And just like that, something in me snapped.
I went cold. Completely, utterly cold. Not the kind of cold that makes you shiver—this was different. This was bone-deep. Like someone had opened a window inside me and let all the warmth leak out. My breath stalled somewhere in my chest, and my fingers curled into fists before I even realized I was doing it.
I felt my pulse in places I didn't know could throb—my throat, my wrists, my temples.
How dare she.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The words were there—I could feel them, sharp and righteous, clawing at the back of my tongue. I wanted to grab the phone. I wanted to burn her alive with words.
I wanted to scream, but instead of any of that, I stood there. Silent. Rigid. Thomas looked up at me, panic flickering behind his eyes. Like a kid caught stealing. Like a man who'd just realized too late that he'd messed up in a way he couldn't smooth over.
Then, into the phone, he stammered, "No—Laura, no, I'm really sick and yeah... anyway. Gotta go. Bye."
He hung up quickly. Too quickly. Like the act itself might erase the damage already done. But the silence that followed?  It was deafening. Louder than any insult Laura could've thrown. Louder than the thousand things he didn't say.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there, watching him like he was a stranger. Because in that moment... maybe he was. There was a dull, aching buzz under my skin, like I'd been standing too close to a fire and hadn't realized I was burning until now.
My throat ached. My eyes stung. He stepped forward, hesitant, voice low. "October..."
"No." He froze.
"Do you realize," I said slowly, deliberately, "that the only reason she feels entitled to speak about me like that is because you let her?"
He flinched—but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
"I am sure she's been throwing jabs for months, Thomas. Not playful. Not subtle. Straight-up disrespect. Little comments. Little digs. And every time she did, you said nothing."
I took a step closer. Not to intimidate, but to make sure he heard me. Every word.
"You just stood there. Silent. Like maybe if you kept your head down long enough, it wouldn't be your problem."
His eyes dropped to the floor. He was quiet. Too quiet. Like shame had stitched his lips shut.
I shook my head, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. "You weren't just silent, Thomas. You were complicit. Every time you let her disrespect me, you told her—without saying a single word—that I didn't matter enough to defend."
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. But I had never meant anything more in my life.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, eyes dropping like they always did when it got real.
I laughed, but there was nothing soft about it. "You should tattoo that on your forehead. Save some breath."
His jaw tensed. Still, he said nothing.
"I know I messed up. All of it. From the beginning. I don't even know what to say to make it right."
"Be a good father. That's it. Because you suck as a husband."
I turned toward the door. My hand on the knob, I added, "My lawyer will be in touch. We need to start sorting out the divorce."
"No. Please, October. Don't—"