April Fools “Surprise” Husband Divorcing Me For His “Pure” Girl novel Chapter 98

Chapter 2

I flagged down a cab and headed back to my place.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Hey, miss. You okay? You look kinda rough.”

“I’m fine. Probably just the rain.”

“Weather like this’ll mess you up. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Mm.”

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.

My head was a mess-just one memory after another crashing in.

I thought about the day my SAT scores came out.

Top 3% in the district.

My homeroom teacher called, practically screaming into the phone. “Emma! You’re the highest scorer this town’s seen in years! Stanford’s a

lock!”

Mom and Dad were over the moon-for about a week.

Relatives swarmed the house like locusts, all smiles and congratulations.

Uncle Rob clapped Dad on the back. “Man, your girl’s killing it. She’s gonna be somebody.”

Uncle Tim nodded along. “First kid from this town to get into a top school. That’s legacy, man.”

Mom couldn’t stop grinning. She kept shoving watermelon slices and peanuts at everyone.

Dad just sat in the yard smoking, didn’t say much-but I could tell he was proud.

Those were the happiest days of my life.

Then the acceptance letter came.

August 15th. I remember it like it was yesterday.

The mailman rolled up on his bike, hollering from down the street. “Emma! Your letter’s here!”

I ran outside, hands shaking as I grabbed the envelope.

Tore it open. A crimson acceptance letter stared back at me.

Stanford University. Department of Literature.

I stared at those words until my eyes blurred with tears.

I did it.

I actually did it.

I stood outside my building, staring up at my window.

Fifth floor. North-facing. Shit lighting.

I’d lived here for five years.

Why’d I move here five years ago?

Because Dad had a stroke.

Doctor said he needed full-time care.

Claire was in Paris. Jake had just bought a house. Mom was too old to handle it alone.

So I came.

I was thirty-two.

I’d worked at a textile factory back home for fifteen years. Finally clawed my way up to floor supervisor.

I quit. Sold my beat-up eight-year-old sedan. Moved to this city, rented this box, and became Dad’s full-time caretaker.

Five years.

Five fucking years.