"Azalea, I divorce you. From this moment, you are no longer my wife!"

Reza's voice cracked through the living room like a thunderclap, splitting the air still heavy with camphor and jasmine from the funeral wreaths. The words left his lips without hesitation—cold, final, irreversible.

Azalea had been kneeling on a thin prayer rug since dawn, still wrapped in her white prayer garment, her fingers working through a strand of prayer beads as she recited supplications for her late mother-in-law. At his words, her hands went slack. The beads slipped free and scattered across the floor, rolling away like the last fragments of her dignity.

She lifted her gaze.

Reza stood rigid before her, jaw set, eyes flat. No grief. No remorse. Not even a tremor. The man who had once trembled while speaking his wedding vows now looked at her as if she were a stranger.

The room fell silent. The mourners who had been chanting prayers for the deceased exchanged uneasy glances. Whispers hissed through the crowd, thin and cutting.

"Reza, what the hell are you doing?" The neighborhood chief, who had been helping serve guests, slammed his hand on the table.

"You don't throw around a divorce pronouncement like that." Usman, the most respected imam in the community, fixed Reza with a withering glare.

Reza took a short breath. "I'm divorcing Azalea because I have my reasons."

His tone was calm. Far too calm for something this cruel.

Every eye in the room turned to him. Azalea felt dozens of stares boring into her back. For three years, everyone here had known her as the obedient wife, the patient daughter-in-law. She was the one who had bathed Rosidah when the old woman became fully paralyzed. The one who changed her diapers. The one who swallowed her nausea while cleaning infected wounds. The one whose back seized from lifting that frail body alone, night after night, without complaint.

And now, on the seventh day after her mother-in-law's death, she was being divorced.

"Tell us," the chief's wife demanded, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. "What possible reason could you have for divorcing Lea?"

Reza glanced at Azalea, then spoke flatly. "Azalea is barren. We've been married three years, and she still hasn't gotten pregnant."

The words hit her chest like a stone dropped from a great height. Her face drained of color. Her lips trembled.

"How was I supposed to get pregnant?" Azalea's voice came out quiet but clear enough for everyone to hear. "For three years, we lived apart. You stayed in the city and barely came home. I was here, taking care of your mother."

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. She wasn't defending herself—just stating the truth.

The whispers grew louder.

"Maybe Lea was just being used all along…"

"Poor thing…"

Reza scoffed. "Excuses are still excuses. The fact is, you haven't given me a child."

"How dare you, Reza!" The chief's wife could no longer hold back. "You married Lea just so she'd nurse your sick mother! And the moment your mother dies, you throw her away?"

Usman shook his head slowly. "A woman who hasn't conceived isn't necessarily infertile—that's God's domain. Have you even been to a doctor? Have you fulfilled your duties as a husband?"

Reza's expression didn't change.

Azalea stared at the man she had married. Once, she had fallen in love with his simplicity. With his small promises of a peaceful home. With the way he had held her hand under an umbrella during the first rain after their wedding. Now all of it felt like a dream that had never really existed.

"Why are you calling me barren without a single medical exam?" she asked, her voice fracturing.

"No point. Just a waste of money," Reza snapped. "You think earning a living is easy? All you do is sit around the house—what would you know about hard work?"

That hurt worse than the divorce itself.

"Sit around the house?"

Azalea wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a strangled sob. She was the one who rose before dawn to prepare meals for a mother-in-law who couldn't sit up on her own. She was the one who carried that frail body to the bathroom. She was the one who fought off sleep on the nights she had to change IV lines or clean up vomit.

"God forgive us!" The chief's wife clutched her chest. "A husband's duty is to provide! A wife is not a burden!"

"Don't act like your wife is an obstacle to your livelihood," Usman added firmly. "The ease you've enjoyed may well be because of her prayers."

But Reza would not bend. "The divorce has been spoken. I won't take it back."

Final.

Azalea closed her eyes. Her chest tightened until the air felt insufficient. Three years of devotion, ended by a single sentence.

She remembered the nights she had waited for Reza to come home, only to hear him say he was tired before falling asleep without another word. She remembered swallowing her longing, suppressing her need to be a wife in the fullest sense, because his mother's condition made it impossible for them to live together.

She remembered when Reza had told her: "Be patient, Lea. Mom needs you more right now."

And she had obeyed.

"Fine." Azalea finally spoke. Her voice sounded calmer than anything she felt inside. "I accept your divorce."

The room held its breath.

"But remember," she continued, meeting Reza's eyes without flinching, "God doesn't sleep. Everything you've done to me will have its reckoning. Just as everything I did for your mother these past three years will have its reward."

Her hands trembled as she wiped her tears. But she forced herself to stand. For the first time since this began, her spine was straight.

"Since you're the one filing for divorce, you can handle the court proceedings yourself," Azalea said, her voice steady now. "Allow me to leave this house during the waiting period."

"Go wherever you want," Reza answered without a care. "I'm selling this house anyway."

Azalea froze.

This house. The house where she had learned to be a wife. The house where she had cried silently in the kitchen. The house where she had held her mother-in-law's body close—a woman who could no longer speak but gazed at Azalea with glistening eyes, as if trying to say thank you.

Now it would be sold. Just like her, discarded as though she no longer held any value.

Without another word, Azalea walked to the bedroom. She removed her prayer garment slowly. Her hand brushed the bed they had shared—though his side had been empty far more often than not. She pulled out a small suitcase. There wasn't much to pack. A few changes of clothes, her Quran, and an old photograph from their wedding day.

In the photo, Reza was smiling warmly. Azalea studied it for a long moment. Then, with trembling hands, she slipped it into the nightstand drawer. She couldn't bring herself to take it.

When she returned to the living room, suitcase in hand, the women embraced her one by one. Tears broke loose.

"Stay strong, sweetheart."

"We know you did your best."

"You are a strong woman."

The chief's wife held her longest. "You will regret this for the rest of your life, Reza," she declared, loud enough for the whole room to hear, her eyes blazing. "For divorcing a wife this faithful."

"Amen!" several women chorused.

"This is my business!" Reza shot back. "Stay out of it!"

Azalea didn't look back. She stepped through the doorway. The late afternoon sky hung low and gray. A breeze caught the edge of her white headscarf. Every step felt impossibly heavy, but she knew that if she stopped now, she would collapse.

In the front yard, she paused one final time and glanced over her shoulder. The house held memories both bitter and sweet. But now, all of it was over.

In her heart, she whispered: Oh God, if all this time I was tested for my patience, then give me strength now for my departure.

The tears returned. With halting but resolute steps, Azalea walked away from the house, not knowing where she would go, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. She knew only one thing: today, she was no longer a wife. And her life had just been shattered by a single sentence spoken without love.

Four months had passed since those words tore her life apart. Four months since Azalea walked out of the house she had once called her little paradise. In that time, she had learned to accept a bitter truth: the love she had fought to preserve with patience had never truly been fought for by her husband.

Now she stood before her parents' old house. Cracks veined the walls. The paint had flaked away, leaving behind a dull, sun-bleached ghost of its former color. The roof tilted slightly to the left, as though the structure itself had been bowed under the weight of all the grief that had lived within it.

But to Azalea, this was more than a crumbling building. This was where she had grown up. Where her mother's laughter once filled the small kitchen every morning. Where her father used to sit on the porch, sipping black coffee while waiting for the dawn call to prayer. Where she and her older sister had chased each other across the yard, laughing without knowing how cruelly time would tear them apart.

Now the yard was silent. Only the wind stirred the dry leaves.

"You're not going to sell this place, are you, Lea?"

The voice of old Iip—the village elder who had been like a grandfather to her—broke through her reverie. He stood with a wooden cane in hand, gazing at the house with sorrowful eyes.

Azalea smiled faintly. A gentle smile, but one that held too many wounds beneath it.

"No, Uncle," she said quietly. "This is the only place I have left. My parents and my sister are all buried here. Even if I leave for the city, I'll always come back."

Old Iip nodded slowly. His eyes glistened.

"The house is old," he murmured. "But the memories inside it never fade."

Azalea lowered her head. Her chest felt warm and aching at the same time.

"I'll have someone come by to clean it now and then," he continued. "So it doesn't fall apart completely."

"Thank you, Uncle." She managed a small laugh, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. "If any visitors from outside the village need a place to stay, they're welcome to use it. As long as they take care of it."

In their small village there was no inn. When outsiders came on business or just passing through, Azalea's house was often where they stayed. The old building still held more worth than she did in her ex-husband's eyes.

That evening, after visiting the graves of her parents and sister, Azalea sat beside their headstones for a long time.

"Mom… Dad… Sis," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm going to the city. I'm going to start over."

A breeze caught the edge of her headscarf. "I don't have anyone left. But I promise—I won't give up."

Tears fell, darkening the soil of the graves.

The city greeted her with punishing heat and clouds of dust. The moment she stepped off at the bus terminal, Azalea clutched her backpack tight. The world felt enormous and alien. People streamed past without caring who she was, where she'd come from, or what wounds she carried.

A small prayer room stood not far from the terminal. Azalea hurried toward it—the midday prayer window was nearly closed. She washed for prayer with water warmed by the relentless sun, then stood in the back row and prayed with a heart full of desperate hope.

In her prostration, she wept. Oh God, I'm not asking for a life of luxury. I only want honest work. I want to stand on my own two feet. Please, help me. The prayer was barely a whisper, but it carried the force of absolute faith.

After prayer, she sat and scrolled through job listings on her phone until the afternoon prayer. After that, she stepped out with slightly steadier legs. A neighbor back home had mentioned some cheap rentals and industrial areas that were always hiring. "As long as you're not picky about the work," they'd said.

Azalea had no intention of being picky. With only a vocational school diploma, she didn't have many options. Housekeeping, janitorial work, shop attendant—anything was fine, as long as it was honest.

"Rajawali Street," she muttered, squinting at a street sign. She didn't realize the address she was actually looking for was on a different road entirely.

Her wandering took her into a district of towering buildings. Massive glass facades caught the sunlight and threw it back in blinding sheets. Luxury cars glided past—the evening commute was in full swing.

Azalea felt small. She stood in the middle of a world that gleamed with wealth while she carried nothing but a worn bag and fragile hope.

Lost and confused, she kept walking toward a nearby intersection. Then her eyes caught something—a little girl darting into the road, chasing a pink ball that bounced freely across the pavement.

"Watch out!" Azalea screamed.

But the child only laughed, oblivious to the chorus of car horns.

"Miss Elora!" A middle-aged woman cried out from the opposite sidewalk, her voice panicked.

In the span of a heartbeat, Azalea spotted a motorcycle weaving through traffic at high speed. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She ran. Her legs felt weightless and leaden at the same time. The world seemed to slow. Horns blared. Wind struck her face. Her arms reached out.

In a single motion, she snatched the ball and scooped the child into her arms, pulling her tight against her chest as the motorcycle shot past, inches from where they'd stood. Her heart hammered wildly. Her knees buckled as she stumbled to the curb.

The little girl stared up at her with wide, clear eyes.

"Miss Elora! Are you okay?" The middle-aged woman rushed over.

Azalea handed the child over with still-trembling hands. "Is she hurt?" she asked anxiously.

The woman—Minah, as the girl called her—nodded rapidly, her face white. "Thank God… thank God."

But the little girl shoved away from her. "Don't carry me, Minah!" she whined, grabbing the ball back from Azalea.

"I was worried something happened to you, sweetie. Your daddy will be so angry with me." Minah's voice shrank to nearly nothing.

"Minah's so annoying!" Elora slammed the ball down. "I wanna play with Daddy! Go away!"

Azalea watched in silence, her heart aching. A child this small, already lashing out at someone who clearly cared about her.

"But Daddy said he's busy, sweetheart. You can play tomorrow," Minah coaxed.

"No!" Elora burst into tears and threw herself on the ground in a full tantrum.

That cry wasn't just bratty frustration. There was loneliness woven into it.

Azalea crouched slowly in front of the girl. "Your name is Elora?" she asked gently, extending her hand. "I'm Azalea. You can call me Aunt Lea."

Elora looked up at her through wet lashes.

"Do you like playing with your ball?" Azalea smiled warmly.

Elora rubbed her eyes. "You wanna play with me?"

The question was simple, but something inside Azalea tore. She remembered how badly she had once longed to hear a child call her Mom. That chance had never been given to her.

It was getting late. She should have been searching for a rental. Looking for the right address. But seeing that small, tear-streaked face, she couldn't bring herself to say no.

"Just for a little while, okay? Then you have to go home."

Elora's face lit up instantly. Her smile stretched wide.

They played ball in the parking lot of one of those gleaming towers. Azalea laughed for the first time in months. The laughter was light and genuine, even though a corner of her heart still throbbed with unhealed pain.

Elora ran in little circles, her twin pigtails bouncing. Minah stood nearby, watching with quiet relief.

The sunset call to prayer echoed across the city. Azalea stopped the game. "Elora, it's getting dark. Time to go home."

"No! Wanna play with Auntie!" Elora pouted.

"Elora, let's go!" A man's voice came from behind them.

In an instant, Elora abandoned Azalea and sprinted away. "Daddy!"

Azalea turned. Her feet stopped. Her breath caught. The world seemed to stop spinning.

"E-Enzo…?" The name barely left her lips.

Azalea stood rooted to the spot as the man approached. His black suit was impeccable, his hair swept back. His face had matured since the last time she'd seen it, but his eyes were the same—cold, deep, impossible to read. Enzo, her late sister's husband, who had been living in Germany all this time, was standing right in front of her.

"A-Aza… lea?" Enzo's voice carried an uncertain edge, as though he didn't trust his own eyes. The name slipped from his lips slowly—a name he had once heard Jasmine, Azalea's older sister, speak with such tenderness. This woman's face bore such a striking resemblance to his late wife.

Azalea swallowed hard. Her heart pounded against her ribs. "Enzo…" His name came out barely louder than a breath.

"Daddy, you know Aunt Lea?" Elora tugged at the hem of his trouser leg, shattering the tension between them.

Azalea's gaze dropped to the little girl. Elora. A name she had heard for the first time only minutes ago, without knowing this child was her own flesh and blood.

She remembered clearly the news of her sister's death after giving birth to a baby girl. After that, all contact had been severed.

"She's… Jasmine's daughter?" Azalea's voice shook. She crouched slowly, studying the small face that was so heartbreakingly similar to her sister's. The eyes, the curve of the lips—as if a miniature Jasmine had come back to life before her.

Enzo gave a slight nod. "She's your mommy's little sister, El." His tone was flat, formal. None of the warmth Azalea had glimpsed years ago, when he and Jasmine had stood at their wedding.

"Mommy's little sister?" Elora tilted her head. "So she's Mommy's family? Like me and big brother Erza?"

Azalea stiffened. "Erza?" she whispered. Jasmine's firstborn.

She didn't know what to feel. Joy at finding the last remnants of her family still alive? Or grief over the years of silence that had separated them?

"That's right, El," Enzo told his daughter. "You can call her Auntie."

Azalea's eyes widened. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge her so readily. She had assumed he would stay distant, keep his guard up the way he always had.

"Then can Aunt Lea come to our house?" Elora gazed up, full of hope.

For a moment, Azalea met Enzo's eyes. There was a small, unspoken plea in hers.

But Enzo only said, "Some other time. It's late—time to go home. Grandma will be upset." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

"Elora, let's go." He took the girl's hand.

"Okay, Daddy." Elora pouted slightly, then waved. "Aunt Lea, let's play together again soon, okay?"

"We will." Azalea smiled, fighting the tremor in her chest.

She wanted to ask so many things. About Jasmine. About how she had died. About why no one had reached out in all these years. About why they had been forgotten, and when Enzo had moved back to the country.

But Enzo was already walking away. The sleek black car pulled out and disappeared down the street.

Azalea stood alone at the edge of the parking lot, watching the taillights shrink into nothing. "I hope we meet again," she murmured.

The next morning, she woke early. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but she refused to let her resolve die. An email had come in overnight—an interview invitation. She had sent applications to several companies online just yesterday, and one had responded. A corporation called Kaiser Group.

Azalea put on a plain white blouse and a long black skirt. She ironed her headscarf carefully. She wanted to look presentable, even though she was only applying for a janitorial position. God, make this interview easy for me, she whispered before leaving.

Standing in front of the towering building, she froze. This was the same place she had met Elora and Enzo yesterday. Her pulse quickened, but she pushed the thought away. She had one focus: a job.

As she crossed the parking area, a car glided past at low speed. Azalea glanced over without thinking. Her chest locked tight.

The man behind the wheel looked exactly like her ex-husband.

Is that… Reza? She shook her head, sure she was seeing things.

But the car stopped not far from the entrance. And when Azalea walked past it, time seemed to halt.

It was Reza. In the passenger seat, a stylish woman was laughing, leaning into him. A moment later, the woman cupped Reza's face and kissed him.

Azalea stood motionless. The air left her lungs. "Reza…?" The name barely formed on her lips.

Reza's eyes bulged when he saw who was standing outside the car. "Azalea?!" he breathed.

"Who's that?" asked Nadia, the woman beside him.

"Nobody," Reza said quickly.

Four months ago, this man had divorced her, calling her barren. For four months, she had wept alone in her parents' abandoned house.

And now here he was, radiating happiness beside another woman.

"You work here?" Azalea asked, fighting to keep her voice level.

"You know Reza?" Nadia's tone turned sharp.

Reza opened his mouth, but Azalea spoke first. "He's my ex-husband."

Nadia flinched. Something shifted behind her eyes.

Reza exhaled, annoyed. "Ancient history," he said coldly. "What are you doing here?"

"I have an interview."

Nadia and Reza exchanged a glance. A thin smile crossed their faces—one Azalea could only read as mockery.

"Let's go inside," Nadia purred, hooking her arm through Reza's.

They walked ahead, leaving Azalea standing there with a storm churning inside her.

In the interview room, Azalea came face to face with Nadia again. The woman now sat behind an HR desk, her expression professional, her smile razor-thin.

After a brief round of questions, Nadia closed Azalea's application folder. "I'm sorry. Your qualifications don't meet our requirements."

Azalea's throat tightened. "But I applied for a janitorial position."

Nadia leaned back in her chair. "We still have standards."

Then, lowering her voice to something just above a whisper—quiet enough to be deniable, loud enough to cut: "A village girl with barely an education, thinking she can work at a company like this? Keep dreaming."

Azalea looked down. Her chest burned. She knew this wasn't about qualifications. It was about who she was—and who Reza had become. But she didn't fight back. She simply stood, bowed politely. "Thank you for your time."

She walked out of the room on legs that felt made of stone. Tears pressed behind her eyes, but she held them. She refused to cry in a place that didn't even want her.

As she reached for the elevator button, the doors opened. She stepped inside without thinking. A few people gave her strange looks. The elevator was spacious, quiet—and occupied by only two men.

"Enzo?" Azalea startled when she saw him standing in the corner beside a man in glasses.

"Who are you? That's extremely disrespectful," the bespectacled man—Ramon—scolded.

She hadn't realized. She had just walked into the executive elevator.

"What are you doing here?" Enzo asked flatly.

"I came for a job interview," she said quietly. "I didn't get it."

Enzo's gaze hardened. He looked her over from head to toe. The simple white headscarf. The slightly worn shoes. The application folder she gripped like a lifeline.

"Why not?"

"I didn't meet the criteria," Azalea answered with a thin, pained smile.

The elevator doors opened at the ground floor. Azalea hurried out, feeling as though she didn't belong anywhere near this place. But—

"Wait." Enzo's voice cut through, steady and commanding.

Her steps halted. She turned.

He walked toward her, leaving a bewildered Ramon behind. "You said you didn't get the job?"

"That's right."

"Then," Enzo looked at her squarely, "would you like to work for me?"

Azalea stared.

"As a nanny for my children," he continued.

Her heart seemed to stop. A nanny? For Elora… and Erza? It meant she could be close to her sister's flesh and blood.

But her pride? After being trampled by her ex-husband minutes ago, she was now being offered a position as a caretaker—in the very building where he worked?

Enzo was still watching her. "Your answer?" he asked, clipped and final.

And Azalea stood between two choices. Swallow her pride to survive. Or walk away, back into a city that had shown her no mercy.