Part 1The Unsigned Indenture

I watched my husband's awards ceremony from the kitchen, the thud of my cleaver against pork ribs keeping a grim rhythm.

The host asked him who he was most grateful for at this moment.

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice smooth and cultured. "I want to thank my late wife, Evelyn. It was she who taught me the true soul of literature."

My hand faltered, the cleaver nearly slicing my finger.

Bloody water from the ribs splattered onto my apron, like a rotted crimson flower.

Eight years.

I am the legal wife on his marriage certificate, the full-time caregiver for his paralyzed mother.

But in his acceptance speech, I was nothing but air.

* * *

At seven that evening, Aidan Croft returned home with his star student and a few colleagues.

The heat was cranked up high. They shed their heavy coats, revealing exquisite suits and evening dresses underneath.

Aidan’s mother was having a good day. She sat in her wheelchair as he pushed her to the center of the living room to receive greetings from his students.

"Your mother looks wonderful, Professor. You take such meticulous care of her."

"It's true. With his wife having passed so early, it can't be easy for the professor to manage his academic work and care for his elderly mother all alone."

Everyone was sighing over Aidan’s deep love and his difficult life.

I emerged from the kitchen carrying a tureen of duck soup that had been simmering for three hours. The rich, savory steam filled the room.

A young female student turned to me and smiled sweetly. "Ma'am, could you please bring two more sets of bowls and spoons? And a small dish for vinegar."

The living room fell silent for two seconds.

No one corrected her.

Aidan was pouring tea for that same student. Without even lifting his eyes, he said, "Go get them. And be quick about it."

In that instant, I felt like a half-evolved ape that had stumbled into a party of civilized human beings.

I looked down at my own faded house clothes, at the plastic slippers stained with grease.

I did look like the help.

Worse than the help, actually. At least they earned an hourly wage. I only got a fixed five thousand a month for “household expenses.”

I turned back to the kitchen, a sour bitterness rising in my throat like bile.

When I returned with the bowls, Aidan was standing at the entrance to his study, lighting incense before a portrait of Evelyn.

In the photo, Evelyn wore a black evening gown, seated at a piano, as elegant as a swan.

I walked over to place the offering dishes. As I did, Aidan turned and bumped into me.

Crash.

A bowl of scalding hot duck soup tipped over, right on the edge of the memorial table.

I knew how precious this space was to him. I instinctively threw my hand out to block the spill.

The soup splashed everywhere, but a few drops still hit the bottom edge of the photo frame.

"What are you doing?!"

Aidan recoiled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on and shoved me, hard.

I stumbled back, hitting the doorframe.

The back of my hand was already turning a fiery red from the burn.

But Aidan didn't even glance at me.

He frantically pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the photo frame with painstaking care, his movements as gentle as if he were caressing a lover's face.

"You clumsy oaf! Can't you do anything right?"

He glared back at me, his eyes fierce enough to eat me alive.

"On a day as important as this, you just had to ruin it, didn't you?"

At that moment, the searing pain on my hand was nothing compared to the ice forming in my heart.

The students exchanged uneasy glances. The one who had called me "ma'am" whispered, "The professor's love for his late wife is so deep. He can't even bear to see her photo damaged."

"Yes, it's a love that transcends death."

And just like that, they were all praising this earth-shattering romance again.

I clutched my swelling hand and retreated into the shadows of the corner.

I watched the man I had served for eight years lavish his affection on a photograph of a dead woman.

I watched these highly educated elites ignore the living, breathing person right in front of them.

Suddenly, I felt like my entire eight years with him had been a joke.

I was the Croft family's maid, Aidan’s mother's caregiver, everything but Aidan's wife.

The string I had kept taut for eight years finally, in that one single moment, snapped.

I was done serving them.