Chapter 2: No More Mrs. Nice Wife

Vivian's POV

"You really decided, didn't you?" Rachel's voice cut through the silence as we pulled into my driveway. "Nate doesn't know you want a divorce yet, right?"

I grabbed my purse, avoiding her eyes. "He's always wanted a free nanny who doesn't ask questions. Well, congrats—he's about to get his wish."

"What about the kids? They seemed pretty shocked back there."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "Did you see how they looked at me? I'm just some worthless wannabe artist who doesn't deserve to spend money. Even my own kids think I'm a joke."

Rachel winced at my language, but I was past caring. Those two had made their position crystal clear—I was the family's doormat, and they intended to keep it that way.

I sank onto the living room couch, really looking around for the first time in months. When had I stopped noticing how sterile everything was? When had I accepted that my paintings couldn't hang here because Nate deemed them "too depressing for common areas"?

'You know what?' I thought, staring at the empty walls. 'He planned this. All of it.'

Nate's promotion to Creative Director hadn't made him more confident—it had made him more calculating. He'd been systematically tearing down my self-worth, making me doubt every brushstroke, every color choice. He'd positioned himself as the family's sole tastemaker while reducing me to hired help.

And it was working. His plan was working.

He wanted me to leave first. That way, he'd look like the victim—the hardworking husband abandoned by his ungrateful wife. He'd keep the kids' sympathy, the house, and his reputation. I'd be painted as the selfish artist who chose her "hobbies" over family.

Well, two could play that game.

I headed to the kitchen and surveyed the chaos: breakfast dishes in the sink, lunch remnants scattered across the counter. Normally, I'd have everything spotless before dinner prep. Not tonight.

Instead, I opened a bottle of the good wine—the one Nate was "saving for a special occasion"—and started cooking. Just for me. Seared duck breast with cherry reduction, roasted asparagus with lemon zest, and those pricey mushrooms I'd been forbidden to buy because they were "wasteful."

The aroma must have carried upstairs because Emily appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, eyes red and puffy.

"Mom?" Her voice was small. "What's for dinner?"

I didn't look up from my plate. "Ask your father."

"But Dad's not home yet. And I'm hungry."

"Then make yourself something."

Emily's face crumpled. "I don't know how to cook!"

'Whose fault is that?' I thought. Out loud, I said, "Time to learn."

Jacob thundered downstairs, drawn by the commotion. "Mom, what the heck? Why aren't you making dinner?"

I finally looked at him, really looked. Eight years old and already copying his father's entitled smirk. "Watch your language, Jacob."

He spotted my plate and his eyes widened. "Is that... duck? Since when do we have duck?"

"Since I decided to use my worthless artist money on something nice." I cut another piece, savoring the perfect pink center. "This is what I bought instead of your new toys."

"That's not fair!" Emily wailed. "We said we were sorry!"

"No," I corrected. "You cried when there were consequences. That's not the same thing."

Jacob reached for the pan on the stove. "Whatever. I'll just make some pasta."

"That's mine too." I blocked his path. "I made it for myself, and I don't feel like sharing with people who think I'm a worthless leech."

"Mom!" Emily's voice climbed toward hysteria. "You're being mean!"

"I'm being exactly what you told me I was. A selfish woman who doesn't deserve respect." I took another bite. "Congrats—you got what you wanted."

That's when Nate walked through the door.

For once, he was home before eight. The kids rushed him like he was the cavalry, both talking at once.

"Dad, Mom won't feed us!"

"She's being crazy! She returned my stuff!"

"She says she wants a divorce!"

Nate's face cycled through expressions before settling on righteous indignation. "Vivian, what the hell is going on?"

I stayed seated, wine glass in hand. "Just giving the kids what they asked for. They made it clear I don't deserve to spend money since I don't have a 'real job.' So I stopped spending it on them."

"You can't starve our children because your feelings got hurt!"

"Starve?" I laughed. "There's a fully stocked kitchen ten feet away. They can figure it out, just like I had to figure out how to raise them while you worked late every night."

"Vivian," Nate's voice took on that patronizing tone I'd grown to hate. "I know you've been stressed, but this isn't the way—"

"Shut up," I said quietly.

The room went dead silent.

"Just... shut up." I stood, swirling my wine. "You want to know what's happening? Fine. I'm done. Done pretending your sister has talent. Done pretending you work late because you have to, not because you can't stand being in the same room as your family. Done pretending our marriage isn't a joke."

"Mommy..." Emily whispered.

I knelt down, looking her in the eyes. "Baby, do you really think I don't work? That I don't deserve nice things?"

She nodded, then caught herself. "I... I don't know."

"Your father's convinced you that what I do doesn't matter. That I don't matter. And you know what? He's right. I don't matter. Not to any of you." I stood. "So I quit."

Nate's face had gone pale. "Vivian, you're being irrational. If you want to discuss our marriage, we can—"

"Get the divorce papers," I said. "Now."

"What papers?"

"Don't play dumb. They're in your desk drawer, right next to your passport." I smiled at his shocked expression. "You think I don't know? You've been planning this for months."

Twenty minutes later, Nate emerged from his study with a manila folder. His hands shook as he set it on the coffee table.

"These are just... I mean, I had my lawyer draft them just in case—"

"Sign here?" I asked, pointing to the highlighted lines.

He nodded, looking sick.

I picked up his fancy pen—the one I'd bought him for his birthday—and signed my name with a flourish. "There. Done."

"Vivian, maybe we should think—"

"Nine AM tomorrow. County courthouse." I capped the pen and handed it back. "Don't be late."

The next morning, I slept until eight for the first time in years. No breakfast to make, no lunches to pack, no one demanding I solve their problems before I'd even had coffee.

I took a long, hot shower—the kind I used to dream about during those rushed five-minute rinses between Jacob's playdates and Emily's nap time. I did my makeup carefully, choosing colors that made my eyes look bright instead of tired.

The whole thing took less than an hour. We answered questions, signed more papers, and just like that—eight years of marriage dissolved into legal jargon.

Outside, we both stood on the courthouse steps, breathing hard like we'd just surfaced from deep water.

"That's it then," Nate said.

"That's it."

For a moment, his mask slipped. "You know, maybe we could—I mean, it's Jacob's eighth birthday tonight. We could do something together, for the kids..."

I stared at him. "You think I want to spend another second pretending we're a happy family?"

"The kids need—"

His phone rang, cutting him off. The name on the screen made his face go white: "Jacob."

"Dad?" Even through the phone, I could hear Jacob's voice cracking. "Dad, you need to come home! There are moving guys here! They're taking our stuff! They say Mom hired them and the house belongs to her and we have to get out!"