“At first, I thought robots should be all about practicality. Their main purpose was to serve people and make life easier. All that ‘fun’ or ‘frivolous’ stuff? I thought it was just a distraction.”
His voice cracked slightly. “But everything changed after my son took his own life… because of depression.”
I was stunned. His son, barely older than Max, should’ve been enjoying his college years, not making such a heartbreaking decision.
“It’s my fault,” Mr. Lewis continued, his voice filled with sorrow. “When his mother passed, I buried myself in work. I barely paid attention to him. And when we did talk, all I ever cared about were his grades.”
He wiped away the tears welling in his eyes, his hands trembling.
“One day, his grades dropped, and I got so angry. I searched his room and found toys—just a bunch of them hidden away. I thought they were the reason for his failing grades, so I destroyed them all. To me, they were distractions, obstacles to his success.”
The next day, his son jumped from their apartment building.
The weight of his words settled in my chest. I wanted to comfort him, but no words felt right. Instead, I made a quiet vow to myself to work harder—to create toys that could bring joy to people, as if that might somehow ease his pain.
A week into my new job, I felt like I’d found my footing. The work was fulfilling, my colleagues were kind, and for the first time in ages, I felt like my life had meaning again.
In the meantime, I cut off all contact with Tom and Max.
At first, they seemed determined to show how independent they were by refusing to reach out. But it didn’t take long for them to crack.
“Lauren,” Tom’s voice came through the phone, sounding almost desperate. “If you’ve got some time, can you come home? Max and I have been living off takeout, and we’re both sick of it. We miss your cooking.”
“Then learn to cook yourselves. It’s not that hard,” I replied, my voice flat.
Tom stammered, trying to soften his tone. “I know you’re still upset about Rachel. I admit, Max and I were wrong. We shouldn’t have left you alone on your birthday. If it helps, I promise we won’t see her again. Just… stop being mad, okay?”
“I already told you, I’m not mad,” I said curtly. “I don’t care about your relationship with Rachel. There’s no need to talk about it. I’m busy. If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up.”
“Wait!” His voice grew louder, more frantic. “Why are you acting like this? I’ve apologized! What else do you want from me? Do I have to beg on my knees for you to let this go?”
His tone was raw, almost frantic—a complete shift from the calm, calculated way he used to speak when he was manipulating me.
It was the same old tactic. Whenever I got upset, he’d play the victim. He’d push me until I snapped, and then he’d act like I was the unreasonable one, the “crazy” wife. It was his go-to move, and I had fallen for it too many times before.
But now? The roles had reversed.
I allowed myself a small, victorious smile before saying the words he’d thrown at me countless times:
“If you really can’t handle this anymore, then let’s get a divorce.”
“What did you just say?” His voice trembled with disbelief, like I’d just suggested something unthinkable.
“Why are you so shocked?” I asked coolly. “Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting all along?”
On impulse, I searched through our message history and typed “divorce” into the search bar. I was taken aback by how many messages came up—almost a hundred, all sent by him.
I took a screenshot and sent it to him.
For a long moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then, his voice erupted in a mix of anger and desperation.
“I’m not agreeing to a divorce! I refuse to divorce you!”
And with that, he slammed the phone down.
