He Called Me A Maid, So I Divorced Him and Took Everything

To support my son's college prep, I turned down a prestigious medical fellowship to become a full-time stay-at-home mom. Yet, my underachieving husband despised me, claiming I only knew how to beg for money and had become totally detached from society. Later, I stumbled upon flirty SnapChat messages between him and a new intern at his company. On a stormy day, an out-of-control scooter slammed into my son outside his tutoring center, fracturing his leg. As the ambulance rushed him to the hospital, I called my husband. He was busy apartment hunting with that intern. He answered and hissed into the receiver, "I’m busy. Stop bothering me." Then he hung up. The doctor warned that even after surgery, the injury could cause permanent nerve damage, leaving him with a slight limp. From then on, my once cheerful boy became quiet and withdrawn, walking with a faint, heartbreaking stagger. Drowning in guilt and insomnia, I could see nothing in my head except my son limping. On the day he was discharged, driving on exhaustion, a truck crossed into my lane. I swerved on instinct, crashing head-on into the guardrail. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in my own kitchen—three days before the accident. In the living room, my husband Sean’s familiar insults drifted in: that I didn't earn a dime, that I was just a glorified maid. I twisted the faucet shut, my knuckles turning white. Staring at these hands, both familiar and estranged, I slowly dried them off, walked out, and met his sneer with a cold smile: "Sure. Then I won’t stay in this house anymore. I'm sure your little intern would love to be your free live-in maid." The moment the car hit the guardrail, my final thought wasn’t for myself—it was for my limping son in the backseat. Amid a piercing ring and a violent spin, the world went dead silent. When my eyes fluttered open, I was standing before the kitchen sink, clutching a half-washed dishcloth, my fingertips wrinkled from the cold tap water. Sean’s voice drifted in from the living room, dripping with the exact impatience I had endured for three years: "Sitting on your butt at home all day, not bringing in a single cent. Can you do anything besides cook? How are you any different from a hired maid!" I remembered those exact words. In my past life, hearing them made my eyes well up with tears. I swallowed the humiliation, silently stacked the plates into the cupboard, and pretended nothing was wrong. Not this time. I checked my phone—Friday, June 14th, 2:17 PM. Three days before the torrential storm. Three days before the scooter shattered my son's leg outside the prep center. I turned off the faucet, my knuckles white. I knew these hands all too well. Three years of being a full-time tutor-mom—cooking, chauffeuring, cleaning, simmering soups, trading the best years of my life for grease and kitchen grime. I dried my hands and stepped out of the kitchen. Sean lounged on the couch with his legs crossed, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t even glance up as I walked in, just threw out another jab: "I'm talking to you. Did you hear me?" I didn’t answer. After two seconds of silence, thinking he hadn't rattled me enough, he snapped: "All my coworkers' wives have jobs. You're the only one rotting at home. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is supporting three people on my salary?" The old Chloe would have stayed quiet, endured it, and cried silently in the locked bathroom late at night. But I had already died once. I neatly folded the dishcloth, laid it on the counter, and looked up at him. He was wearing that bluish-gray polo shirt. A faint hint of perfume lingered around his collar—one that didn't belong to me. I had never noticed it before. Or maybe I had, but had been too terrified to confront the truth. "Sean." He finally looked up, likely startled by my steady tone. I didn’t blow up. In my past life, my biggest flaw was acting on raw impulse, being soft-hearted, and falling for sweet excuses. I simply said, "You're right. It's about time I went back to work." He froze, clearly taken aback. Whenever he threw a tantrum, I had always either gone mute or burst into tears. He was used to walking all over me. "Fine, go find something then," he muttered, turning his attention back to his screen with a dismissive smirk. "Just don't make empty promises like you always do." I didn't argue. I turned, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door behind me. First things first: I retrieved the portfolio tucked at the bottom of the closet. Inside lay my medical degrees, board certifications, the recommendation letter for my fellowship, and my resignation agreement from three years ago. Back then, the head of pathology at the regional hospital had personally called to offer me an advanced fellowship. Six months there, and I would have been promoted straight to Senior Attending Pathologist. Sean had begged me to turn it down, insisting that Lucas's critical high school years needed full-time support. I had agonized over it, but ultimately submitted my resignation. I remembered his promises vividly: "Don't worry, babe, I've got us covered. Once Lucas gets into college, you can dive right back into your career. It'll be the same." Three years later, his salary had barely increased by two hundred dollars. The monthly allowance he transferred to me had dropped from eight hundred to four hundred. He claimed "times were tough," while secretly spending three hundred on luxury lipsticks for his company intern. In my past life, I discovered all of this on his phone far too late. This time, I was going to dismantle him piece by piece. I unlocked my phone, scrolled to the bottom of my contacts, and found a number I hadn't dialed in three years—Megan, my former partner in the pathology lab, now an associate chief. After a couple of seconds of hesitation, I pressed dial. It picked up after three rings. "Chloe?" Her voice was filled with delight. "You finally remembered me! We were just talking about you at our department dinner. Everyone thought you'd left medicine for good." My throat tightened, but I quickly composed myself. "Megan, is there an opening in the lab right now?" A beat of silence followed, then Megan dropped her voice: "Always. For you, absolutely. If you want back in, I'll talk to the director today." "Back in the day, nobody in the entire hospital doubted your diagnostics." Hanging up, I sat on the edge of the bed. I cataloged every certificate, photographed them, and backed them up to my secure cloud drive. Then, I walked over to Sean's closet. In my previous life, I had uncovered those messages in late June when he got a new phone and left the old one lying around. Today was June 14th. Late June was only a couple of weeks away, but by then, Lucas's accident had already happened. It had been too late. Which meant the flirtatious texts were already on his phone right now. I couldn't wait. I needed that evidence. Without tipping him off. In the living room, Sean was still glued to his phone, his thumbs tapping away rapidly. A grin spread across his lips—a smile I hadn't seen in years. I had known him for twelve years, from our early twenties to marriage and parenthood. It had been ages since he smiled at his screen like that. For dinner, I cooked our usual three dishes and a soup. When our son, Lucas, returned from his prep class, he dropped his backpack by the entryway and looked at me while changing shoes. "Mom, you look pale today." I stroked his hair. "I'm okay, sweetie. Just didn't sleep well." He was seventeen, tall, lean, with faint dimples when he smiled—just like me. In three days, he would be struck down by an electric scooter in the pouring rain. A fractured fibula, damaged tendons, and a lifelong limp. He would turn silent, stop going out, and watch his grades plummet. And his father, who should have been the first to rush to the ER, would be touring model luxury lofts on the south side with a twenty-three-year-old intern. My fork paused over my plate at the thought. That nightmare would not happen again. Not while I breathed. Nobody was going to hurt my son. At the table, Sean kept his eyes glued to his phone the whole time. He poked at his food with his fork twice, then set it down. Lucas looked at him, hesitating. "Dad, I have mock exams on Monday. Could you pick me up for once? Mom said she might be busy." "I don't have time. Call an Uber," Sean replied without glancing up. Lucas's lips parted, but he said nothing, quietly lowering his head to finish his meal. Looking at my son's slumping shoulders, an ache sank into my chest. In my past life, I had blamed myself, thinking I wasn't good enough, independent enough, or capable enough. Looking back now, when had this man become so cold and dismissive toward his own child?At eleven that night, Sean stepped out of the shower, tossed his phone onto the nightstand, and rolled over toward the wall under the blanket. Within five minutes, his breathing turned deep and rhythmic. I lay awake in the dark, waiting twenty full minutes. Then, I slipped quietly out of bed and picked up his phone. The screen lit up directly to a SnapChat conversation with a user whose avatar had pink cat ears, saved under the nickname "Zoe." I scrolled up three screens, my fingers turning cold as ice. "Thanks for the boba tea today, Sean! The little bear cup is so adorable." "Next time, I'll take you out for sushi. Didn't you say you've been craving it?" "Won't your wife get mad, though?" "She's just a stay-at-home mom. She doesn't have a clue, don't worry about her." "Can we check out that new condo development this weekend? I heard their lofts are gorgeous!" "Sure thing. I'll go with you." I captured screenshots of every single message, sent them to my own phone, placed his phone right back where it was, and wiped off my fingerprints. On Saturday morning, Sean claimed he had urgent overtime at the office, grabbed his car keys, and left. Standing on the balcony, I watched his silver sedan pull out of the gate. He didn't head toward the downtown commercial district where his company was, but swung south. What was in the south? The new development with the trendy loft showrooms. My memories and reality aligned seamlessly. Pulling back my gaze, I texted Megan: "Megan, can I drop by the lab this Monday to discuss the position?" She texted back instantly: "The director said his door is open whenever you're ready. Just come!" Next, I handled three crucial matters. First, I took my ID and marriage certificate to the bank. The printed statements laid everything bare: Sean's paycheck was roughly twenty-five hundred a month. He transferred five hundred to me for groceries, and out of the remaining balance, over seven hundred dollars had been spent on a PayPal account registered to "Zoe." The transaction history dated back three months: bubble tea, retail orders, fresh flowers, designer cosmetics. It was an appalling trail. He had whined to me that money was tight, pressuring me to pull Lucas out of 1-on-1 prep tutoring and stick him into a crowded mega-class. The three hundred dollars saved from that went straight into four luxury lipsticks for his intern. I folded the financial records and slipped them into my tote. Second, I visited my mother's place. She was out in the garden trimming roses, looking surprised to see me. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? Have you eaten?" I sat down beside her, choosing my words carefully. "Mom, is my old condo still rented out?" Mom's shears paused, and she turned to look at me. That two-bedroom apartment had been bought fully in my name before marriage. It had been rented out, with the monthly rent going directly to Mom as supplemental allowance. "Yes, but the lease is up next month. Why? Do you need it?" "Yeah. Lucas and I might move in soon." Mom set the shears down and studied my face for a long moment, her voice softening. "Did something happen between you and Sean?" I didn't go into detail, merely giving a gentle smile. "Nothing I can't handle. I just need to secure an exit route for myself." Mom remained silent for a while before answering: "Chloe, you always have a home here. I'll handle the tenant. Don't you worry about a thing." Leaving my mom's house, I headed straight to a family law firm. Attorney Vance, a sharp, composed woman in her thirties, listened intently to my story. Pushing up her glasses, she handed me a checklist. "Mrs. Lin, if you're filing for divorce, here is what we need:" "One: Solid proof of infidelity—SnapChat records, PayPal receipts, joint photos, as detailed as possible." "Two: A full accounting of marital assets, including the house, vehicles, and savings accounts." "Three: Custody of your son. As his primary caregiver, you have a massive advantage." I nodded, laying out the bank statements and screenshots on her desk. Attorney Vance scanned through them without flinching, having seen this play out countless times. "This is a strong start. But if we can obtain direct evidence—like security footage of them together, or hotel records—our case becomes airtight. If you're not in an immediate rush, watch him for another couple of days to tighten the net." "Understood," I agreed. When I walked out of the law office, it was four in the afternoon. The harsh sun beat down on the pavement. Standing on the sidewalk, I suddenly realized I had lived the past three years trapped inside an airtight jar. No job, no social life, no personal income—every door shut tight by Sean’s repeated excuse: The family needs you. Meanwhile, out in the real world, he used the life I had sacrificed to finance another woman. My phone buzzed. A text from Lucas: "Mom, prep class ended early today. I'm already home. Dad isn't back yet." I hurried toward the subway station. When I got home, Lucas was sitting at his desk doing practice tests, the desk lamp casting a warm glow over his profile. He glanced up at me, then looked back down as his pen scratched rhythmically against the paper. "Mom, is Dad under a lot of stress at work lately? He hardly ever comes home." I set a bowl of fresh fruit by the corner of his desk, keeping my voice level. "Maybe. Don't worry about him, focus on your studies." Lucas gave a small nod, then hesitated. "Mom, there's something else." "On Monday, my prep class runs late until seven-thirty, and the forecast says it might storm." "You don't need to pick me up. I'll just take the subway home." My heart seized violently. Monday. The storm. Tutoring center steps. An out-of-control scooter. Every detail matched my past life—the slick streets, the gloomy dusk, the runaway scooter plowing through the rain. It had happened on this very day. "No," I insisted, my voice tight. "I'm picking you up on Monday, no matter what time. Stay inside the lobby and wait for me. Do not step outside." Lucas was stunned by my sudden intensity. "Huh? Mom, it's just a little rain. You don't have to freak out." "Listen to me." I gripped his shoulder, my grip tighter than I intended. "Wait in the lobby. Do not walk outside." Seeing the sheer gravity in my eyes, he nodded. Around nine that night, Sean returned. He slipped off his shoes and immediately headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. I caught a streak of pale pink on his shirt cuff—either lipstick or blush. Sensing something, he immediately took off the shirt, dumped it in the laundry basket, and changed into loungewear. "What kept you so late at work?" I asked from the sofa, holding a mug of tea. "Crazy project deadlines. Endless meetings," he said, turning the TV to ESPN with an ease that felt rehearsed. "Is that so? Must be exhausting." I took a sip of tea, set the mug down, and walked into the bedroom. Pulling the shirt from the hamper, I snapped a high-res photo of the pink smudge on the cuff. Then I checked his jacket pockets. Inside, I found a flyer for the south-side loft development. On the back, someone had scribbled in ballpoint pen: 500 sq ft loft, $20k down, $1,500/month. The handwriting didn't belong to Sean. It belonged to the intern. I photographed the flyer and tucked it back in place. I couldn't sleep that night either, not out of grief, but because I was calculating every single move ahead. In my past life, I lost my career, my dignity, and nearly my son. This time, I was losing nothing.One day before the storm. Early in the morning, I made Lucas pancakes and fresh juice. Before heading out to his study hall, he turned to me at the door: "Mom, did you sleep poorly again? You have dark circles." "Just a weird dream. I'm fine." After he left, I sat alone at the dining table. Sean was still asleep. He never woke up early on weekends, claiming he was burnt out from work. In reality, he was an administrative coordinator working nine-to-five with zero mandatory overtime—except for the past three months. I pulled out my phone and reviewed the screenshots I took from his SnapChat. The intern, "Zoe," was a twenty-three-year-old recent grad. Judging by their chats, she was fully aware Sean was a married father. She had repeatedly tested the waters, asking, "Won't your wife find out?" Sean's reply had always been the same: "She's just a housewife. What could she possibly find out?" I laid the phone face down on the table. In my past life, those words suffocated me, making me question what I had done wrong. Now, I had only one question: In a divorce court, would this be enough to strip him bare? At ten in the morning, I left the house. My destination wasn't the grocery store or a market, but the coffee shop right across from Sean's corporate office. I picked a window seat and ordered an Americano. I wasn't there to make a scene. I was there to observe. Employees occasionally went in and out of the office tower on weekends. I wasn't sure if he would fabricate an excuse to go out today, but if he did, he would almost certainly meet up with that girl. At eleven-twenty, the revolving doors spun open. Sean walked out wearing a light-blue polo shirt I had never seen before. Walking beside him was a girl with a neat ponytail and subtle makeup, holding an iced drink. She was laughing, brushing her shoulder against his arm with easy familiarity. They didn't head toward the café, but walked straight into the adjacent shopping mall. I raised my phone, zoomed in, and snapped seven or eight clear photos. One shot was crystal clear: as Zoe tilted her head to speak to him, Sean reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He used to do that when he was courting me. Back then, I found it tender. Now, it just made my stomach turn. I saved the photos, finished my coffee, and left. When I got home that afternoon, Sean was still out. I took the opportunity to handle another critical task: locating the deed to our home. We had bought this house after getting married. I provided thirty thousand dollars from my pre-marital savings for the down payment, and our joint account paid the monthly mortgage of sixteen hundred dollars. Yet the deed only bore Sean's name. He had claimed it made the paperwork simpler, and I had naively agreed. It was the biggest mistake I ever made. However, Attorney Vance had reassured me that under marital property laws, real estate acquired during the marriage is considered joint property regardless of whose name is on the title, and the division would factor in our respective contributions. I photographed the down payment wire receipts, the bank statements showing mortgage deductions, and our renovation receipts. Then, I found one more thing: the formal email where I declined the fellowship. Three years ago, my department head had sent the official notification: Recommendation for Chloe to Attend the Advanced Clinical Pathology Fellowship. Attached was my reply: Due to family obligations, I am unable to accept. My deepest apologies. Sean had sat right beside me when I drafted that email. I took a screenshot and saved it to my encrypted drive alongside the director's recommendation letter. Legally, they were supporting exhibits, but morally, they proved one indisputable fact: Everything I sacrificed for this family, and how he repaid me. At six in the evening, Sean walked through the door carrying a bakery box. Unusually, he set it down gently on the dining table rather than tossing it aside, his attitude noticeably softer than yesterday. "Passed by the bakery and picked this up. Share some with Lucas." At dinner, he even served a piece of roasted chicken onto Lucas's plate, asking about his studies and muttering, "Proud of you, son. Keep it up." Lucas's fork paused. He looked up at me with surprise, followed by a faint, long-suppressed glimmer of happiness. I chewed silently, a pang shooting through my heart. That cheap display of warmth was nothing but the crumbs of guilt he brought home after spending the day with another woman. And my son, starved of his father's attention, was grateful for the scraps. I knew the exact mechanism behind his sudden kindness. He had done the same thing in my past life. Whenever he indulged with Zoe, he would return home and act sweet to ease his conscience. That guilt never lasted more than forty-eight hours. Come Monday, he would be back to snapping, "Stop bothering me," before hanging up. After washing the dishes, I stood by the kitchen window, watching the dark sky. The clouds hung low, heavy with distant rolling thunder. The weather forecast called for severe rainstorms tomorrow afternoon into the evening. I took a deep breath. Tomorrow was the reckoning. At ten that night, I entered Lucas's bedroom. He was leaning against his headboard going over his review notes. Seeing me come in, he brightened his desk lamp. "Lucas, I'm picking you up after prep class tomorrow. What time do you wrap up?" "Five-thirty. Mom, really, I can take the train." "You wait for me," I said, my tone so grave that he looked startled. "Sit in the lobby once you finish. Do not leave the building. Do not step outside, even if the rain looks light. Wait until I text you that I've pulled up." He looked at me curiously, sensing my tension over the past couple of days, but nodded anyway. "Okay, Mom. Whatever you say." I reached out and gently ruffled his hair. In my past life, I failed to protect him. That runaway scooter in the storm had shattered his bright, carefree youth. After his surgery, when he tried to take his first steps, his ankle gave out, and he gripped the hospital bed rail, biting his lip so hard it bled just to suppress the scream. He never ran again. Those images were scorched into my mind, indelible for eternity. Returning to our bedroom, Sean had already fallen asleep, his phone resting face down beside his pillow. I didn't touch it. I already had all the evidence I needed. Lying in the dark, I reviewed tomorrow's plan three times. Tomorrow afternoon, I had two missions: First, bring Lucas home safely before the storm hit. Second, tear down Sean's façade once and for all.I opened my eyes at 7:12 AM. An orange severe storm warning had already been issued on the weather app. As Lucas picked up his backpack to leave, I caught him at the door and reminded him once more: "Five-thirty. Wait in the lobby. No matter what happens, do not step outside." He flashed me a quick thumbs-up. I watched him enter the elevator before closing the door. Sean left unusually early, heading out before eight under the pretext of an urgent office matter. I didn't ask questions. Once he was gone, I turned on his home desktop. The password was still Lucas's birthday, unchanged for three years. His browser history revealed visits to the real estate site for the south-side development from last Thursday at eleven at night. Bookmarked in his favorites was a folder titled Loft Interior Design Ideas. He really was helping that intern hunt for a condo. I snapped photos of the screen, cleared my digital footprint, and shut down the PC. At ten in the morning, Megan called. "Chloe, amazing news! The medical director said that if you're willing to return, you don't even need to go through the lengthy hiring process." "They're bringing you on directly as a Senior Pathologist consultant with senior attending pay." "He said the department still references your published research on double immunohistochemical staining." Holding the phone, another wave of emotion caught in my throat. The professional career I had walked away from three years ago still had a light kept on for me. "Thank you, Megan. I'll report in next Monday." Hanging up, I opened my notes app and compiled an inventory of the evidence gathered over the last few days: Seventeen SnapChat screenshots, one comprehensive PayPal statement, eight joint surveillance photos, one photo of lipstick residue on his cuff, one real estate flyer, and three photos of his browser history. I forwarded the entire package to Attorney Vance. Vance responded almost immediately: "The chain of evidence is solid. When do you plan on confronting him?" I typed back two words: "Tonight." At three in the afternoon, the rain unleashed. It wasn't ordinary rain. It was as if the sky had split open, dumping sheets of water onto the city. The windows blurred with heavy condensation, obscuring everything outside. I left early. By the time I parked outside the tutoring academy, it was only 4:40 PM—fifty minutes before Lucas's class dismissed. I pulled into the closest parking space right across the main entrance, flicked on my hazards, and cranked the wipers to maximum speed. The world outside remained a blur. At 4:55 PM, it happened. A delivery scooter roared around the corner, hydroplaned violently across the slick asphalt, fish-tailed sideways, and barreled straight toward the academy's front steps. If Lucas had been standing there, he would have taken the full impact. In my past life, that was exactly where he had been. The scooter smashed into the concrete pillar by the entrance. The insulated delivery bag went flying, scattering containers across the pavement. The rider crashed hard onto the concrete, clutching his knee and groaning in agony. Tutors and staff rushed out into the downpour to help amidst the screaming chaos. I stared at that cracked concrete pillar, my fingernails digging into the leather of the steering wheel. At 5:32 PM, Lucas stepped out into the building lobby. He peeked through the glass doors at the torrential downpour and the debris scattered across the steps, frowned, and checked his phone. My text had just delivered: Mom is in the white SUV right in front. Come straight to the passenger side. He popped his umbrella open, jogged through the rain, and hopped into the passenger seat, bringing in a gust of cold, wet air. "Mom, what happened out there? There's food and wreckage everywhere." "A scooter hydroplaned into the pillar," I said, my voice steady even as my hands trembled against the wheel. Lucas clicked his seatbelt in, looked at me, and gently covered my hand with his. "Mom, your hands are freezing. What's going on? You've been acting so stressed lately." I turned my hand and squeezed his fingers tightly. "I'm fine. Now that you're in the car, everything is fine." On the drive home, the deluge tapered off to a drizzle. I looked in the rearview mirror at Lucas's uninjured legs. He was kicking his sneakers slightly to shake off the water droplets, carefree and whole. He had no idea what he had just avoided. And he never needed to know. At seven that evening, Lucas was studying in his room. Sean had not returned. I called his cell. It rang eight times before he answered. The background was loud, filled with women's giggles and commercial mall announcements. "What do you want?" he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "Just asking if you're coming home for dinner." "No, I have client dinners. Eat without me." I hung up, opened SnapChat, located Attorney Vance's chat, and typed: "He should be with the intern again tonight. Vance, could you do me a favor?" Vance replied: "Name it." "Can you verify the visitor registration logs at the south-side loft development for the past three months? I need confirmation on whether he registered viewings under his own name." Vance quickly agreed to look into it. At 9:30 PM, Sean walked through the door. He immediately headed to the bathroom, changed into fresh clothes, and came out with wet hair to sit on the couch and turn on the television. I brought out a bowl of hot soup from the kitchen and set it on the coffee table before him. "Have some soup. It's chilly outside." He gave it an indifferent glance and didn't touch the spoon. I sat down on the armchair across from him, resting my hands on my lap. "Sean, we need to talk." He finally looked up, his brow furrowing deeply. "Now what?" "What is your relationship with that intern at your company?" The air instantly went still. On television, the sports commentator's voice blared, grating against the silence. Within three seconds, Sean's expression shifted from shock to guilt, and finally to defensive fury. "What the hell are you talking about? Who's feeding you nonsense?" "Nobody told me anything." I unlocked my phone and held up the screen, flipping through the evidence one by one. "See for yourself." SnapChat flirts, PayPal records, mall surveillance photos, and the loft floor plans. His face drained of color, turning from red to white, and then to a sickly gray. "You went through my phone?" He jumped up, his voice cracking with rage. "Yes, I did," I replied evenly, neither flinching nor raising my voice. "Your password hasn't changed in three years. Just like you arrogantly assumed I would never suspect you." He opened his mouth, searching for something cruel to say, but looking at those undeniable screenshots, he choked on his words. After a dozen seconds of suffocating silence, he suddenly shifted his tone, softening his posture and taking a half-step toward me. "Chloe, you've got it all wrong. She's just a new hire at the office. I was mentoring her, that's all. Don't overthink it." "Those texts were just harmless banter. Are you seriously making a fuss over jokes?" "Jokes?" I pulled up the text where he had written: She's just a housewife. She doesn't have a clue. I held it right in front of his face. His eyes flickered with shame. "Telling her I'm just a housewife who can't control you was a joke? Touring condos with her was a joke? Sending her over seven hundred dollars in three months was a joke?" "You complained that Lucas's tutoring was too expensive, but you bought her luxury lipsticks without batting an eye." His lips twitched. He dropped his head, unable to meet my eyes. The only sounds in the apartment were the sports broadcast and the ticking of the wall clock. I stood up. "Sean, you said I'm no different from a maid. Fine. I won't stay in this house anymore." "I'm sure your little intern would love to be your free live-in maid."