with Linda first, then rushed back to us.

I scrolled through the images, each one a knife twisting deeper. I felt the last of my illusions shatter.

A wave of nausea rose from my chest, devouring my pain.

I sobbed until my throat was raw, the pain curling inside me, sharp as broken glass.

Yes.

I whispered it to the empty room, admitting what I’d tried so hard not to believe. It had always been there, lurking beneath the surface.

I’d thought Derek was just tired of us these past six months. Tired of our peaceful, ordinary life. Or that he’d found his true love in middle age. But in fact, it had been rotten long ago.

All the quiet nights, the missed dinners, the unexplained absences—they were signs I refused to see. I let myself grieve for the life I thought I had.

I washed my face in the bathroom. Went back to the computer and saved all the evidence.

I opened a folder, labeling it "Truth." Each photo, each message—a record of everything I’d lost, and everything I refused to let define me.

I knew Linda dared to send these because the three million from the divorce agreement hadn’t all arrived yet. Derek had sent eight hundred thousand over the past half month, with two point two million left. He said it might take some time.

Money always came with strings attached. I made a mental note to double-check every transaction, every signature. I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

The house and car were already in my name, no mortgage, and the agreement was clear. He agreed, so there was no dispute.

I glanced at the paperwork stacked neatly in my desk drawer, my own handwriting fierce and decisive. For the first time, I felt a sense of control.

If I made a scene now and affected Derek’s company, his anger would only make me lose out. Our son would also completely lose his father.

I thought about Tyler, about what he needed—stability, peace. I swallowed my pride, choosing the high road for his sake.

When Derek confessed to cheating and asked for a divorce, maybe he expected me to cry and make a scene. But I care most about dignity, not enough to go crazy at his company.

Let them gossip, let them speculate. I wasn’t going to let Derek—or Linda—take my dignity, too.

Linda didn’t expect me to be so decisive. I didn’t make a scene, didn’t even go after Derek, which was beyond her expectations. She knew whoever made a scene first would lose.

Sometimes, silence is the loudest weapon. I let her stew in her own uncertainty, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

But one thing was strange. Linda could stay by Derek’s side for so long, hiding so well, even pretending to be innocent after joining the company for half a year. Why did she suddenly get impatient?

I stared at her last message, trying to read between the lines. Something must have changed, some new threat on the horizon.

Clearly, in half a month, Derek and I would be completely separated. Yet she made a fuss just because Derek came home to be with Tyler.

Jealousy is a powerful thing. I realized she was more afraid of losing than she let on. Maybe, just maybe, Derek wasn’t her happily ever after either.

I checked the time. It wasn’t too late. I called Emily.

My hands shook as I dialed, but I needed answers—needed someone to make sense of the madness.

She was having dinner with some colleagues, gossiping about Derek and Linda. Everyone exchanged information. I learned some new things.

Her voice was a lifeline—familiar, grounding. As she filled me in on office rumors, I took notes, piecing together the puzzle.

Half a month ago, Derek got drunk at a business dinner and was sent home by a beautiful female CEO partner. Later, she privately asked Derek out several times. Plus, I hadn’t brought coffee to the office for a week, so everyone guessed Derek and I had quarreled. He was about to be single again.

I pictured the scene—Derek stumbling home, the rumor mill kicking into high gear. It was almost funny, in a tragic kind of way.

With this rumor, some women with bad intentions started throwing themselves at Derek. After that, Linda couldn’t sit still.

I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Let them fight over the scraps. I was done with all of it.

"Ms. Rachel, you’re so great, I really don’t want to hide it from you. Don’t be sad. Even though Derek is handsome, he’s a jerk. You’ll definitely meet a better man... No, forget men! Ms. Rachel, you’ll reach the peak of your career, your coffee shop will be packed, and then you can think about men, haha."

Emily’s laughter crackled through the phone, chasing away the shadows in my kitchen.

She made me promise to call her the next time I needed a pick-me-up. I did.

"Thank you. I’ll work hard."

I meant it. I was ready to fight for my own happiness, one coffee at a time.

After hanging up, I saw it was past midnight. The reminder on the calendar stood out clearly.

Divorce countdown: 14 days.

I put down my phone, drew a red circle around the date, and took a deep breath. Outside, the streetlights flickered in the summer air. Tomorrow was a new day—a day that belonged to me. I was done being someone’s afterthought. From now on, I’d be my own headline.