The Wife He Forgot To Love Chapter 01
Daniela’s POV
I had been married to Jonathan Aguirre for five years. Today, after dropping our daughter, Pauline Aguirre, off at kindergarten, I went home, locked the bathroom door, climbed into the bathtub, and slit my wrist with a brand-new razor blade.
As my consciousness slipped away, I heard my phone buzzing nonstop—probably my younger brother asking for money, or my mother urging me to clean up his mess, or Jonathan asking what was for dinner. None of it mattered anymore. For the first time in thirty years, I felt truly free.
***
When I opened my eyes again, I was hovering in the air.
Looking down, I saw a bony woman lying in the bathtub, her face deathly pale. The floor was covered in blood.
After a long while, I finally realized that I was dead.
I drifted out of the house.
Jonathan’s workplace was not far away. I wanted to go see him.
He sat at his desk with documents spread out before him, his brows slightly furrowed just like usual.
I floated right beside him, gazing closely at his face.
He was undeniably good-looking. Tall and smooth-skinned, with thin-framed glasses, he looked like a gentle, refined scholar.
His eyesight wasn’t even bad enough to require glasses, but he’d worn them ever since college, when I first told him how handsome he looked in them.
Just then, his phone vibrated. It was my mom calling.
He frowned and answered the call, struggling to hold back his irritation as he spoke, “What is it, Jaelyn?”
“Dani hasn’t replied to any messages for two hours. Has she contacted you?” Mom’s voice crackled with worry.
“No. She’s probably busy making dinner and hasn’t checked her phone yet. Don’t worry.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened, his face screaming irritation.
“I see. Jon, Brad scraped someone else’s car by accident and got into a fight with the owner. He’s now at the police station. I can’t reach Dani, and I’m too far away to get there myself. Could you go handle this?”
“I’m at work. I’ll deal with it after I get off work.”
Jonathan hung up, put his phone face down on the desk, and muttered under his breath, “This is so annoying.”
I hovered beside him, staring at his profile. I was all too familiar with this look of irritation on his face.
I’d seen it countless times throughout our five years of marriage.
Every time he frowned, a knot would form in my stomach, and I’d instantly feel like I’d messed up again.
He had no idea I was gone forever.
He thought I was just busy— cooking, looking after Pauline, or doing those trivial house chores he never took seriously.
He knew absolutely nothing at all.
My family lived in a tiny village in the northwest, one too small to even show up on any map.
Calling it a village was even flattering. It was a settlement tucked under a township, with nothing but a dirt road running through it and only a handful of houses at the end, ours sitting right in the middle.
We were dirt poor. Dad would turn violent after drinking and call me a useless burden every time he hit me.
Mom would always give the good food to my younger brother, Bradley Wheeler, telling me, “You’re the older sister. You need to let your brother have it.”
When Bradley was first born, I leaned over the bed to watch him. He was so tiny with a wrinkled face, looking just like a hairless little rat.
When I reached out to touch his cheek, he instantly wrapped his small hand tightly around my finger.
At three years old, he’d trail right behind me, calling me over and over, slurred but enthusiastic.
When I headed off to school, he’d cry loudly at the crossing. Held back by Mom, he stretched his hands toward me, begging me not to leave.
When he turned five, someone gave him a piece of candy.
He kept it in his pocket the whole day long. By the time he got home, the candy had melted and stuck firmly to the fabric.
He struggled to get it out and ended up crying in frustration. When I asked who it was for, he said, “It’s for you.”
I scraped off the sweet residue and ate it, and it tasted wonderful. He grinned widely, revealing the gap where his two front teeth had been.
Dad was always violent when he got wasted. He hit Mom and me alike, smashing glasses, plates, and other things in fits of rage.