When I Asked My Husband for a Divorce, He Said He’d Be Bringing Home a Young Woman, So I Left - 14

Since moving to the Ecklund territory at thirteen, I’ve maintained a delicate distance from my father and elder brother’s family home. It’s slightly more distant than intimate—somewhere between estrangement and closeness.

We keep in touch regularly, and sometimes we bump into each other at business gatherings.

They’re bl00d relatives, but if asked whether we’re close, I’d tilt my head in uncertainty. Yet we’re not estranged either. It’s truly a perfect balance.

I’ve heard that soon, my father will pass his title to my brother and focus solely on managing the trading company. He’ll probably make even more money to lavish on His Majesty. Their relationship is truly baffling.

My brother, like my father, is a man of few words. By the time I, seven years his junior, became aware of the world, he already seemed like an adult. It felt less like growing up together and more like being watched over from afar.

So, honestly, I don’t really know my brother’s true nature.

But I don’t think he didn’t love me.

Whenever he accompanied Father on business trips, he often brought back souvenirs for me. And even now, without fail, he sends birthday presents every year with a short note attached.

Above all, when our mother passed away, even as the soil was being shoveled onto her coffin, my brother never let go of my hand.

He was only twelve at the time. Far too young to lose a mother. Yet his trembling hand never released mine.

The warmth of that hand is what sustains my belief that I have an elder brother.

The same probably goes for Father. He must care for his family… at least to some extent. Probably.

Father becomes talkative when it comes to business, but otherwise, it’s just “……”. When my brother joins in, it’s “「……」“. Not that I mind the silence—so the three of us often end up in a “「「……」」“ standoff.

The steward and maids used to keep the conversation going, but ever since my brother married, my sister-in-law has been gently steering us with her soft “Oh dear”s, skillfully managing our awkward family dynamic.

The senior maids often scold me, saying, “Don’t make your sister-in-law tiptoe around you.” Incidentally, I know they also tell my brother, “Pay more attention to your wife,” and even my father, “She’s someone else’s precious daughter, you know? You should be the most considerate of all.”

I do feel a little guilty, but the dynamic between us—father and child, brother and sister—never changed.

By the time my brother and his wife had their first son, I had already moved to Ecklund, so I only heard about it secondhand. But apparently, the count’s residence is now filled with lively dinner conversations and the laughter of children. The two “「……」“ men seem to have improved—at least a little.

Though I doubt it’s due to Father and Brother’s efforts. More likely, it’s the result of my sister-in-law and the maids’ relentless training.

When I asked—with minimal pleasantries—to visit the family graves at the far end of the garden, my sister-in-law readily agreed.

Despite her initial wariness, she must have grown accustomed to my face, which bears the same lineage as my brother and father. She even turned down my nephew’s enthusiastic offer to accompany me (“I’ll go too!”) so I could head to the graves alone.

Among the neatly arranged tombstones, my mother’s stands out—the newest and most pristine.

And it’s not just the gardener’s work. Even after I left the estate, it seems Father, Brother, Sister-in-law, and my nephews have taken turns keeping her grave immaculate.

I learned this from that blunt senior maid who’s always supported our family—the kind of woman who sets the standard for loyal attendants, having come with my mother when she married into the family.

As long as this maid and my sister-in-law are around, I feel this household will be just fine.

I spread the borrowed cloth in front of the grave and sat down, facing my mother’s tombstone.

Rustle, rustle—the wind stirred the dry grass and tangled my hair. I let it happen, simply gazing at the grave… at my mother.