The Evening Breeze Won’t Reach the Shore of Parting Souls

1 After my husband, Damon, came crawling back from his affair, I started a little online project. Every day, a new post. How thrilling is it to cheat? Does a man get addicted to infidelity? After an affair, who does he feel guiltier towards: the wife or the mistress? I tagged his university in every single one. A precise delivery system for his students, his colleagues, and—of course—his mistress. Everyone told me to stop making such an ugly scene, to be the bigger person, the graceful wife. Only Damon defended me, pulling me behind him. “I’m the one who made the mistake,” he’d say, his voice a mask of contrition. “Amelia has every right to vent.” This charade continued until my ninety-ninth post. That was the day Damon stormed into my office, a wildness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, and smashed my laptop to the floor. “Amelia, for God’s sake! I’m home now. What more do you want from me?” he roared, his voice cracking. “How long are you going to torture me?” I didn’t answer. I just calmly folded a pair of his freshly laundered boxers and placed them on the stack. I looked at him, my expression placid, and asked with a small smile, “Do you have anything else that needs washing?”

2 Damon froze, his chest heaving with a rage that had nowhere to go. His furious questions hit me and dissolved, like fists punching a pillow. When he didn’t speak, I moved toward him, taking his suit jacket from his shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “This is all wrinkled. I’ll go press it for you.” “Amelia!” he grabbed my arm, his voice tight with an irritation he couldn’t contain. “What is it you want? Can you just stop this act?” He gestured wildly at the wreckage of my computer. “Do you have any idea what those posts are doing to my reputation? I’m a human being, Amelia. I get tired, too!” My hands stilled. My breath hitched. “Are you worried about your reputation,” I asked softly, “or Brooke’s?” Her name was a spark in a room full of gasoline. The air between us crackled, ready to ignite. “Why are you bringing her up again?” he snapped. “I moved her to a different research group. I cut off all contact. You know this!” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “Do you want to drive everyone as crazy as you are? Is that what will make you happy?” His voice climbed to a shout, but his eyes landed on the swell of my pregnant belly, and the fury deflated out of him. He looked like a punctured balloon. “I’m sorry, honey,” he whispered, his tone instantly softening as he wrapped his arms around me. Guilt washed over his features. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. That was my temper. I’ll buy you a new laptop tomorrow, the best one.” I recoiled from his touch like I’d been electrocuted, stumbling back and pressing my hand to my mouth as a wave of nausea hit me. I leaned against the doorframe, dry-heaving. “Don’t touch me,” I gasped. “You’re… filthy.” Damon’s face darkened. His eyes, already bloodshot, seemed to burn. “You think I’m filthy?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low. Before I could react, he grabbed my hand, yanking me forward and pinning me against the door. He ripped at the collar of my shirt, his mouth descending on my neck in a rough, biting kiss. “The doctor said it’s fine in the last trimester, Amelia. Let’s…” “Get off me! You make me sick!” I shoved him with all my strength, collapsing to the floor and frantically scrubbing at the skin he’d touched. I rubbed until it was raw and red, but the feeling of his mouth on me wouldn’t go away. The room filled with the sound of my retching. “So dirty,” I sobbed, “I need to wash…” “Amelia! Do you hate me that much?” Damon’s voice was a raw, broken roar from behind me. “What do I have to do to make you forgive me?” I scrambled into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast, letting the icy water cascade over my clothes, over my skin. The front door slammed with enough force to shake the walls. I lifted my head and met my own gaze in the mirror. My face was a mess—pale, gaunt, streaked with tears. Suddenly, the grief I’d been holding back crashed over me in a tidal wave. I clutched my stomach, my sobs so violent I couldn’t breathe. We had been the golden couple, the envy of everyone we knew, inseparable since college. Now, his touch felt like a violation. I couldn’t forget. God, I had tried. I wanted to be the magnanimous wife, the one who forgave and moved on. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. With her. The student I had sponsored, had taken under my wing. He was with her while I was carrying his child. He was with her in our marital bed on the day of my father’s funeral. The thought sent a spasm of pain through my stomach, a phantom knife twisting in my gut. Why did he get to act like it never happened? Why was his conscience so clean while mine was in shreds? I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

3 It was a long time before I stumbled out of the bathroom. The apartment was deathly quiet. Damon was on the sofa, his eyes red and swollen. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Tonight… I lost control. It’s all my fault. It won’t happen again.” “It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “That’s your business.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned and walked into our bedroom. I lay down, placing a gentle hand on my belly, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths. I’m sorry, little one. Mommy lost her temper again. I didn’t mean to scare you. My eyelids felt heavy as lead. As I drifted off, my mind rehearsed the same scene, over and over. The plan for one hundred days from now. Once the baby is born, I’ll be free.

4 I woke to a sharp, clenching pain deep in my abdomen. A warm wetness spread beneath me. I fumbled for the light, my heart pounding when I saw the crimson stain on the sheets. Panic seized me. I forced myself to my feet, but when I tried the bedroom door, it wouldn’t budge. He had locked me in. A cold dread washed over me. Leaning against the wall for support, I shakily dialed Damon’s number. “Damon, I’m bleeding,” I gasped into the phone. “The bedroom door is locked, I can’t get out. You have to come home. Now!” His voice on the other end was thick with exhaustion. “Amelia, it’s the university’s awards ceremony tonight. I’m swamped. Can you please not start things right now?” “Damon!” Another contraction ripped through me, and I cried out in pain. “I’m serious! I think… I think the baby’s coming!” “Oh, here we go again,” his tone sharpened, laced with accusation. “Amelia, are you really trying to ruin my awards ceremony? Is that it?” He let out a bitter laugh. “No wonder you were so calm last night. You were planning to use the baby to blackmail me!” “Damon, no, that’s not…” I tried to explain, but the relentless pain was stealing my breath, my strength. He was about to say more when another voice cut in, clear and sweet. Brooke’s voice. “Professor Miller? Is everything alright? Is it your wife again?” Her voice was a performance of concern. “Maybe you should go home… you don’t have to stay here with me…” “Don’t worry about her,” Damon’s voice was firm, reassuring her. “Work comes first.” I could hear the murmur of students laughing in the background. The line went dead. Fighting for breath, I called 911. But as I tried to push myself up to wait by the door, my legs gave out. I collapsed into the spreading pool of my own blood, hot tears streaming down my face. The paramedics were fast. When they finally broke down the door, they found me lying in a crimson heap on the floor. I lost the baby. He was almost eight months along, the doctor told me later. If they hadn’t lost time breaking down the door, they might have been able to save him.

5 Damon knelt by my hospital bed, his face a mask of anguish. He raised a hand and slapped himself, hard, across the face. Twice. “Amelia, it’s my fault. I’m a monster,” he sobbed. “I was just so afraid… afraid you’d be upset seeing me on stage with Brooke… Please, forgive me, honey. We can… we can have another baby.” The last time he knelt before me was at our wedding. He had kissed my hand, his eyes shimmering with tears as he vowed to love and cherish me for the rest of his life. That boy was gone. The man kneeling before me now was a stranger. I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles, a strange sense of relief washing over me. The baby was gone. Now I didn’t have to force myself to stay with Damon anymore. A phone buzzed, cutting through his pathetic apology. It was Brooke. To prove his loyalty, Damon immediately put the call on speaker, his voice a harsh bark. “Brooke, I told you not to contact me again!” Her voice came through, choked with sobs. “Professor Miller… I’m pregnant.” A pause. “I’m going to get rid of it, of course. I just… as the father, I thought you had a right to know.” My hand clenched into a fist, so tight my nails dug into my palm. My lips trembled uncontrollably. My baby was dead, and she was pregnant. Damon frantically ended the call, his expression a mixture of terror and shame. “Amelia,” he pleaded, “I won’t acknowledge that child. I swear.” A raw, broken laugh escaped my lips, tears streaming down my face. “Damon,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” “No! I don’t want a divorce!” He shot to his feet, grabbing me in a desperate hug. “Amelia, I love you. Please, don’t say that.” I tore his hands off me, my voice rising to a scream. “Then get her to this hospital right now! I want to watch her get the abortion!” Damon closed his eyes, unable to look at me. “She… she has severe depression. If I make her terminate the pregnancy now… I’m afraid she’ll do something to herself.” “And what about my child?” I grabbed the water cup from my bedside table and hurled it at him. “Was my baby’s life worthless? He was your son, too!” Just then, from Damon’s phone, still in his hand, I could hear Brooke’s muffled weeping. “Professor… I won’t make things difficult for you… I’m just going to die…” Damon’s face went white. He clutched his phone and bolted from the room without a second glance. Watching his retreating back, I felt a familiar arm wrap around my shoulders. My mother. “My sweet girl,” she whispered, her voice thick with pain as she held me close. “We’re not going to suffer this anymore. We’re getting a divorce. I’m going home right now to pack your things.” But the next time my mother called, her voice was a shattered cry. “Amelia! Damon sent men to demolish the house! The old house!” she wailed. “Your father built that place with his own two hands, brick by brick! It was all I had left of him!” The words were a knife in my heart. My world shattered. I ignored the cramping in my lower abdomen, my hand trembling as I dialed Damon’s number. “How could you?” I screamed into the phone. “How could you demolish my parents’ house? After everything they did for you!” His voice was ice. “If I had been a second later, Brooke would have overdosed on sleeping pills. Your mother called the university and reported her as a homewrecker. She almost killed two people.” He paused, his tone chillingly practical. “With the old house gone, she can just move into the city with you.” I understood immediately. After nearly a decade together, I knew how his mind worked. He was cutting off my mother’s escape route. He was trapping us, forcing my entire family to live under his watchful eye. “Damon,” I sobbed, the sound raw and animalistic, “why don’t you just die with her!” He muttered something about me being irrational and hung up.

6 I was still recovering from the miscarriage, not even out of my postpartum confinement, when my mother, overwhelmed by the stress, had a heart attack and was hospitalized. The blows kept coming, leaving me in a daze. I picked up my phone, my fingers moving automatically. I opened the forum and began to type my one-hundredth post. My baby is gone, but my husband’s mistress is pregnant. How do I make them pay? The post exploded. Within hours, it was trending nationally. The comments section flooded, with users swarming Damon’s faculty page. “Professor Scumbag in a tweed jacket. I hope this vile pair rots in hell!” “How does a degenerate like this get to teach? The university needs to fire him immediately!” Seeing the tide of public opinion turn in my favor, I felt a grim, satisfying release. The pain in my chest eased, just a little. And then, a new statement appeared on my account. To everyone, I am deeply sorry. The one hundred posts I’ve made were all fabricated. I apologize for the distress I have caused my husband and Ms. Brooke Collins. I tried to log in to delete it, but the password had been changed. Then I remembered. The broken laptop. Damon had taken it with him. Moments later, a post appeared on Damon’s own social media feed: “My wife has been suffering from postpartum psychosis since our pregnancy. She has been experiencing delusions that I am involved with one of my students. To ease her mind, I have already moved the student in question, Brooke Collins, to another research group, but my wife’s paranoia and fabrications have continued. I will ensure she formally apologizes to Ms. Collins. I am truly sorry for this misuse of public attention.” I couldn’t believe it. The audacity, the filth of his lies. Instantly, my direct messages were filled with a torrent of venom. “If you’re sick, crazy old woman, then just die! You’re one of those pathetic wives who thinks every woman wants her husband!” “Your baby died because of karma, you understand that, you bitch?” As I stared at the screen, my hands shaking with rage, Damon’s call came through. “Amelia,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. “Come to the university tomorrow. You’re going to apologize to Brooke.” “Why the hell should I?” I trembled. His voice dropped, laced with fury. “Brooke is innocent. What does your dead baby have to do with her? If you don’t want your mother’s heart surgery to be ‘unexpectedly canceled,’ you will be here tomorrow, and you will apologize.” My mother had treated him like her own son. And now he was using her life to protect his mistress. I squeezed my hand into a fist, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood. Finally, I heard my own voice, a thin, quavering whisper. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

7 After settling things at the hospital for my mother, I took a cab to the university. Brooke was there, weeping theatrically in Damon’s arms. The moment she saw me, she broke away and lunged, her hand connecting with my cheek in a sharp slap. “Mrs. Miller, how could you try to ruin my life?” she cried. The surrounding students and faculty stared at me with open contempt. In front of me, someone held up a phone, the red light indicating they were live-streaming. Damon’s gaze was a clear warning. “Amelia,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Apologize.” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and opened my lips to speak. But before I could, someone kicked me hard from behind, right in the hollow of my knee. My leg buckled. I crashed to the ground, kneeling before Brooke. Someone yanked at my shirt, pulling it open to expose the raw, angry stretch marks crisscrossing my stomach. “Ugly on the inside and out. No wonder she has to lie to get attention.” “God, that’s disgusting. I wouldn’t touch her if you paid me.” A flash of embarrassment crossed Damon’s face. He was ashamed of me. “Don’t act so wronged, Amelia,” he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “You wrote a hundred posts. She gave you one slap. I’d say you got off easy.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ve transferred the money to your account. From now on, you’re even.” I pushed myself up from the floor, my eyes burning as I stared at him. What they owed me could never be repaid. Swallowing down the surge of hatred, I rushed back to the hospital, desperate to see my mom. But her bed was empty. A nurse stopped me in the hallway. “Your mother… she fell down a flight of stairs,” she told me, her expression grim. “She has a cerebral hemorrhage and multiple fractures. She’s in surgery now.” The security footage was clear. The person who pushed my mother was Brooke.