Author: Momo Chan

Our school play was next week. I leaned against the edge of the bed, whispering to Mom: “The teacher said everyone needs to wear white patent leather shoes on stage.” “Mom, can I get a pair too?” Mom looked down at her phone, but she still smiled at me. “Of course, sweetie. Mom will take you tomorrow.” The next day, we went to the department store. I fell in love with a pair of white Mary Janes with little bows on the straps. The saleslady said they were over two hundred dollars. Mom held the shoebox, her smile fading into a sudden, heavy silence. I quickly put the shoes back on the shelf and smiled at her, trying to make my voice sound bright. “Actually, Mom, my sneakers are fine.” “I’m standing in the very back row anyway. No one will even see my feet.” I knew why. To help Dad pay off his debts, Mom hadn’t bought herself anything new in years, not even a pair of shoes. I had even started collecting soda cans from the park to recycle for extra cents. Mom looked at me, her eyes immediately welling up with tears. Just then, a woman standing nearby spoke up. “How can a little girl go on stage without proper shoes?” She walked over, took the box from the shelf, and handed it straight to the cashier. “Here, sweetie. It’s a gift from me.” My eyes lit up, but I quickly sneaked a glance at Mom. Mom was standing frozen, all the color draining from her face. At the register, the woman smiled and slid a card across the counter. “Don’t worry about it. My husband makes money just so I can spend it.” “He won’t mind a little thing like this.” I stood on my tiptoes and saw the dark, matte finish of the black card. My heart sank. Only last night, I had seen that exact same card in Dad’s wallet. … Mom stood in front of the counter, unable to move. The woman’s smile grew warmer, glowing with an easy, untroubled happiness. “Once the baby in my belly is born, I’m going to dress her up like a princess too. I never want her to feel left out.” Mom’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. I froze too, my eyes dropping instinctively to the woman’s round stomach. When Mom finally spoke, her voice was raspy, barely a whisper. “You’re… pregnant?” The woman nodded, her eyes shining with unmistakable joy. “Just found out.” “I was just out doing some window shopping today. I can’t wait to tell my husband tonight. It’s going to be a surprise.” Right then, a voice called out from behind us. “What’s taking so long?” I turned around. A man was walking toward us, holding two iced drinks. I went entirely numb. It was Dad. But not the Dad I knew. The Dad who came home to us always wore worn-out, threadbare clothes. The man standing here looked like a movie star, polished and radiant. I stood there, my throat locking up. I didn’t even dare to call out to him. The woman ran over to him, wrapping her arm tightly around his. “Honey, you’re just in time! I just did a good deed.” She pointed at me, beaming. “I bought a pair of recital shoes for this sweet little girl. She’s so polite, she wouldn’t even ask for them.” Dad looked over in the direction she was pointing. The moment his eyes met mine and Mom’s, his smile vanished completely. Mom immediately grabbed my hand, turning us around to leave. But as we walked, her hand was shaking so hard. When we got home, Mom placed those white Mary Janes on the table. She just stared at them for hours. Over the last few years, Mom had sold her earrings, her necklaces, everything, just to help Dad pay off his debts. The front door didn’t open until very late. Dad walked in. He was still wearing his tailored suit, looking utterly out of place in our cramped, peeling apartment. He placed a large shopping bag on the table, calling my name as if nothing had happened. “Maisie, look. Dad bought you some presents.” I slowly stood up from the edge of the bed and looked inside the bag. They were toys and dresses I had wanted for a long time. But Dad had always said we couldn’t afford them. Mom let out a bitter, mocking laugh, her eyes locked on him. “Are you done lying to us?” Dad frowned, looking exhausted, as if he simply didn’t have the energy for a fight. “The kid is right here. Don’t start.” Mom laughed again, but tears were streaming down her face. “Oh, so now you care about the kid?” “She couldn’t even have a pair of shoes for her school play because I couldn’t afford them. Meanwhile, you have an entire other life out there. Another family.” Dad’s expression darkened. “Watch your mouth.” The apartment fell dead silent. I stood in the corner, barely daring to breathe. Mom’s voice was quiet, but it hurt worse than hearing her scream. “How could you do this to us? To your own daughter?” Dad glanced at me, his posture stiffening with a momentary flicker of guilt. But then, his phone buzzed. He looked down, checked the screen, and immediately turned toward the door. As the door clicked shut behind him, Mom stood with her back to me for a very long time. I crept over and gently tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Mom… was it because of the shoes? I shouldn’t have asked for them.” She spun around and pulled me into her arms, holding me so tight I could feel her chest heaving. “No.” “Maisie, you did nothing wrong.” She squeezed me, her voice trembling. “It’s Mom’s fault. I’m so sorry.” Listening to her, my own tears started to fall. I didn’t really understand why I was crying, only that Mom was completely broken, and it made my chest ache. The next day, Mom walked me to school in total silence. Standing in the line with my classmates, I looked down at my new white shoes. Instead of happy, I just felt a heavy, sour lump in my throat. Just as rehearsals were wrapping up, the teacher suddenly called me into the front office. As I stood by the door, I could hear the administration staff whispering outside. “That’s her, right?” “The girl from the photos.” “So her mother is a homewrecker after all.” My eyes stung with hot tears. I yelled back at them: “My mom is not a bad person!” Just as Mom rushed into the office and heard my shout, the water bottle she was holding slipped from her hand, crashing onto the tile floor. That was when I learned what had happened. The woman from the mall had somehow found her way into the school’s parent Facebook group. She had posted the photos she took at the mall, along with a long, tearful message. She claimed she had only bought a pair of shoes out of the kindness of her heart for a poor little girl, only for my mother to start hounding her husband. She wrote that she was pregnant, that the stress was dangerous for her baby, and begged the other parents for support. She wrote it so beautifully, painting herself as the innocent, charitable victim. A few parents had initially questioned if there was some misunderstanding, but she knew exactly how to play them. With a few soft, manipulative replies, she dragged Mom’s name through the mud. She didn’t use outright insults, but every word implied that Mom was a cheap, scheming woman, and that I was a child being raised by trash. Slowly, the comments in the group turned vicious. “Like mother, like daughter. I don’t want my kid around someone like that!” “Disgusting. People like her deserve what’s coming to them.” Sitting in that office, I heard the murmurs from the hallway growing louder. These were grown-ups, yet the words coming out of their mouths were meaner than anything I’d ever heard on the playground. The teacher called Mom, and then she called Dad. I heard her speaking urgently into the receiver: “The child is very distressed, and the parents outside are causing a scene. We need you to get here as soon as possible.” Deep down, I kept hoping Dad would walk through that door. If he came, he could tell everyone that he was my dad. He could tell them Mom wasn’t a bad person, and then all of this would go away. So I waited. But the first one to arrive was Mom. When she burst through the door, her hair was a mess, sweat beading on her forehead. The second she saw me, she fell to her knees and wrapped me in a tight hug. All the fear and hurt I’d been holding back poured out. I sobbed against her shoulder. “Mom, I didn’t hit anyone.” “They’re saying bad things about you.” “They said I’m…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Mom kept stroking my back, her hands frantic. “It’s okay, Maisie. Don’t be scared. Mom is here.” The teacher explained the situation, looking incredibly uncomfortable. She said the parents outside were too riled up, and suggested it might be best if I dropped out of the school play until things blew over. Mom’s arms tightened around me instantly. “Why?” “What did my daughter do wrong?” The teacher sighed. “Your daughter did nothing wrong. But the parents are crowding the hallway. If this escalates, it will only hurt her more.” Indeed, there was a crowd outside the office glass. I heard someone shout, “Make her come out and explain herself!” Another voice added, “People like that shouldn’t even be allowed to send their kids to this school.” Mom was shaking with pure rage. She pulled out her phone and dialed Dad’s number. She called again and again, until he finally picked up. Mom’s voice cracked. “You need to get to the school right now.” I didn’t know what he said on the other end, but the tiny flicker of hope in Mom’s eyes died out. “Maisie is being cornered and harassed at school. Just come. Just this once.” “If you don’t show up, they are going to brand her as a bastard child!” By the end, she was sobbing. But Dad still refused. Standing so close to her, I could hear his muffled voice through the speaker: “Handle it yourself. Stop calling me for every little thing.” Then, the line went dead. Mom stood there, clutching the phone, completely frozen. In that moment, I finally understood. Dad was never coming. Seeing that he wasn’t showing up, the crowd outside grew bolder, their words sharper. Someone pushed the office door open, pointing at my stage costume, telling us not to ruin the school’s property. Terrified, I hid behind Mom. She shielded me with her body, but the hateful words still pierced through, sharp as needles. “Who even knows if she has a father?” “Probably some random guy’s kid she’s trying to pin on someone else.” “Look at the mother. She looks like a home-wrecking siren. The apple doesn’t fall far.” My ears buzzed, and my vision blurred with endless tears. I wanted to scream at them that I had a dad. He just hadn’t arrived yet. But even I didn’t believe it anymore. Suddenly, someone grabbed my student file off the desk and opened it. The office dissolved into chaos. Everyone was crowding around, whispering, laughing, treating our lives like a cheap soap opera. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed through my tears, “I have a dad!” Someone sneered. “Then where is he? Call him here.” In that split second, only one thought consumed my mind. “I have to find Dad.” “If I find him, he has to acknowledge me. He can’t pretend I don’t exist.” I shoved past the adults in front of me and bolted out the door. Mom screamed my name from behind, but I couldn’t stop. I ran as fast as my small legs could carry me, tears blinding my way. The school gates were just ahead. “Dad, please. Please just appear.” But in the next second, a deafening screech of brakes tore through the air. I spun around instinctively. A car was barreling toward me, moving so, so fast. Before I could even register the danger, I was airborne. For a brief moment, I felt as light as a piece of paper drifting in the wind. Then, the impact. The pavement was so hard. The pain was suffocating, crushing the air right out of my lungs. I heard people screaming. And then I heard Mom’s voice, a sound so broken it shattered the sky. “Maisie!” She threw herself over me, her hands trembling violently as she touched my face. I wanted to tell her how much it hurt. But when I opened my mouth, all I tasted was iron and blood. Mom’s face grew blurry, fading into the gray light. The last thing I saw was her collapsing beside me, weeping so hard she couldn’t even stand. By the time they lifted me into the ambulance, I had no strength left. The interior of the rig was blindingly bright. People were pressing down on my chest, shouting numbers, telling me to stay awake. But I was just so tired. Mom held my hand the entire time, gripping it so tightly, as if she believed that if she let go, I would slip away forever. She kept begging the paramedics. “Please save her.” “Please, I beg you, save my daughter.” I had never heard Mom sound like that. Even in our darkest times, she would always hold me and whisper, “It’s okay, baby. Mom will figure something out.” But this time, she had no solutions left. When we reached the hospital, they wheeled me into the trauma bay. The double doors swung shut, locking Mom outside. What happened next, I only learned later from the whispers of the living. Mom stood outside the operating room, and a nurse soon approached her with the intake and consent forms. They needed to run scans, prep for a blood transfusion, and start emergency surgery immediately. They needed a deposit. When Mom looked at the figure on the paper, her face went utterly pale. She dumped every single coin and crumpled bill from her purse, checked her banking app, and opened every loan app on her phone, one by one. But no matter how she scrambled, she was nowhere near enough. She messaged Dad: “Maisie was hit by a car. She’s in the hospital. Come now.” His call came through seconds later. Mom gripped the phone like a dying woman clutching a lifeline, her voice cracking. “Maisie’s hurt. The doctors are trying to save her. I need thirty thousand dollars right now for the surgery. Please, just thirty thousand.” But Dad didn’t believe her. He thought it was another ploy. He accused her of using our daughter to scam him for money. Mom wept into the receiver. “I’m not lying! She’s truly dying! Just come to the hospital and see for yourself, I beg you!” Still, he refused to believe her. He went so far as to say that if she really wanted the money, she needed to go and apologize to Natalie first. Because Natalie had been so distressed by the school drama that her stomach was cramping, and she wouldn’t stop crying. The line went quiet for a long time. But finally, Mom whispered, “Okay.” When she arrived at the private clinic, Natalie was lounging on a sofa, dabbing at her eyes, complaining that the day’s fright had nearly cost her the baby. Dad stood beside her, stroking her hair, whispering sweet things as if the child in her womb was the only one that mattered in the world. Mom stood there and said, “My daughter is in the operating room.” Her voice didn’t even sound like hers anymore. It was hollow, dry. But Dad only looked at her coldly. “Apologize first.” Natalie sniffled, her voice dripping with fake tears. “It’s all her fault. She caused a scene at the mall and at the school. She just won’t let go of another woman’s husband!” Mom didn’t defend herself. She just kept staring at Dad, waiting for some microscopic shred of humanity to show in his eyes. But there was nothing. “Apologize,” he repeated. “Then you get the money.” Mom stood there, looking like a ghost. She whispered one last time, “My daughter is dying.” Dad’s face remained cast in stone. “Apologize, and I’ll wire the funds.” So, Mom knelt. For me. She sank to her knees before that woman, lowering her head, and said she was sorry. But Natalie wasn’t satisfied. “Louder. Admit that you’re the shameless one here.” Mom’s forehead was bruised, her hair tangled, but she forced the words out, syllable by syllable. “I did nothing wrong. He is the one who sinned.” Dad stood by, watching the entire spectacle without making a single move to stop it. Then Natalie sneered, “Bow down. Show some real remorse.” Mom’s shoulders trembled as if she were about to collapse. But she lowered her upper body, pressing her forehead directly to the cold floor. Once. Twice. Three times. She did it with so much force that her forehead began to bleed. Only then did Dad toss a plastic card onto the floor in front of her. “This is the last time,” he said. Mom grabbed the card and ran. She ran back to the hospital, believing that if she could just run fast enough, I would still be waiting for her. But when she reached the billing counter, the clerk swiped the card several times, only to look up with a pitying sigh. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This card has been frozen.” Mom froze. She stood at the window, the useless card clutched in her hand, the blood on her forehead drying into a dark crust. Her face was completely devoid of life. And right then, the red light above the operating room went out. The doors swung open. A doctor wheeled out a small gurney, covered entirely by a white sheet. Mom looked as though she had been nailed to the floor. Her breath stopped. The card slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the tile. But she didn’t look down at it. She just stared at the gurney, her eyes wide, as if she believed that if she didn’t blink, the doctor’s words wouldn’t be real. The doctor walked up to her, his voice heavy with quiet regret. “I am so sorry. We did everything we could.” Mom didn’t move. She didn’t seem to comprehend what those words meant. Floating above her head, I reached down, wanting to wrap my arms around her, to tell her not to be scared, that I was right here. But my hands passed straight through her shoulders. I couldn’t touch a thing. The nurse gently pulled back the sheet, revealing my face. Only then did Mom seem to wake up. She stumbled forward, her knees giving out. I lay there so still, my face pale, my lips white, looking like I was just taking a nap. Mom’s trembling fingers finally touched my hair. The next second, she collapsed to her knees. She didn’t cry. I had never seen Mom this quiet. She gently stroked my cheek, her lips quivering, her voice so soft it felt like glass ready to shatter. “Maisie.” “Mom is here.” “I brought the money, sweetie. Open your eyes and look at me, okay?” Hearing her, a phantom sob caught in my throat. I wanted so badly to leap into her arms like I used to, to tell her I was right there. But I couldn’t go back. Mom pulled my cold body into her arms, resting her forehead against my hand, whispering the same words over and over. “I’m sorry.” “Mom was useless.” “I couldn’t protect you.” I hovered above her, shaking my head. “No.” “That’s not true, Mom.” “You tried so hard.” She hadn’t bought herself a single new thing in years just so I could eat. She always told me she didn’t care about dressing up, but I knew she used to love pretty things. Whenever she made custard, she always gave me the softest, smoothest part in the middle. In the winter, even when her own hands were red and raw from the cold, she would always make sure my sleeves were pulled down tight to keep me warm. She had protected me so well. It was Dad who lied to her. It was those cruel people who hurt her. But she still took all the blame upon herself. Watching her, my heart felt like it was being torn to shreds. After a long time, the phone in Mom’s pocket began to ring. She didn’t answer it. The ringing went on and on. Only when the nurse gently nudged her did she seem to register the sound, slowly pulling the phone out. It was Dad. He probably thought she was calling to beg for more money. The moment the call connected, his voice was laced with deep irritation. “Have you seriously not had enough of this drama?” Mom held me close, saying nothing. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothingness. The doctor, unable to watch any longer, took the phone from her hand. “Sir, this is the municipal hospital. The emergency resuscitation has failed. The child has passed away. Please come to the hospital immediately to handle the arrangements.”

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We were on the first leg of our road trip—the one Lynn and I had spent months planning. I was thirsty, so I pulled into a highway service plaza to grab some water. When I walked back out to the parking lot, her car was gone. I called her ten times. Every single one went straight to voicemail, or she clicked decline. An hour later, the call finally connected. But it wasn’t Lynn’s voice on the other end. It was Chad’s. “Hey, man, sorry about that,” Chad said, sounding entirely too casual. “Lynn turned back to pick me up. We just got back onto I-80. We’ll be at your rest stop in an hour, max.” After I hung up, I opened Instagram. Before we left, I had used Lynn’s phone to post a picture of our packed trunk. The comments were already flooded with “goals” and “so jealous.” But the most liked comment was from Chad, posted right before we hit the road. He’d left an angry emoji: “Going on a trip without me? I’m mad!” Lynn had replied: “Come downstairs. I’m coming back to get you.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Lynn was the kind of person who found it too much effort to grab me an extra bottle of water when she went to the store. She was too lazy to pull over and pick me up after work, even when my office was directly on her commute. Because of that chronic apathy, I had spent a year and a half begging, pleading, and compromising just to get her to agree to this pre-marital road trip. She’d even made the itinerary herself. Her sudden initiative had made me so excited I hadn’t slept for nights. But standing there on the hot asphalt of the rest stop, the truth settled in. The change I had fought so desperately for, the bare minimum I had practically begged on my knees to receive, was something Chad could extract from her with a single comment. .. By the time Lynn’s SUV finally pulled into the lot, the crowd around the vending machines had cycled through three times. Chad hopped out of the passenger seat, holding a tray of coffee, a bright, easy smile plastered on his face. “Henry, my lord! I know we kept you waiting, so I brought peace offerings!” He pulled a cup from the tray, popped a straw through the lid, and practically shoved it into my mouth. Without thinking, I took a sip. The moment the heavy taste of dairy hit my tongue, I spun around and spat it onto the gravel. My throat instantly tightened. A violent, hacking cough seized my chest. I leaned against the concrete pillar of the rest stop, coughing so hard tears pricked my eyes. Chad gasped, spinning around to look at Lynn. “Lynn, what the hell? I told you to get coffee, why did you get something with milk? Henry is severely allergic!” Lynn didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t know what to get. I just ordered two cappuccinos.” “Are you dense? I told you to get what Henry likes. Did you think a coffee shop only sells cappuccinos just because you saw me order one once?” I wiped the moisture from the corners of my eyes and silently took the bottle of plain water Lynn handed me. Just like a hundred times before, she sighed and murmured, “If it’s Henry, a bottle of water is fine. He’s not like you, Chad. You always make me remember all these complicated orders. It’s annoying.” “But no matter how annoying it was, you still remembered it, didn’t you?” The thought tasted more bitter than the coffee. I loved coffee too. I had asked her to grab me one through her Starbucks app countless times. But she was always too lazy. Too lazy to open the app, too lazy to customize the order. She would promise to do it, and then five minutes later tell me she forgot. Back then, she’d be staring at her phone screen, mid-match in some mobile game, without even looking up. “Water is better for you anyway. Who actually memorizes those complicated coffee orders?” I had ordered a simple iced black coffee in front of her more times than I could count. Yet, that didn’t stick. What stuck was a single, casual observation she’d made two years ago, when she picked us up after a client dinner and saw Chad drinking a cappuccino. Lynn and Chad walked ahead toward the car, laughing about something. I lagged a step behind, rummaging through my backpack for my antihistamines. By the time I looked up, Chad was already settled in the front passenger seat. Our eyes met through the windshield. Chad tapped his temple, looking apologetic. “Look at my brain. Henry, come sit up front. I’ll hop in the back.” “No need,” I said. “No need,” Lynn said at the same time. Lynn glanced at Chad, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time Chad had “accidentally” claimed the front seat. Every single time before, I had made a big deal out of it, politely but firmly asking him to swap. But today? It felt entirely pointless. I looked at Lynn, then pulled open the back door and slid in. Chad spun around in his seat, his eyes wide with forced excitement. “Are we telepathic or what? Lake Tahoe is literally my dream destination. Henry, I had no idea you even wanted to go there, especially since you don’t even ski.” Lynn caught my eye in the rearview mirror. She turned the steering wheel, her voice casual. “We were going to go to the beach, but he was worried about hurricane season. So I changed the destination to Tahoe. Henry said he wanted to learn.” Chad nodded eagerly, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a travel pillow I’d never seen before. “Honestly, the beach would’ve been amazing too. I love the ocean.” “Alright, can we have some quiet?” Lynn interrupted, turning on the radio. The song that started playing was Lynn’s morning alarm. My chest tightened. I remembered the morning after she had finally agreed to this road trip. I had been so excited that I woke up early. After turning off her alarm so she could sleep in, I had—on some dark, insecure impulse—opened her phone. Chad had sent her a barrage of texts the night before, complaining about his boss. I scrolled up idly, only to freeze. “Chad: I need a vacation so bad. I want to go to the beach, seriously.” “Chad: Boss Killian, if you guys go to the coast, take me with you~” Lynn had replied: “Sure.” I had stared at those messages for ten minutes, my eyes burning, before locking the phone and putting it back. When Lynn woke up and wrapped her arms around me from behind, I had tried to sound casual as I said, “Hey, let’s not do the beach for our trip. You said yourself there might be storms this time of year.” At the time, I told myself I didn’t mind Chad tagging along. We had all known each other for over a decade. But why did the destination she chose have to be his favorite? Lynn hadn’t hesitated. She kissed my cheek and said, “Sure, let’s do a ski trip instead. I’ll teach you how.” Sitting in the backseat now, a quiet, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Lynn glanced back. “What’s funny?” I shook my head. “Nothing.” I was just laughing at how incredibly naive I had been eighteen months ago. Believing Lynn was changing for me. Believing she cared, even though I didn’t care about skiing and hated the cold. I unlocked my phone, opened my transit app, and booked a one-way train ticket to a completely different city. This time, I was going somewhere I actually wanted to go. We checked into a cozy cabin at the base of the mountains. We were supposed to hit the slopes tomorrow, but I had already checked out of that plan. I only brought my duffel bag inside, leaving my snowboard and gear in the trunk of her SUV. Lynn parked the car and noticed my hands were relatively light. For once, she was observant. “Where’s your ski gear?” “Forgot it,” I lied smoothly. Normally, I would have scrambled back to the car to retrieve it. This time, I just walked inside. I swiped my keycard and went into our room. Lynn came in a few minutes later. Seeing me on my knees, packing my duffel, she walked over. “Are you mad?” I kept my back to her. “No.” She wrapped her arms around me from behind. Lynn’s hugs were always warm and soft. The kind of warmth that made you feel like she could absorb all your rough edges. When we were kids, I only saw her as the girl next door, a year younger than me. But then, in college, she chased away a girl who’d been flirting with me, hugged me tight, and whispered that she was jealous. My heart had hammered so hard back then. Now, it beat at a perfectly dull, flat rhythm. Lynn chuckled softly against my neck. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because I brought Chad along?” She kissed my cheek. “I only invited him because he’s your best friend. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even look at him.” She cupped my jaw, forcing me to look at her, and gave me a few light kisses. “Chad said you were sensitive, but I didn’t believe him. Guess he was right.” Her soft laugh felt like a needle pricking an already swollen bruise. Before I could say anything, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, read a text, and let out a helpless sigh. “Chad says his room is freezing. I’m going to take him some of those hand warmers.” She bent down, unzipped my duffel bag, grabbed a pack of the hand warmers I’d bought for “her”, and walked out to the adjoining room. I stared at my rummaged bag, a cold draft sweeping over me. I remembered a night when I was in the shower and realized I’d forgotten my towel. It was sitting right on the vanity, inches from Lynn’s hand. But she was too lazy to stand up and pass it to me. Now, Chad’s room was ten steps down the hall. She didn’t hesitate for a second. Lynn didn’t return for two hours. When she finally walked back in, she looked like she wanted to explain herself, but I had already turned my back to her, pretending to be fast asleep. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Lynn was already dressed. She was standing near the door, carefully adjusting the collar of Chad’s ski jacket. He must have slipped into our room while I was asleep. “Keep the zipper up,” she murmured, her fingers lingering on his lapel. “Otherwise, you’ll catch a cold.” Chad caught me looking and blew a playful whistle. I sat up, watching the effortless intimacy between them. “You guys go ahead today,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m staying behind.” I had already planned on not going up the mountain, but watching them now, I realized my presence would just be an awkward third wheel. “Henry, you’re awake!” Chad blinked, then patted Lynn’s shoulder. “Lynn, Henry’s talking to you. Say something.” Lynn smirked. “He’s not like you, Chad. He doesn’t need to be coddled the second he wakes up.” She turned to me. “I wanted to let you sleep in, but I forgot to set an alarm to wake you. Go wash up quickly so we can head out.” She gathered her gloves. “Chad, let’s head down first. We’ll wait for Henry in the lobby.” I got out of bed and walked over to the window. Down in the snowy courtyard, Chad was walking a few paces ahead, turning back every few seconds to say something that made Lynn laugh. Lynn was animated, talking back easily—not quiet and monosyllabic like she usually was with me. They always had so much to talk about. I wasn’t into gaming, and I hated extreme sports. Lynn, despite her general laziness, loved cave diving, snowboarding, and skydiving. I couldn’t share those thrills with her. But for the ten years we’d been together, I didn’t think it mattered. People didn’t need to be identical to love each other. Yet, watching her radiant smile in the snow, I knew she was happy. A hundred times happier than she ever was spending a boring weekend with me, eating a dinner I’d spent all day sweatily preparing. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Lynn asking when I was coming down. I opened the chat. I wanted to type “Let’s break up.” But my fingers felt heavy, frozen. Instead, I tapped the microphone icon and sent a voice note. “You guys go ahead. I’m not coming.” Then, I recorded a second one. “Lynn, we aren’t right for each other. Let’s break up.” Her text response came almost instantly. “Lynn: K.” Followed by a voice note of her own. “Okay, then hurry up and catch up. We’ll wait for you at the lift.” She was being lazy again. She had probably used the speech-to-text feature for my first message, only read the half that said “I’m not coming,” and completely ignored the second notification. She probably thought my second message was just some trivial follow-up. It had always been like this. I locked my phone and sat in the quiet room. The bedside phone rang. I picked it up. “Yes, I booked a car to the train station. I’m ready.” The temperature drop had triggered a low-grade fever, and my head was beginning to throb. By the time I got down to the lobby, my thoughts were thick and sluggish. When I finally pulled myself together, I noticed my phone was lit up with several missed calls. Before I could check who it was, the phone rang again. I answered. “Henry! Why aren’t you up here?!” Lynn’s voice blasted through the receiver, but at the same exact moment, her real voice echoed across the lobby. I looked up. Lynn was marching toward me, her face dark with anger. When she saw my duffel bag sitting beside me, she snapped. “What kind of stunt are you pulling now?!” “Why didn’t you come up? Do you have any idea how worried Chad was when he couldn’t reach you? He went looking for you, took a bad spill down the slope, and now we can’t find him!” I rubbed my temples, trying to clear the fog in my brain, and looked down at my missed calls. “He never called me—” Lynn slapped the phone out of my hand. It skittered across the tiled floor and out into the snow through the open lobby doors. Her eyes were cold as ice. “Henry, you’re throwing a tantrum just because I brought Chad along. And now you’ve gotten him hurt, and you’re standing here playing innocent?” “I never realized you could be this cruel. He’s your best friend, and you’re willing to let him freeze out there?” My head throbbed violently. I massaged my temples, walked out into the cold air, and picked up my phone from the snow. “If that’s what you want to believe, then fine.” I grabbed the handle of my duffel bag and turned to leave. She grabbed my wrist, hard. “You think you can just walk away after this? You’re coming up the mountain with me to find him.” The fever made my limbs feel like lead. I hadn’t even put on my heavy winter coat, but she dragged me out into the biting wind anyway. Search and rescue was already deploying, but a sudden squall had rolled in, dropping visibility to almost zero. Lynn dragged me upward, her breathing heavy in the quiet of the storm. She frowned, glancing back at me. “How many hand warmers do you have on you? Why is your hand so hot?” My lips were pale, trembling. “None.” She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Still playing the victim.” We walked another hundred yards. The wind howled, whipping snow into our faces. Suddenly, through the roar of the blizzard, we heard a faint, crying voice. Before I could even process the sound, Lynn violently threw my hand off hers. “Chad! I’m here!” The snow on the edge of the trail was deep and unstable. Lynn’s sudden shove sent me off balance. I stumbled backward, slipping over the ridge, and tumbled ten yards down the steep incline until my back slammed violently against a jagged boulder. Through the blinding whiteout, I looked up. Chad was throwing himself into Lynn’s arms. Their figures merged into a dark silhouette against the white. The wind was deafening, but I heard Chad cry out, “Where’s Henry? Is he okay?!” Lynn held him tighter, her head buried in his shoulder. She didn’t look down the slope toward me once. “Don’t worry about him. You’re the one who matters right now.” When I woke up, I was lying in a small clinic at the base of the mountain. Chad was sitting by my bedside, his eyes red and swollen, gripping my hand tightly. “You’re finally awake! You scared me to death!” “It’s all my fault. There was no cell service up there, so my calls didn’t go through, and then I slipped. I don’t know what Lynn was thinking, dragging you up there in a storm!” I stared at the ceiling, waiting in silence until Chad ran out of things to say. “Henry? Why aren’t you saying anything? Is your throat hurting?” “Of course he has nothing to say. Stop making excuses for him, Chad. He started this.” Lynn walked in, expressionless, carrying a paper container. “I bought you some hot clam chowder. Henry, if you had a fever, you should have just said so instead of coming up the mountain. Why didn’t you tell us?” “You’re an adult. Can you start acting like one?” I stared at the soup, feeling a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. I stirred the chowder with the plastic spoon, but the sight of the heavy cream made my stomach turn. Lynn let out an impatient sigh, snatched the container from my hand, scooped up a spoonful, and shoved it toward my mouth. I jerked my head away. “I don’t eat chowder. I hate mushrooms.” “What are you talking about? You always—” Chad jumped in, reaching to take the cup. “Hey, guys, don’t fight—ah!” The container tipped, spilling the hot soup all over my lap and the hospital bed. Panic flashed in Lynn’s eyes. “Chad! Are you okay?” Chad, his eyes welled with tears, pulled off his soiled jacket and wiped his hands with a tissue. “I’m fine… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come on this trip with you guys…” “If I just leave, you two won’t fight anymore.” He bowed his head slightly toward me. And that was when I saw it. On the side of his neck, partially hidden by his collar—a fresh, purple hickey. Our eyes met. In that split second, I understood everything. The fever raging in my body seemed to ignite into pure, blinding anger. I raised my hand and slapped Chad hard across the face. “Henry!!” Before I could even lower my hand, Lynn’s palm struck my cheek with a deafening crack. I held my burning face, a high-pitched ring filling my ears. Lynn chased Chad out the door, but she stopped at the threshold to look back at me. “Have you lost your mind? He’s your best friend!” I let out a soft, broken laugh, my palm wet with tears. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification showed my train was leaving in three hours. I knew then. It was time to leave.

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My best friend is a chronic romantic—the kind of girl who would willingly set her own life on fire if she thought the sparks would warm a man. On a night when the sky opened up and poured a biblical deluge over the city, she decided to drive four hundred miles just to apologize to her boyfriend after a stupid fight. I tried to stop her. “Just wait until the storm passes,” I told her, my hand on her car door. “He’ll still be there tomorrow.” But she wouldn’t listen. She shook her head, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. “You don’t understand, Hannah. He broke up with me. I have to go fix this.” On the other end of the line, her phone was on speaker. Her boyfriend’s voice cut through the static of the rain, heavy with irritation: “Stop wasting your breath, Hannah. You can’t talk sense into a girl like her. You’re not her mother. Why do you even care?” Serena went pale, but she put the car in drive anyway. She left me standing in the pouring rain. I couldn’t just let her go. I got into my own car and followed her. By the time I caught up, the storm had flooded the low-lying roads. Serena’s car was stalled, the engine drowned in muddy water. But she wasn’t alone. A man was holding her, pulling her against his chest, murmuring hushed words of comfort into her hair. I had never met Serena’s boyfriend. To me, he was just the mysterious, long-term crush she had finally managed to win over. I opened my car door, stepping into the ankle-deep water, preparing to help them. But then, the man looked up. My breath caught in my throat. The world went perfectly, terrifyingly still. It was Jack. My boyfriend of six years. The man she had driven through a hurricane to save was the man who slept in my bed every night. … Jack must have felt the weight of my stare. His eyes snapped toward me. When he recognized me, his pupils contracted into tiny points of shock. But it lasted only a fraction of a second. He looked away, whispered something in Serena’s ear, and scooped her up into his arms. Without looking back at me, he carried her into the house. Two minutes later, my phone vibrated. A text from Jack: “Go home.” No punctuation. Just raw panic disguised as an order. My jeans were soaked through, sticking to my skin with an icy, biting grip. Before I could even think of a response, another text popped up: “Don’t ask her anything.” By “her,” he meant Serena. I stared at those two messages until the screen went dark. The storm raged around me, but inside my car, there was only a suffocating silence. In his moment of panic, his first instinct wasn’t to apologize to me. It was to protect her. I hadn’t said a word, yet I was already the villain threatening their peace. When I didn’t reply, he called. I answered, pressing the cold glass to my ear. “Hannah, go home first. We’ll talk when I get back,” Jack’s voice was a low, hurried whisper. He let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t mean to keep this from you. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just asked, “How long?” The silence stretched over the line, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he spoke. “Six months.” Six months. Exactly when Serena had told me she’d finally started dating the love of her life. I had bought her champagne. I had listened to her gush about how perfect he was, feeling a warm, stupid happiness for my best friend of fifteen years. Did they ever feel a shred of guilt? When they lay together, did my face ever cross their minds? “I have to go,” Jack murmured. In the background, I heard Serena’s voice, soft and domestic: “Jack, where did you put the fresh towels?” He hung up before I could answer. With my car engine ruined by the floodwaters, I had to tow it and check into a cheap motel around the corner from his place. I sat on the edge of the stiff mattress, staring at the peeling wallpaper, and opened Instagram. Serena had just posted. “Back in his arms~ He acts so tough about breaking up, but he’s just a big softie. Stubborn boy.” Underneath was a photo of their fingers locked together. I stared at it for a long time. Then, I tapped the heart. Almost instantly, a message from her popped up. “Hannah! We made up, you don’t have to worry about me anymore~” The air in my chest felt tight, like breathing glass. I typed out a reply: “Good. I’m glad. I hope you two are very happy together.” The next day, I made my way back to our apartment. Jack called me. “Did you make it back?” “Yes,” I whispered. I heard him exhale on the other end, his posture relaxing even through the phone. “I think I’m going to stay here for a couple more days.” It wasn’t a request. It was an executive decision. “Are you staying to be with her?” I asked. Now that the secret was out, he didn’t even bother to lie. He didn’t have to waste energy fabricating business trips anymore. “Yeah. She wants to watch the sunrise tomorrow. I promised I’d take her,” Jack said, his tone casual, almost dismissive. “There’s nothing pressing at the office anyway, so I’m not in a rush to get back.” My eyelids trembled. Two months ago, I had planned a weekend trip for us to hike up the mountain and watch the sunrise. I remembered his exact words: “It’s such a waste of energy, Hannah. We can watch a sunrise from the balcony. You should just stay home and rest.” He had made me feel foolish for wanting something so simple. But for her, he was willing to lose sleep. I hung up and looked at the little ceramic magnet on our refrigerator. Jack had brought it back from a trip. When Serena saw it, she had laughed and said, “Oh, that’s the freebie they gave me when I bought my new designer bracelet.” I pulled out my phone and searched the brand. It was indeed a complimentary gift. He had given her the gold bracelet and brought me the leftover cardboard packaging. A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat, followed by a sudden, hot sting behind my eyes. I never would have guessed. Serena had always acted like she despised him. When we first met, she scoffed when Jack declined a drink. “Are you even a man? Who can’t handle a single beer?” When we fought, she would scream at him on my behalf, dragging me out of the apartment. On his birthday, when he forgot to get me a gift, she rolled her eyes and told me he didn’t deserve me. And Jack hated her right back. He complained about her constantly. “She’s too loud, Hannah. She has no boundaries. She’s always in our business.” It was all a performance. A carefully constructed wall to hide the rot underneath. I took the magnet off the fridge and threw it into the trash can. If it was just a throwaway promo, there was no point in keeping it. For the next two days, their social media accounts were a constant stream of updates. Dinners, movies, scenic overlooks. Different angles, but always the same shadows. When I looked back at their older posts, the puzzle pieces finally clicked. His business trips always lined up perfectly with her weekend getaways. I was about to lock my phone when Serena FaceTime’s me. As soon as I accepted, her smiling face filled the screen. “Hannah! Did you miss me?” She flipped the camera to show Jack driving, then flipped it back. “Jack’s trip is finally over, so I’m hitching a ride back with him. You don’t mind, do you? I bought you a little souvenir! Are you going to cry tears of joy?” I stared at her bright, flawless smile. It felt entirely hollow. “Is it really just a ride, Serena?” Her smile faltered. A brief, ugly shadow of guilt crossed her face, but she quickly recovered, laughing it off. “Of course! What’s with you tonight? You’re acting so weird.” “Nothing. I just wanted to ask you—” Jack’s hand reached over and cut the call from his side. “We’ll talk when we get back. Hang up.” Before the screen went black, Serena rolled her eyes. “Look at your boyfriend, Hannah. So stingy. He won’t even let us talk. See you soon!” I stared at the black reflection of my phone. It wasn’t about being stingy. Jack just didn’t want me asking questions he couldn’t answer. At eleven that night, the front door clicked open. Jack walked in and stopped when he saw me sitting in the dim light of the living room. He kicked off his shoes, shedding his jacket as he walked toward me. “Why are you still awake?” He held out a bag. “Serena got this for you. She knows you like those collectible blind boxes. She went to three stores to find it.” I didn’t move. My eyes stayed glued to the bag. Serena knew me. She knew my favorite foods, my passing obsessions. But this wasn’t a gift. It was hush money. A cheap token to ease a guilty conscience. “Throw it away,” I said quietly. “I don’t want it.” Jack’s hand tensed. He set the bag on the coffee table. “She was just trying to do something nice.” “Jack, I’m waiting for an explanation.” Five years of living together. I deserved at least that much before I let it all burn. Jack stood there, silent. “Hannah, I am so sorry. This is on me.” I waited. “Serena is hurting too,” he said softly. “She doesn’t want to lose you as a friend, but she… she didn’t want to lose me either. She really cares about you.” A dry laugh bubbled up in my throat. “She cares about me? Is that why she’s sleeping with my boyfriend?” “If I hadn’t followed her, how long were you going to keep this going?” Jack looked down. “We were going to end it. Just… not like this. Hannah, just give me a little time…” The electronic lock on our front door chimed. Serena pushed the door open. Her eyes were red, her face streaked with tears. “Don’t blame him, Hannah. It’s my fault.” “I was just so lonely, and I went to him. He didn’t want to, but I forced him. Hannah, I never wanted to betray you, but seeing you two together… it was killing me.” I looked at her. Normally, I would have rushed to wipe her tears. Now, I felt nothing but a cold, hollow disgust. “So you took him,” my voice trembled, but I kept it steady. “You’re a homewrecker, Serena.” Her face drained of color. Jack immediately pulled her into his side, his expression hardening. “Hannah, that’s enough. Do you think this is easy for her?” I looked at them standing together, presenting a united front against me. I was the victim of their betrayal, yet somehow, I had become the villain. “We wanted to tell you,” Serena sobbed. “We were only supposed to be together for a month. But I got greedy…” “Stop it, Hannah,” Jack snapped, his glare fixing on me. “She’s already devastated. What else do you want from her?” He looked at her, then back at me. “I’m going to take her home. We’ll talk when I get back.” He guided her out of the apartment, leaving me alone in the dark. At two in the morning, the door opened again. I hadn’t moved from the sofa. I looked at his tired face and felt a strange, sudden wash of peace. “Jack, let’s break up.” He frowned. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Hannah.” “I’m just staying with her temporarily until she’s emotionally stable. Once she’s better, I’ll end it with her.” “Temporarily?” I echoed. “Do you actually think that makes it okay?” He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “Serena looks tough, but she’s fragile. You know how sensitive she is. Please, don’t push her over the edge. I’ll handle this when the time is right.” He spoke with such noble conviction, as if he were a martyr instead of a cheater. I stared at him, realizing I didn’t know this man at all. “So you want to have us both?” I asked. He didn’t answer. His silence was an admission. “Hannah, please. Just give me some time.” I let out a slow, tired breath. “You don’t need to end anything with her, Jack. We’re done.” His face darkened with annoyance. “Hannah, do you really have to blow everything up like this?” “Yes,” I said softly. “I do.” I stood up, walked into the guest room, and locked the door. The next morning, Jack knocked on my door to tell me he was going over to Serena’s because she was panicking. I didn’t answer. Once I heard the front door close, I got to work. I thought five years of living together would take days to pack. But when I actually started sorting through my life, it fit neatly into two suitcases. I left my spare key on the kitchen island. Before I walked out, I looked around the apartment one last time. The wool rug we bought because my feet got cold in the winter. The oversized sofa we picked out together. Every corner had a memory. But those memories didn’t belong to me anymore. I pulled my suitcase behind me, stepped into the hallway, and let the door click shut.

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Our graduation trip to Aspen was supposed to be a milestone. Instead, it became a crowded affair for three. “The gondola has a two-for-one pass special, get over here!” My boyfriend, Kent, called out to Mallory, his sophomore mentee, already scanning his phone at the turnstile out of sheer habit. Mallory jogged up, naturally taking the hot chai latte from Kent’s hand. They huddled over the trail map, eagerly discussing the best summit viewpoints. I clutched my single-passenger ticket. I hated the cold just as much as she did, but somehow, my share was always the one left behind. By the time my ticket cleared the scanner, they were already swinging high above the pines in a two-seater cabin. I rushed up to meet them at the summit lookout by the wishing tree. Mallory and Kent were already hanging a red ribbon. Turns out, the summit love-locks were buy-one-get-one-free. But there wasn’t one for me. Seeing me arrive, Mallory waved frantically. “Maeve! Hurry up and buy a wooden plaque for yourself. If you wait any longer, the sharpies will dry out!” She pressed a HotHands hand warmer pack into my chest. “Here, take this one. Kent and I can just share mine.” I stopped in my tracks, quietly watching them. Matching Patagonia hiking poles, matching goggles, matching cashmere scarves. Even their names freshly carved onto the brass padlock. A strange, cold wave of clarity washed over me. If they loved the two-for-one specials so much, maybe I should just opt out. … I didn’t reach out for the hand warmer. I let her hand hover in the freezing mountain air. Mallory’s smile faltered, her eyes darting uncertainly to the man beside her. “What’s wrong?” Kent asked, not looking up from the padlock. “Mal’s just trying to be nice, Mae. Just take it.” I looked away, turned on my heel, and began the long descent down the icy wooden stairs. Behind me, Kent’s laughing voice carried over the wind. “Hold still, Mal. A love lock only works if both of us click it together.” The sharp “click” of the lock echoed in the crisp mountain air. “There. Now the wind can’t tear us apart.” Nobody noticed I had left. My absence didn’t even warrant a momentary pause in their laughter. I walked back to our mountain cabin alone, the freezing wind stinging my face. The altitude sickness made my chest tighten, leaving my face pale and clammy. I pulled out my phone and dialed my thesis advisor. The line connected. “Professor Ward? I’ve made a decision. I want to withdraw my name from the joint MFA fellowship nomination with Kent. I’ll take the individual track instead.” There was a long pause on the line. “Are you sure about this, Maeve? Your portfolio is strong enough to stand alone, but Kent’s grades are borderline. Without your joint project pulling up his score, he won’t even clear the preliminary review.” “I’m sure, Professor. Please split us.” I hung up and placed the phone face down on the rustic wooden table. Eventually, the crunch of snow outside and Mallory’s bright, girlish laughter broke the silence. Kent stepped through the door first, angling his body to shield Mallory from the draft as he helped her slip off her fogged-up goggles. “Frozen solid, aren’t you? I told you we shouldn’t have stayed up at the ridge so long,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of any real irritation. Then his eyes found me, curled up in the corner of the sectional sofa. He quickly shed his Arc’teryx jacket, tossing it over a chair, his brow furrowing as he crouched in front of me. His warm fingers pressed against my freezing cheek. “Mae, why didn’t you wait for us?” His voice had that perfect, raspy touch of exhaustion, like a tired parent scolding a difficult child. “You always do this. Slipping away without a word. If you got lost or passed out on the trail, I would have lost my mind.” I stared at his red-tipped ears—the unmistakable flush of a snowball fight. He squeezed my hand, trying to share his warmth. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand back. Mallory slid over, holding two mugs of hot cocoa she’d grabbed from the lobby. She kept her head low, her voice small and apologetic. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. I got carried away watching the sunset, and Kent lost track of time because of me. Please don’t be mad at him. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.” She set the mugs down. As she leaned over, a beautiful, hand-woven wool wrap draped over her arm brushed against my knee. It was the exact artisan Aspen poncho Kent had pointed out in a travel brochure a week before we left. He had promised he would buy it for my twenty-second birthday. Kent saw where my eyes landed. His gaze flickered. He stood up, stepping subtly in front of Mallory. “I grabbed it from a vendor near the base,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Mal was shivering so badly up there, and I thought the pattern suited her. I let her borrow it.” He leaned down, resting his hands gently on my shoulders. “I’ll take you down to the village tomorrow and get you an even better one, okay? My Maeve is always the mature one. You wouldn’t hold a silly poncho against her, right?” I looked at the matching hand-warmer sticker peeking from his chest pocket. “Right,” I said, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my throat as I brushed his hands off my shoulders. Behind me, I heard Kent’s low, exasperated sigh. “See? She’s doing it again.” I retreated to the dark bedroom. My head throbbed from the altitude. I reached toward the nightstand hook to find my headache medication—and to touch the hand-carved cherry wood mountain charm Kent had made for me. He had spent three sleepless nights carving it from a single block of cherry wood. He’d even nicked his thumb, telling me his blood on the wood would keep me safe from harm. The hook was empty. I marched back out to the main lodge area. Under the warm, amber lights of the lobby, Kent stood by the reception desk. He was holding the distinct, tooth-marked cherry wood charm, carefully threading it onto the zipper of Mallory’s backpack. With a crisp “click”, the charm settled against her bag. Mallory caught sight of me standing in the shadows. She immediately shrank behind Kent, clutching the hem of his jacket. “Maeve, Kent said this charm brings good luck. Would you mind if I kept it?” Kent’s hand was still resting on her zipper. I walked straight up to them, grabbed the wooden charm, and yanked it. The sound of tearing fabric cut through the quiet lobby as the wooden piece ripped free. “Maeve!” Kent snapped, grabbing for my wrist. I took a step back, dodging his touch. “What is wrong with you?” his voice flared with genuine anger. “Mal’s been having terrible nightmares lately. Is it really that hard to let her borrow it for a couple of days? She’s not trying to steal it from you. When we get back to campus, I’ll buy you a solid gold one. Just be reasonable.” I squeezed the rough wooden carving into the palm of my hand. “Don’t bother.” I looked him dead in the eye. “If it’s meant to ward off bad luck, it’s meant to take the hit for me. My life is too fragile to absorb someone else’s curses.” I turned toward the hallway. “Maeve!” I ignored his call, walked into my room, and locked the door behind me. Outside, I could hear Kent’s hushed, exasperated voice. “Just let her be. Don’t cry, Mal. She’s just being selfish and petty. I don’t know what happened to the girl I used to know.” In the middle of the night, the nausea hit. I leaned over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving, my head feeling like it was being split open by an axe. I called Kent. First time, no answer. Second time, it rang for a full minute before picking up. The sound of splashing water came through the receiver, followed by Mallory’s giggling voice. “Kent, the water temperature is perfect! Come on in!” Kent’s voice was a low, hurried whisper. “Mae? Are you okay?” “Kent…” I choked out, my throat tight. “Maeve, Mal passed out in the outdoor hot spring. I’m with her in the resort clinic right now getting her some oxygen. I’ll be back up in a bit. Just hang tight, okay?” Before I could even speak, the line went dead. I curled into a ball on the edge of the bed, cold sweat soaking through my shirt. My phone buzzed. Mallory had just posted on her Instagram story. It was a photo of Kent from a side angle, carefully adjusting the valve of her oxygen tank. Her caption read: “With him by my side, there’s no dark night I can’t face.” So that was his “resort clinic.” I forced myself out of bed and dragged my feet down to the lobby. The night manager saw me and immediately rushed out from behind the desk. “Hey, you look terrible. That altitude sickness is no joke—if you keep trying to tough it out, you’re going to end up in the ER.” He grabbed his car keys and helped me out to his truck. After a bumpy, agonizing drive down the mountain pass, we reached the urgent care clinic in town. As the IV drip slowly cooled my burning veins, my mind drifted back to junior year. I remembered living on dry toast and instant ramen for three months straight, scraping together three thousand dollars from my meager part-time jobs. All of it just to buy him the high-end camera lens he had been drooling over. He said he had a dream of being a filmmaker. I stayed up for consecutive nights editing his portfolio, polishing his proposals line by line. Every single accolade on his resume was built on my sleepless nights. And now, it was all a joke. At dawn, the kind manager drove me back to the lodge. The moment I stepped through the front doors, Kent rushed toward me. His eyes were bloodshot. He threw his arms around me, pulling me into a suffocating embrace. “Maeve, oh my god, I am so sorry…” His voice trembled violently as his hands gripped my shoulders. “I got tied down last night, I couldn’t leave… Why didn’t you wait for me before leaving? Do you know how frantic I was when I couldn’t find you? I thought I lost you.” I pushed him away with every ounce of strength I had left. “Wait for what? For you to finish soaking in the hot springs before you came to collect my corpse?” Kent froze, his hand hovering near my sleeve. “Maeve, let me explain, last night—” “Kent, the oatmeal is ready.” A soft voice cut him off from the stairs. Mallory stood there, holding a steaming bowl. She glanced at me, then looked softly at Kent. “Last night was so scary. The doctor said I almost went into shock. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Kent hadn’t stayed by my side the entire night.” Kent’s hand stiffened in midair, and he instinctively stepped back, placing himself slightly in front of Mallory. A lump of cold, heavy silence settled in my throat. I couldn’t say a single word. I walked past them, went to my room, pulled out my suitcase, and started throwing my clothes inside. That evening, Kent pushed open my door. “There’s a bonfire in town tonight. Everyone’s going. Please, just do this for me. Let’s not make things awkward, okay?” His tone was pleading, subdued. I was half-dragged, half-persuaded to go with him to the bonfire. Our college club friends were already gathered around the roaring flames, playing Truth or Dare. After a few rounds, Mallory stood up, holding a half-empty cup of local spiced whiskey. She swayed slightly, stepping in front of me and raising her cup. “Maeve, I want to toast to you. Please don’t be mad at Kent anymore. He’s just a good guy with a big heart. If there’s ever an issue between you two, you have to let me know, okay? I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a third wheel.” The chatter around the fire died instantly. All eyes landed on the three of us. Kent stood up, running a hand through Mallory’s hair with a helpless, fond smile before turning his gaze to me. “Maeve, she’s tipsy. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. You’ve always been the bigger person. Don’t take a kid’s words to heart.” Looking at the protective, patronizing look in his eyes made my stomach turn all over again. I suddenly remembered the afternoon I first met Mallory. Six months ago, during club recruitment week, Kent had led her over to me, holding her hand. “Maeve, this is Mal. She grew up right across the street from me. I had no idea we’d end up at the same college!” Mallory had smiled sweetly, calling me “sister Maeve.” I remembered the jolt of unease I felt seeing their clasped hands back then—an unease I had quickly brushed off, telling myself she was just a childhood friend. I took the cold cup of whiskey, threw my head back, and downed it in one swallow. The burn hit my eyes, making them water. I quietly set the empty cup on the wooden picnic table. “I’m not feeling well. I’m heading back.” Kent’s expression shifted, and he reached out to stop me, but Mallory leaned her weight against his shoulder, mumbling, “Kent, does Maeve still hate me…?” As I walked away, Kent’s hushed voice drifted over the crackling wood. “Maeve, do you really have to humiliate people like this?” My steps faltered for a fraction of a second, but I didn’t look back. I walked into the dark, letting the freezing mountain wind dry the wetness on my cheeks. Watching his tragic, white-knight act, I realized how incredibly exhausting it all was. The next morning, just as the sky was turning gray, my phone vibrated. It was a bank notification. Three thousand dollars had been withdrawn from the joint savings account Kent and I shared. That three thousand dollars was my entire savings from a year of grueling freelance work and tight budgeting. It was the security deposit and safety net I had planned for our life together after graduation. The final thread of hope snapped. I pushed open the lodge door and walked out onto the lawn. In the clearing, Kent was patiently teaching Mallory how to operate a drone. Mallory stood close to him, beaming as she watched the drone ascend, turning to him with a pout. “Thanks, Kent! With this, my graduation short film is definitely going to win first place!” I walked straight up to him. “Where is the three thousand dollars from our account?” Kent stopped guiding her hands and handed the controller to Mallory. “Maeve, Mallory’s camera got ruined by spilled whiskey last night. That was her only gear for the regional showcase. It was an accident, so I used our emergency fund to get her a drone to make up for it. I’ll work part-time and pay you back later, I promise.” Mallory hid behind his shoulder, her eyes welling with tears. “Maeve, I’m just borrowing it. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my first paycheck.” I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes locked on Kent. “With what money, Kent? That was our rent money. You spent all of it on her gear. What are we supposed to do now?” Kent frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but instead, he grabbed Mallory’s arm. “Come on, Mal. Let’s go test-fly it deeper in the valley.” Kent took Mallory into the backcountry. They went completely off the grid for three whole days. They missed the final portfolio reviews, and they missed the charter bus back to campus. I rode back to the university alone. Back at school, I spent four consecutive sleepless nights in the darkroom. Fighting off waves of dizziness and a deep, aching sorrow, I adjusted the developer chemical ratios over and over. Finally, I printed and developed my submission pieces. It was the culmination of my life’s work. Professor Ward had told me that if I won the Regional Biennial Breakthrough Award, I would receive a direct placement at the prestigious Manhattan Contemporary Art Center. The day before submissions were due, Kent and Mallory finally returned. Kent didn’t offer a single explanation for their three-day disappearance, nor did he apologize. Instead, he made a grand announcement on our department’s group chat: he was officially transferring the joint MFA fellowship application to his and Mallory’s names. Thirty minutes later, he walked into the studio. “Professor Ward told me you’ve been pulling all-nighters. I brought you some food,” he said, placing a takeout box on my desk. I looked at him. “What is this about the fellowship application? That nomination was specifically assigned to us by our advisor.” He pulled up a chair and sat down casually. “I already submitted the paperwork to the department head. Mae, with your talent, you don’t need a fellowship. You can easily get into any residency on your own. Mal’s portfolio is weak, and her family is drowning in debt. If she doesn’t get this graduate funding, she has to go back to her hometown and marry some guy her parents chose. I’m just trying to save her. Think of it as a test of your strength.” His smile was warm, like a gentle spring breeze. “Don’t be petty. Think of it as letting your little sister have a head start. Once we graduate, you and I will settle down anyway.” I pointed at the door. “Get out.” The smile faded from Kent’s face. “Maeve, do you have to be so incredibly cold? It’s just a nomination. Do you really have to hold a grudge over this?” He turned and slammed the door behind him. The next morning, I walked into the darkroom with my mounting boards. The moment I pushed the door open, my heart stopped. The prints I had hung up to dry were shredded, slashed with scissors. The external hard drive containing all my backup raw files was submerged in a tray of corrosive developer fluid. Panicked and furious, I ran toward Professor Ward’s office to report the vandalism. But before I could even knock on her door, two uniformed sheriff’s deputies intercepted me. “Maeve Barlow? We received a report that you instructed another student to trespass into a restricted national park zone to illegally fly a drone. We need you to come with us for questioning.” Professor Ward stepped out of her office, looking bewildered as she saw me flanked by officers. Before I could explain, Kent, who had been lingering down the hall, stepped forward and spoke to the deputies. “I’m so sorry, officers. My girlfriend made a terrible mistake, but I’ve tried to talk sense into her. Please take her in for the investigation. I just don’t want her causing any more trouble for the university.” I stood there, completely paralyzed. The registration deadline was tomorrow. If I was taken in by the police, I would miss the submission window entirely. He had planned this. To protect his childhood sweetheart, he was willing to grind my entire future into dust. Now way.

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In the twenty years I spent surviving away from my biological family, the only real defense mechanism I ever mastered was my absolute refusal to let things slide. I take people at their word. I keep receipts. At my engagement party, my supposed fiancé, Garrett Dylan, held my adopted sister Tiffany’s hand in front of a room full of hundreds of guests and looked me dead in the eye. “Money and status are just material things,” he said, his voice echoing through the grand ballroom. “Even if you’re the biological Caldwell heiress, the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry—the only one I will marry—is Tiffany.” The entire room erupted into whispers and muffled laughter, mocking the girl who had been publicly dumped at her own engagement feast. But while everyone else was busy enjoying the drama, my meticulous brain was wondering if Garrett actually meant what he said. I immediately hired a top-tier forensic accounting team to dig into the Dylan family’s financial holdings, fully prepared to quietly dismantle his family’s empire just to see if his deep devotion to Tiffany could survive absolute poverty. I didn’t manage to find a fatal financial loophole. Instead, I stumbled upon something far better: Garrett was a fraud. The real Dylan heir had been switched at birth and was living halfway across the world. I couldn’t help but smile. That very night, I sent the certified DNA results straight to the one person who cared about bloodline legitimacy more than anyone else—the formidable, old-money patriarch of the Dylan family. I wanted to see if this “true love” of theirs could survive once Garrett lost his golden pedestal. … I never expected the pristine, untouchable heir of the Dylan family to be a fake. When the realization first hit me, I let out a sharp, genuine laugh. My parents, misunderstanding my reaction completely, immediately looked at me with cold disapproval. “Mallory, we aren’t playing favorites here,” my father said, his voice flat and hard. “But you saw it yourself. Garrett has made his choice clear. For the sake of the family’s relationship with the Dylans, you need to let your sister have this marriage.” Garrett, still clutching Tiffany’s hand, nodded in smooth agreement. “Even though the arrangement is shifting to Tiffany, the Dylan family won’t leave you empty-handed, Mallory. Starting tomorrow, you can have a position in our logistics department. It’s a stable job, more than enough to keep you on your feet.” Tiffany chimed in, her voice dripping with sweet, performative sympathy. “Don’t worry, Mallory. Even if you and Garrett aren’t getting married, we’re still family. We’ll both make sure you’re taken care of.” A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd. Everyone began praising Tiffany’s grace and generosity. No one seemed to think there was anything wrong with stealing a wedding that was legally and rightfully mine. In their eyes, Garrett’s offer of a low-level desk job was an act of supreme charity. They seemed to forget that I was the actual, biological daughter of the Caldwell family. They had cried sweet tears when they brought me back, begging to make up for the twenty years we’d lost. I had only agreed to return to see if they were genuine—and in the process, I had quietly resolved several back-end financial crises that would have otherwise driven the Caldwell Group into bankruptcy. Now that the family business was thriving again, they wanted to kick me to the curb. I didn’t mind. But I still needed to verify if their grand declarations of love were real. I stood up, interrupting the newly rearranged celebration. Looking directly at Garrett, I asked, “Are you absolutely certain about this, Garrett? No matter what happens—regardless of wealth, status, or ruin—you will stand by Tiffany’s side forever?” Garrett frowned, his pride clearly pricked. “Of course. Tiffany and I grew up together. Our bond isn’t something that changes just because of a DNA test.” Tiffany leaned into his arm, offering me a sweet, victorious smile. “Mallory, I’m not like you. I don’t marry for money or status. Even if Garrett weren’t the Dylan heir, I would still gladly be his wife.” The look they exchanged was so thick with drama it belonged in a soap opera. Around us, the guests whispered about how desperate and bitter I was, trying to use cheap semantics to tear a beautiful couple apart. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. If they were truly that devoted, then bringing back the real heir wouldn’t hurt them at all. With a quick tap on my phone screen, I sent the encrypted DNA profile of the real Dylan heir to Old Edward Dylan’s private line. A second later, my phone vibrated violently. The patriarch of the Dylan family was calling me directly. “Where are you?” his voice boomed through the receiver. Old Edward’s sudden arrival threw the venue into chaos. When his security detail informed the family that the patriarch wanted to see me—and only me—in the private lounge upstairs, Tiffany’s face paled. She gripped Garrett’s sleeve, tears welling in her eyes. “What do we do? Mallory must be trying to ruin things. What if she convinces the patriarch to call off our wedding?” Garrett looked at me with open disgust, patting her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Not even the patriarch can force me to marry someone I don’t want. Mallory grew up in the backwoods; she doesn’t have the poise or the intellect to represent our family. My grandfather would never let someone like her represent the Dylan name.” “But what if he gets angry? What if he threatens to cut you off?” Tiffany whimpered. Garrett pinched her nose playfully. “Then let him. Even if I have to walk away from the Dylan name, I will choose you.” Flush with validation, Tiffany leaned against his chest and shot me a smug, defiant look. “You’re wasting your breath, Mallory. Even if you cry to his grandfather, Garrett is mine. You might as well play nice and help me plan the wedding. If you do, I’ll make sure Garrett gives you that job.” Garrett gave me a warning glare. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Who in their right mind would want to beg for a fraud of a husband? Still, seeing how deeply in love they were made me feel much better. It saved me the trouble of worrying about their relationship cracking when the real heir arrived. Upstairs, Old Edward Dylan stared intensely at the digital file on my tablet. His weathered face remained unreadable. “Mallory, you understand the consequences of trying to fabricate a claim regarding the Dylan bloodline.” I did. The last person who had tried to run a paternity scam on the Dylans hadn’t just been sued; they had been blacklisted so thoroughly they ended up working manual labor in an isolated mining town, unable to ever return to civilized society. But I wasn’t afraid. His sternness only proved how seriously he took the family legacy. “I don’t play games, Mr. Dylan,” I said calmly. “My team pulled these records from a secure international database. We haven’t pinned down his exact physical address yet, but data doesn’t lie. Furthermore, I think you’ll find this interesting.” I slid a photograph across the table. It showed a young man’s bare shoulder blade, clearly displaying a rare, distinct birthmark shaped like a falcon—the hereditary mark of the Dylan bloodline. Edward’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up the photo. “How long until I can see him?” “Seven days,” I replied. “Fine,” the old man breathed, a sudden spark returning to his eyes. He paused, looking at me with a heavy nod. “I heard what happened downstairs today. If this boy is indeed my grandson… I will ensure you are properly compensated.” I smiled politely but said nothing. I didn’t need his charity. I kept my own receipts, and I settled my own debts. When we stepped back out of the lounge, Edward’s gaze swept coldly over Garrett. “Have you completed your annual physical for the family trust yet?” Garrett looked surprised. “No, Grandfather. I’ve been quite busy with the merger. I was planning to schedule it next month.” “Go to my private clinic tomorrow,” Edward instructed flatly. “My personal physician will handle it.” Feeling deeply honored by what he assumed was a sign of grandfatherly care, Garrett beamed. As he walked past me to escort the old man to his car, he muttered under his breath, “Glad to see you’ve finally accepted your place.” My parents and Tiffany looked immensely relieved. Tiffany held her chin high, practically glowing with triumph. “Some things simply can’t be forced, Mallory,” she whispered as we walked back inside. “In our world, pedigree and breeding matter. No matter how many lies you tell his grandfather, Garrett will only ever marry me.” I nodded in absolute agreement. A fake daughter and a fake heir. They truly were a perfect match. I only hoped she could keep that same energy when the truth came out. Over the next few days, I focused entirely on coordinating the real heir’s return. Meanwhile, rumors began to circulate. Word got out that Old Edward had suffered a sudden spell of ill health right after Garrett’s physical exam. Fearing the old man might not have much time left, the Caldwells and Tiffany rushed to pull the wedding date forward, hoping to “bring some good fortune” to the family. My parents were ecstatic. “I knew our Tiffany was a blessing,” my mother gushed. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. We are going to give you the grandest wedding this city has ever seen.” Tiffany, however, pouted. “What’s the point of a grand wedding if it’s just for show? Garrett and I are uniting our families. If I don’t hold any actual power in the Caldwell Group, the other socialites will laugh at me.” My parents took the bait instantly. “Don’t worry, darling,” my father said smoothly. “Your mother and I have already taken care of it. We’ve transferred thirty percent of the company’s shares directly to your name. As of today, you are a primary shareholder.” “Thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom!” Tiffany squealed, kissing them both on the cheek. Then, her eyes drifted over to me, sitting silently at the end of the table. She lowered her gaze, putting on her best victim face. “But… isn’t Mallory the biological daughter? Giving the shares to me seems so unfair to her.” My parents looked slightly uncomfortable, but my father quickly rationalized it. “Mallory, this is business. Tiffany is marrying into the Dylan family. For the alliance to work, she must represent our family’s assets. But we won’t let you starve. You can stay here with us, and we’ll give you a monthly allowance of three hundred dollars. You won’t even have to work. Isn’t that wonderful?” Thirty percent of a multi-million dollar corporation for Tiffany. A three-hundred-dollar allowance and the expectation to act as their live-in housekeeper for me. Their math was even more insulting than Garrett’s. “No, thank you,” I said, putting my napkin down. “I have my own income.” Tiffany’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Mallory, are you angry with me? I can give the shares back… it’s just that if I’m not a major shareholder, I don’t know if the Dylans will still proceed with the investment in Caldwell Group…” My father slammed his hand on the table, glaring at me. “Mallory! Why must you be so incredibly selfish? We told you this is for the family’s future. You carry our blood—how can you be so utterly short-sighted?” The baseless hostility was exhausting. I stood up and walked upstairs, leaving them to comfort their precious adoptive daughter. I had just received confirmation from my team that the real Dylan heir’s flight had been booked. At the same time, I sent a brief text to my personal associates: “Pull all liquidity and private investments from Caldwell Group immediately.” Tiffany slipped into my room a moment later, a smug look on her face. “Mallory, did you really think pulling your petty little investments would sink the company?” she sneered. “Garrett has already promised that the Dylans will inject fresh capital into the Caldwell Group next week. Soon, we’ll be on the same level as them. My parents will finally see that an adopted daughter like me is worth ten of a charity case like you.” “Are you finished?” I asked, not looking up from my phone. “You can leave now.” In three days, the real heir would land. By then, Garrett wouldn’t even have the authority to sign a lunch receipt, let alone authorize a multi-million dollar corporate bailout. Tiffany didn’t catch the warning in my tone. Her eyes drifted to my dresser, landing on a pair of vintage emerald earrings sitting in a small velvet tray—the only keepsake left to me by the kind woman who had raised me in Oregon. “You know, for a country girl, you have surprisingly decent taste,” Tiffany remarked, reaching out to touch them. “These emeralds are beautiful. They’re wasted on you. You should give them to me as a wedding present.” I grabbed her wrist before she could touch them, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Put them down.” Tiffany resisted, trying to wrench her hand back. When she realized I wouldn’t let go, she suddenly threw herself backward onto the floor, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Mallory! Please, I know you’re angry about the wedding, but you can’t steal the family heirloom Garrett gave me! If Grandfather asks about it, what am I supposed to say?” My parents burst into the room. Seeing Tiffany crying on the floor, my father didn’t even ask questions. He marched over and delivered a sharp slap across my face. “You absolute monster!” he roared. “How dare you lay a hand on your sister and try to steal her jewelry! If anything happens to her before the wedding, I will make sure you pay for it!” Tiffany was rushed to the hospital that night for a “full evaluation.” My parents insisted on every scan imaginable, terrified that their golden ticket to high society might have a microscopic scratch. I went back to my apartment to get some actual sleep, but at midnight, Garrett and two police officers kicked my door open. “You think you can assault Tiffany and just sleep it off?” Garrett snarled, grabbing my arm to drag me out of bed. I wrenched myself free. “Are you insane? Tiffany tried to steal my late mother’s earrings and staged a theatrical fall. If you had half a brain cell, you’d see she doesn’t have a scratch on her, and those earrings are mine.” Garrett refused to listen, forcing me into the back of a squad car. But when we arrived at the hospital, even the doctors looked embarrassed. Tiffany was sitting upright in bed, eating grapes, without a single bruise on her skin. “Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell,” Garrett asked, looking thoroughly confused. “You said Tiffany was severely injured and might not make it to the altar. She looks… fine.” My parents looked momentarily flustered, but Tiffany quickly threw herself into Garrett’s arms, sobbing hysterically. “Garrett, Mallory said I stole her life, and she tried to rip these earrings right out of my ears. She attacked me! Look at my face, it’s completely swollen! The wedding is in two days—how am I supposed to walk down the aisle like this?” There wasn’t a speck of redness on her face. I leaned against the doorframe, letting out a cold laugh. “Funny. Ten minutes ago you told my parents those earrings were a Dylan heirloom. Now you’re telling Garrett they were a gift from my parents?” Tiffany’s expression stiffened, but she quickly recovered, looking at our parents. “They were a gift from Mom and Dad to help me present myself well at the wedding, right, Mom? Dad?” Despite knowing she was lying through her teeth, my parents nodded instantly. “Yes, we gave those to Tiffany,” my father lied smoothly. “Mallory, no matter how bitter you are, this wedding is happening. Stop this childish jealousy, apologize to your sister, and we can still be a family.” A family? A family that stripped me of my birthright, handed my inheritance to an imposter, and now wanted to steal the only physical memory of the woman who actually loved me? “Return my earrings,” I said, my voice completely cold. “Or I file a report for grand theft.” “Go ahead,” Garrett sneered, pulling out his phone. “Let’s see who the police believe.” By morning, I was sitting in a holding cell, charged with domestic assault and grand larceny. My parents didn’t even bother to post my bail. Instead, my mother visited me, looking down her nose through the plexiglass. “Mallory, we know you’re hurting. But Tiffany’s wedding is the priority right now. Once she’s safely married into the Dylan family, we’ll come back and bail you out. Just stay quiet until then.” They had no idea that Tiffany would never become a Dylan. Old Edward had already received the final verification. That very night, a private jet landed at the airport, carrying Callum Dylan—the true heir—back to his rightful home. And because I was the one who had brought Callum back, Old Edward personally cleared my charges and had me escorted to a private estate to recover. As it turned out, Callum and I weren’t strangers. We had crossed paths in London years ago during a high-stakes financial acquisition. He was brilliant, sharp, and intensely loyal. When Edward suggested that Callum and I marry to consolidate our respective assets, Callum looked at me with a quiet smile. “I’d be honored,” he said. “If Mallory is willing.” I figured if I had to marry into high society, marrying a trusted colleague was infinitely better than dealing with a narcissistic fraud. “Let’s do it,” I said. Edward was thrilled. He immediately booked the Grand Regent—the most exclusive hotel in the city—for a massive, high-profile wedding to be held in exactly three days. Garrett and Tiffany, completely oblivious to the shift in power, were busy finalizing their own plans, eagerly anticipating their big day at the exact same venue. But when their bridal limousine pulled up to the Grand Regent’s gold-leafed entrance, a line of security guards blocked their path. “I’m sorry, sir, ma’am,” the head concierge said, his tone perfectly polite but utterly unyielding. “The hotel is closed for a private event today. No unauthorized guests are permitted inside.”

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In the high-stakes world of Manhattan real estate, Robert was famous for his absolute, chilling rationality. He had no use for human emotion. To everyone who knew him, he operated with the cold, silent precision of a complex machine. We had been married for three years, and in all that time, every single gift he gave me was meticulously calculated to match the exact economic value I had brought to his life. Until the day of the multi-car pileup. We were on the highway when the crash happened, leaving me and his lead research partner trapped in the wreckage of our respective cars. Robert climbed out of his vehicle, assessed the spreading flames, and calmly directed his private security team—who had only managed to bring a single set of extraction tools. “Save Meredith first,” he said, his voice entirely steady. “She’s managing a federally funded infrastructure project. We can’t afford to lose her.” The rescue chief hesitated, looking back at the crumpled passenger side where my legs were pinned. “Mr. Ashford, but your wife…” “She’s a housewife,” Robert replied, not even turning his head. “She can wait for the city fire department.” My legs were crushed under the distorted steel of the dashboard. I screamed his name until my throat tore, watching through the smoke as he carried Meredith to an ambulance without a single backward glance. Then, the fuel tank blew. I was burned alive in that metal cage. But when I opened my eyes again, I was sitting on the cream leather sofa of our penthouse. It was three months before the accident. Robert was sitting across from me, sliding a printed spreadsheet across the marble coffee table. His voice was entirely devoid of warmth. “An anniversary gift.” “The market value of every item on that list corresponds to your domestic labor over the past twelve months. Pick one.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. With a flick of my wrist, I swept the paper off the table, watching it flutter to the floor. I looked directly into his startled gray eyes. “I don’t need to choose, Robert. I want a divorce.” This time, it was my turn to calculate what he was actually worth. … The pages of the spreadsheet lay scattered across the hardwood floor. Robert bent down, picking up each sheet with deliberate precision, smoothing the corners before placing the stack back on the table. “Julia, you are emotionally overdrawn this month.” “The thirty-seven items on this list have been fully audited. Your housework, the dinners you hosted for our investors, the weeks you spent managing my mother’s private care—I’ve factored it all in at current market rates, plus a twelve percent premium.” “This is the absolute ceiling of what I can offer.” I stared at his face. For three years, every word out of his mouth had sounded like a financial audit. No warmth, no cadence of affection—just a continuous stream of balance sheets. “Have you factored in the cost of a divorce?” he asked, adjusting his cuffs. “The prenuptial agreement is quite clear. You leave with nothing.” “Walking away now means your three years of equity are reduced to zero. It’s an unprofitable exit strategy.” I almost laughed out loud. I remembered the nights I stayed up until dawn, redrafting his zoning proposals under the kitchen light while he slept, because he told me “spouses don’t keep score.” I remembered the three days I sat alone in a sterile funeral home after my parents died, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights my only companion. Robert had been in London, closing a nine-figure development deal. When he returned, he didn’t hold me. He simply sent a wire transfer screenshot of five thousand dollars. “Funeral costs, adjusted for inflation,” the text read. And then, the fire. He had stood in the heat of the flames and told the rescue team: “She’s a housewife. She can wait.” It was only when the fuel tank exploded that I finally understood his ledger. In his grand equation of life, my existence was valued at zero. “Julia,” Robert’s voice pulled me back to the present. “You’ve been highly erratic lately. I’ll have the family doctor write you a prescription.” I kept my eyes locked on him. “Robert, let me ask you something.” “If Meredith and I were both in danger, who would you save?” He frowned, his brows knitting in slight irritation. “Hypothetical scenarios have zero analytical value.” “Answer me anyway.” He sighed, a sound of mild exasperation. “If forced to choose, Meredith has a higher societal yield. Any rational actor would make the same decision.” There was no hesitation. Not even a fraction of a second. His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with the name “Meredith”. He answered it almost instantly, his tone softening by a fraction. “What is it?… The structural model for the civic center has a load-bearing issue? Alright, I’m coming down to the site.” He hung up and stood, reaching for his overcoat. “I won’t be back tonight. Her project can’t afford any delays.” “We are discussing a divorce, Robert.” His hands didn’t falter as he buttoned his coat. “We can let the lawyers draft a proposal next week.” “Right now, Meredith needs me more.” The heavy front door clicked shut. I was left alone in the silent penthouse with the scattered papers on the floor. Thirty-seven gifts, priced to the decimal point. I smiled, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in three years. “Grandpa,” I whispered when the line connected. “I want to come home.” “And… I need you to prepare that old paperwork for me.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Julia, sweetheart,” my grandfather’s voice was thick with concern. “Are you certain? If we pull those assets, the Ashford Group will collapse.” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling Manhattan skyline. “I’m certain.” “It’s time he learns how to calculate.” “Let’s see what his actual value is once I’m out of the equation.” The following morning, I went to a boutique law firm and had them draft the divorce papers. I didn’t touch the clause about leaving with nothing. If Robert wanted a clean transaction, I was happy to oblige. When I returned to the penthouse to pack my things, Meredith was already there. She was wearing one of Robert’s tailored white button-downs, her damp hair wrapped in a towel as she stepped out of the guest suite. Her expression faltered when she saw me, but she quickly recovered, offering a soft, fragile smile. “Oh, Julia. You’re back.” “Robert was at the construction site all night in the rain. I was worried about him, so I drove him back. Please don’t think anything of it. We are entirely professional.” She had said the exact same words in my past life. Always maintaining her professional innocence while quietly leasing the apartment directly across from our building. Always painting me to our social circle as the hysterical, paranoid wife. “Don’t call me Julia,” I said, setting my keys on the counter. “You’re actually six months older than me, so the sisterly act is unnecessary. And you’re standing in my home, wearing my husband’s shirt, telling me you’re innocent?” Her face drained of color. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. “Julia… my clothes were covered in mud from the site,” she stammered, her voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “Robert didn’t want me to catch a cold. It was just a loan. Please don’t be angry.” The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairs. Robert appeared, his eyes immediately landing on Meredith’s tear-stained face. His jaw tightened. “Julia, are you badgering Meredith again?” “Her research is exhausting enough without this. Can’t someone who sits at home all day show a little empathy?” I clutched the envelope containing the divorce papers. He had forgotten that I was once a rising architect myself, before he slowly convinced me to withdraw from the world, turning me into a bird in a gilded cage. “Don’t worry, I’m not badgering anyone.” I slid the documents across the kitchen island. “Sign it.” Robert glanced down at the title. “A dissolution of marriage? Without alimony?” “Julia, don’t play these games.” “Do you honestly think this reverse psychology will make me sentimental? Keeping you in this house is already a low-yield investment; negotiating with your tantrums is even worse.” “Excellent,” I said, unscrewing my pen and placing it on top of the papers. “Sign it, and we are even.” Meredith let out a soft sob beside him. “Robert, is this because of me? If I’m the reason your marriage is falling apart… I’ll leave…” She wept beautifully, but her fingers were quietly tugging at the hem of his shirt. Robert placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. She’s simply unable to look at things rationally.” He picked up the pen and signed his name with swift, practiced strokes. There was no hesitation, no lingering look. He tossed the pen onto the counter. “The statutory thirty-day waiting period begins today. I’ll see you at the city clerk’s office next month.” “Pack your belongings and vacate the premises as soon as possible. Out of courtesy for our three years, I’ll let you use the corporate apartment uptown for ninety days.” Even shelter was treated as a depreciating asset. I took the signed papers and walked upstairs without a word. In the back of my closet sat a locked metal lockbox. Inside were the fragments of the life I had discarded: my architectural license, my patent registrations, and an old joint-venture contract. The contract clearly stated that the stabilization technology the Ashford Group used for all their high-rise projects was patented under my name. Robert had always assumed it was merely a symbolic dowry from my grandfather—a vanity title to make me look accomplished. He had no idea that I was the sole engineer who had spent three years designing it. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my grandfather. “The patent licensing agreement expires next month. Do not renew it.” The day I moved out, the sky was a heavy, weeping gray. I was rolling my two suitcases toward the elevator when Meredith appeared at the entrance of the lobby, holding a black umbrella. “Julia, let me help you,” she said. I ignored her, but she hurried to keep pace with me, tilting the umbrella over my head. “It’s pouring out here. You shouldn’t get wet.” “Oh, and Robert asked me to return this to you.” She handed me a small, velvet jewelry box. It contained the pearl earrings he had given me for our third anniversary. “Robert said this was technically factored into the final marital asset ledger. Since you’re leaving, he asked me to return the cash equivalent to you.” When I didn’t reach for the box, she clicked it open. Inside, where the pearls should have been, was a prepaid debit card. “Twenty-eight thousand, six hundred dollars,” she said smoothly. “The exact retail value of the earrings, down to the penny.” I looked at the card. In my previous life, those earrings had been my most treasured possession. I had kept them in a velvet drawer, believing they were a rare moment of genuine affection. But to him, they were just another debit entry to be balanced. “Thank you,” I said, taking the card. As I turned to step toward the waiting cab, Meredith’s heel caught on the wet concrete. She lunged forward, her weight slamming into my shoulder. The sharp metal tip of her umbrella swung wildly, slicing deep into my forearm. I stumbled back, my knee striking the sharp edge of the stone steps. A blinding flash of pain went through my leg. “Julia! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! It was an accident!” Meredith’s scream was loud enough to echo through the entire lobby. Robert and several building staff came rushing out. What they saw was me on the ground, bleeding, and Meredith clutching the railing, looking pale and shaken. “Julia!” Robert sprinted down the steps, but his hands went straight to Meredith’s waist, pulling her upright. “Are you hurt?” Meredith shook her head, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes. “I’m fine… I just slipped and bumped into Julia. I didn’t mean to…” Only then did Robert turn his gaze to me. The blood from my arm was dripping onto the wet concrete, mixing with the rain. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice cold and irritated. “Julia, you’re an adult. How do you manage to trip over nothing?” “Meredith didn’t do this on purpose. Must you always make a scene?” I sat on the cold stone, the rain washing the blood down my sleeve. When the fire had consumed me in my past life, his eyes had held this exact same indifference. “Mr. Ashford,” our regular driver murmured softly from behind him. “Mrs. Ashford is bleeding quite badly…” “Be quiet,” Robert snapped. “She’s sturdier than she looks.” I pushed myself up against the railing, my scraped knee throbbing with a dull, sickening ache. I looked at him and let out a soft, cold laugh. “Remember this day, Robert.” I picked up my suitcase and walked into the downpour. Behind me, Meredith was whispering soft apologies, and Robert was murmuring comfort to her. My heart had officially turned to ash. Once I reached the uptown apartment, I bandaged my arm in silence. The phone on the counter began to vibrate. It was an unfamiliar number. “Is this Julia?” a warm, measured voice asked. “This is Adrian, Lead Partner at Beacon Architects.” “Your grandfather, George, shared your old “Celadon” blueprints with us.” “We would be honored to have you join our team as the lead architect for the Hudson Civic Pavilion.” I held the phone to my ear, a slow, genuine smile spreading across my face. The Hudson Civic Pavilion. The exact “national project” Meredith had been trying to secure for the past three years. Within forty-eight hours, I signed the partnership agreement with Beacon. When the press release went public, the New York architectural community went wild. Nobody expected a woman who had spent three years as a reclusive housewife to suddenly resurface as the chief architect of the city’s most prestigious public project. On the twenty-fifth day of our divorce waiting period, the Ashford Group hosted a massive gala at the Plaza Hotel to celebrate Meredith’s project submission. Robert had already hinted to the press that once the project was finalized, she would be taking a permanent place by his side. Half of Manhattan’s elite was in attendance. I arrived precisely on time, carrying a leather portfolio containing my original blueprints. Meredith was standing near the grand staircase, radiant in a crimson silk gown, her hand resting on Robert’s arm. When she spotted me, her smile widened. “Julia, you came,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “I heard you took a job at Beacon. It must be so difficult, trying to find work after being out of the industry for so long.” Several nearby guests chuckled softly. I raised my champagne glass, entirely unbothered. “How is your submission coming along, Meredith?” She tilted her chin up. “The final review is next week. I’m fully confident we’ll take first place.” “Is that so?” I smiled. “I suppose congratulations are in order. It takes a certain kind of talent to put your own name on someone else’s work.” Meredith’s smile froze. “What are you talking about?” The chatter around us died down. Robert stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he glared at me. “Julia, this is a celebration. Please maintain some professional dignity.” “Meredith has spent three years pouring her life into this project. I won’t have you slander her.” I turned to my assistant and gestured toward the long display table. “Unroll them.” My assistant laid out a set of large, glossy blueprints. “This is Meredith’s submission, “The Meridian”.” Then, I unrolled a second set of drawings—yellowed at the edges, hand-sketched, and dated four years prior. “And this is “The Celadon”, registered with the patent office four years ago.” “The lead architect’s signature belongs to me—Julia.” “The filing date precedes her project by a full year.” A collective murmur swept through the ballroom. Meredith’s face went completely bloodless. “Where… where did you get those? That’s my design!” “Your design?” I pulled a laminated patent certificate from my portfolio. “Then why is my name on the federal registry?” Robert’s eyes darted between the two sets of blueprints. For the first time since I had known him, a look of genuine panic flickered across his face. “Meredith,” he said, his voice dropping. “What is the meaning of this?” Meredith’s tears began to flow on cue. “Robert, don’t listen to her! She’s lying!” “She’s just bitter because of the divorce! She wants to ruin my career out of jealousy!” I stepped closer to her. “That’s not what you said three years ago, Meredith. When you came to my apartment, begging.” Her pupils dilated. “Julia, stop—” “You came to my door crying, saying your academic advisor had blocked your graduation and you had nothing to show for your thesis. You literally knelt on my floor and begged me to let you use my “Celadon” drafts to pass your final review.” “I felt sorry for you. I let you use them.” “But you didn’t just pass. You rebranded my work, claimed it as your own, and used it to secure a partnership at my husband’s firm. And then, of course, you went after my husband.” “We aren’t even legally divorced yet, and you’re already celebrating your victory. It seems your math was a bit off.” Meredith stumbled backward, her heel catching on her gown as she knocked over a tray of champagne glasses. The shattering glass echoed through the silent room. The delicate, polished facade she had spent years building had completely shattered. Robert stared at her, his voice trembling slightly. “Meredith.” “Look at me.” “Is she telling the truth?” Meredith opened her mouth, but only a dry, silent gasp came out. The eyes of every prominent figure in Manhattan’s real estate market were pinned on her like knives. Before she could speak, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom swung open. My grandfather, George, walked into the room, leaning on his mahogany cane. Beside him was the director of the federal development committee, holding a sealed manila envelope. “Mr. Ashford, Ms. Lucien,” the director announced, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “After a thorough audit of the filings, “The Meridian” has been flagged for severe plagiarism.” “Your submission is officially disqualified, effective immediately.” The director opened the folder, reading aloud from the document inside. “Furthermore, the core structural patent licensed to the Ashford Group by the George family is set to expire in seventy-two hours.” He looked up, his gaze landing on Robert’s pale face. “Per the decision of the board… we will not be renewing the license.” The silence in the ballroom was absolute.

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Viola’s profile picture had been the same sterile, professional headshot for as long as I could remember. Then, without warning, she changed it to a cartoon of a little brown bear. I thought it was sweet, maybe even a little playful. Laughing to myself, I screenshotted the bear’s paw and cropped it to use as my own, making them a matching pair. That evening, Viola, who famously ignored the company group chat, personally posted an announcement about the upcoming office dinner. Chase was the first to reply. “Received!” The thread fell silent for a few seconds. Then, someone in marketing couldn’t help themselves, posting a whispered gossip emoji: “Wait, Chase, are you and Viola using matching profile pics? Is tonight’s dinner actually an engagement party? ;)” Viola replied almost instantly: “He’s sensitive. Don’t tease him.” A flurry of emojis and teasing remarks erupted beneath her message. My heart did a strange, sudden drop. I stared at the screen for a long time, then quietly changed my profile picture back to a default landscape. Five years of a secret, back-alley relationship. Suddenly, the whole thing just felt incredibly cheap. 1. After leaving the company group chat, I tapped on the thread with my dad. His last message had come in three hours ago, asking if I could make it home for dinner this weekend. The tone was hesitant, almost apologetic, and it made my throat tight. My eyes stung. I forced down the lump in my throat and typed back a quick reply: “I’m coming home tonight.” For the last five years, I had poured everything into Viola, leaving nothing but scraps for the people who actually loved me. On my dad’s birthday, I had stayed up late knitting a scarf for her. When my mother was hospitalized, I was too busy worrying over the fact that Viola had only eaten half a bowl of soup to properly sit by my mother’s bed. When friends invited me to go skiing or hiking, I’d offer a polite, rehearsed smile and say, “Viola doesn’t really like the cold.” I had made her my entire universe. But I didn’t want to live in that universe anymore. At five o’clock on the dot, I clocked out and packed my things. As I passed the executive suite, the door swung open, and Viola stepped out, looking thoroughly annoyed. She was shaking a few wet drops of coffee from her fingers. When she saw me, her posture relaxed just a fraction. “Connor, go buy an XL men’s thermal shirt and bring it to my office.” She barely looked at me, her voice clipped and professional, as if she were talking to a temp she’d hired yesterday. This was how we had operated in this building for half a decade. I clenched my fists in my pockets, the familiar, metallic taste of bitterness rising in my mouth. An extra-large. That was Chase’s size. When I didn’t answer right away, Viola’s brows knit together. She didn’t offer an explanation. She just stood there, waiting for me to comply, exactly as she had a hundred times before. When Chase’s apartment pipes burst, she had pulled herself out of my bed mid-embrace and left without a word. When Chase had a stomach flare-up, she had walked out on me while I was curled on the bathroom floor with agonizing abdominal cramps. She never explained. She didn’t think she had to. In her mind, my job as her boyfriend was to be endlessly understanding, to offer a blind, unwavering faith. I let out a slow, tired breath, my fingers relaxing inside my pockets. “It’s past five, Viola. I’m going home.” I kept my voice strictly professional, turned on my heel, and walked away. I didn’t look back to see the shadow that fell over her face. I drove to the far side of town to pick up the takeout my parents loved. Seeing the sheer, surprised joy on their faces when I walked through the door made my chest ache. It didn’t matter how far I drove or how much effort I put into finding the things Viola liked; she always met my gestures with a cool, detached indifference. Sometimes, she even scolded me for them. “Are you stupid, Connor? Driving three hundred miles with a fever just to find a vintage wooden carving? Learn to weigh the cost against the benefit.” I suppose I really had been stupid. Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Viola. “Upset? Why?” The warm atmosphere of my parents’ dining room suddenly felt very far away. I scrolled up through our chat history. Her messages to me were rare, mostly dry and functional. Most of our thread consisted of my long, enthusiastic paragraphs met with her one-word replies. This text was actually long for her. I let out a quiet, mocking laugh and flipped the phone face down. The roasted chicken on my plate suddenly tasted like cardboard. My parents noticed, of course. They exchanged a look before my dad spoke up, his voice cautious. “Connor? Did you and Viola have a disagreement?” I shook my head, keeping my eyes on my plate. Dad hesitated, clearing his throat. “You’re twenty-eight now. Have you two… talked about the future? About marriage? When are you planning to—” “Dad,” I interrupted gently, setting my fork down. The decision came to me with a strange, quiet clarity. “We aren’t getting married.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “We’re not right for each other. It’s over.” 2. Before bed, Viola called. When I answered, there was only silence on the line. She was waiting for me to start the conversation, to offer the usual apologies and smooth things over. But this time, I stayed silent too, matching her quiet. Finally, her patience snapped. Her voice came through the receiver, heavy with controlled irritation. “Connor. Explain.” To the point. Always so economical with her words. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Is there something wrong with me leaving work on time, Viola?” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again, she sounded genuinely baffled. “What are you doing right now? Are you actually throwing a tantrum over a thermal shirt? You skipped the company dinner for this?” She let out a sharp breath. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Chase is just like a younger brother to me.” “A brother.” She had used that word so often she’d managed to convince herself. But there wasn’t a single soul in that office who couldn’t see the blinding favoritism she showered on him. In five years of dating, she had never once agreed to a matching couple’s profile, and hearing her say “I love you” in private was a rare, hard-won luxury. I was just so tired. “Didn’t you always say we should keep things strictly professional at the office?” I asked, my voice flat. “I clocked out at five. Is the company social mandatory now?” Viola choked on her next words. I could picture her expression perfectly—the dark, simmering anger, the cold disappointment, the quiet judgment. “Connor, how old are you?” My knuckles turned white around the phone. I bit my lip to keep from shaking. “Connor, can you please be rational?” “Connor, can you grow up?” “Connor, why can’t you be more like Chase?” I had heard those phrases so many times they had worn grooves into my mind. Every single time, they had made me want to scream, to cry, to beg her to see me. But tonight, I just smiled. “I’m twenty-eight, Viola.” “If you’re going to be this stubborn, we have nothing to talk about,” she snapped, her voice tight with rage. Before I could reply, the line went dead. My hand stayed frozen in the air for a long time. Then, despite everything, the tears came. I pressed my face into the pillow, muffling the dry, shaking sobs that tore through my chest, feeling as though something inside me was being slowly, violently ripped apart. Sometime after midnight, my phone began to buzz incessantly. The company group chat was flooded with photos and videos from the dinner. I tapped on the first video. Viola, who never let her guard down, was visibly drunk. She was leaning her head heavily against Chase’s shoulder, murmuring softly back to him every time he spoke. But it was the second video that made my breath catch. Viola was reaching into her coat pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. She opened it, slid a diamond ring onto Chase’s finger, and then, tilting her head, she gently kissed the back of his hand. A cold, numbing sensation washed over me, starting at the back of my neck and spreading down to my fingertips. I stared at the looping video, watching her expression over and over, looking for any sign of hesitation. There was none. That was the moment the last string snapped. My face felt cold; my lips were bitten raw. Below the video, the chat was losing its mind. “Oh my god, is this what I think it is?” “Did Viola just propose while drunk?!” “I always knew they were together. Look how soft she is when she’s with him.” “Matching profiles, matching rings… I’m ready for the wedding!” “Go check her personal feed right now! Oh my god!” My fingers shook so violently I could barely navigate the screen. Viola had never posted a single personal photo in the five years I’d known her. But there it was—a photo of her and Chase. Her eyes were glazed and soft with alcohol, and Chase was leaning into her side, a shy, triumphant smile on his face. The public acknowledgement I had begged for, the simple validation I had waited five years to receive, had been handed to Chase without him even having to ask. The room seemed to tilt. The air in my chest felt thick, like water, and the tears started to pour down my face in silent, heavy streams. I wanted to call her. I wanted to scream at her, to demand to know why she had treated me like a secret shame while presenting him to the world. But my fingers wouldn’t move. The urge to fight simply evaporated, leaving me hollowed out and entirely empty. 3. I didn’t sleep. By morning, my eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Before the workday started, I texted my manager to request three days of paid leave. He approved it immediately, but less than two hours after I finally drifted off, my phone began to blare. It was my manager’s number, but when I answered, Viola’s cold voice cut through the line. “Connor. What is the reason for this sudden leave? The company policy is clear—no unexcused absences. Get out of bed and get to my office. Now.” She hung up before I could speak. I forced myself out of bed, my head throbbing with a dull, feverish ache. I dressed in a daze and drove to the office, my face pale and drawn. When I reached the executive floor, my manager was waiting outside her door, looking anxious. He gave me a sympathetic, worried look. “She’s in a terrible mood today, Connor. Just… apologize and keep your head down, okay?” I offered a weak, tired smile. As I reached for the doorknob, a burst of laughter came from inside the room. “Viola, this ring is absolutely beautiful! I love the setting so much!” There was a brief pause, but the moment the door swung open and Viola saw me standing there, her eyes instantly cooled. “If you like it, keep it,” she said, her voice indifferent as she looked at Chase. “Wear it as a prop.” Chase beamed, stepping forward to throw his arms around her neck in an enthusiastic hug. My eyes drifted to the ring on his finger. It was the same one from the video. It fit him perfectly. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I had to grip the doorframe to keep my balance. By the time my vision cleared, Viola was standing directly in front of me. She reached out, her thumb brushing against my swollen eyelid. “Have you been crying?” she asked, her tone dry. “Your emotional resilience is still so incredibly low.” I flinched away from her touch, my chest burning with a sudden, sharp anger. Always the same. If she wasn’t dismissing me, she was mocking me. In five years, she had never once spoken to me with the softness she used for Chase. I had spent half a decade waiting for her to take one step toward me, ready to throw myself into the fire for her if she did. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my voice to remain steady. “If there’s nothing else, Viola, I’d like to go back to my desk.” “Connor!” “Viola!” I snapped, matching her tone for the first time in my life. “You’re the one who insisted we keep our private lives out of the office. I’m doing exactly what you asked. What more do you want from me?” I turned and walked out, ignoring the sudden, dark fury that took over her face. But as I sat at my desk, the room began to spin. The dull ache in my head grew into a raging fire, and by the time the lunch hour arrived, I couldn’t hold myself upright anymore. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Viola’s silhouette as she walked through the department for her daily floor inspection. When I woke up, the smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was in a hospital room. One of my colleagues from accounting was sitting in the chair beside the bed, looking at me with wide, gossip-hungry eyes. “Connor, you’re awake! Honestly, we were all so shocked. Viola looked absolutely terrified when you collapsed. She was the first one to reach you.” She leaned closer. “What’s going on between you two?” I turned my head away, looking out the window at the gray sky. “Nothing.” Later that evening, the door clicked open. Viola walked in, carrying a paper bag. She walked over to the bed and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when she felt my skin. “Your fever is down,” she said, setting a container of soup on the bedside table. “Chase made this soup. He insisted I bring it to you.” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Why didn’t you say you were sick? You’re an adult, Connor. You shouldn’t be neglecting your health like this.” There was a genuine flicker of concern in her eyes. I saw it, but for the first time, it didn’t do anything to me. I didn’t feel the usual rush of gratitude or the desperate urge to make her happy. I just felt a profound, exhausting emptiness. “Let’s break up,” I said. Viola’s hand froze mid-air as she reached for the soup container. The plastic lid rattled, and a few drops spilled onto the table. Her eyes darkened with immediate irritation, but she quickly smoothed her expression back into her usual, cool mask. “And your reason?” It felt like punching a wall of wet clay. There was no impact, no reaction, just a slow, suffocating drag. I shook my head and closed my eyes. “I’m tired. Is that enough of a reason?” At work, I was her subordinate. At home, I was her subordinate. Even here, in a hospital bed, I was being lectured. All I wanted was a simple, quiet gesture of care. Why was that so impossible for her to give me? She seemed to have no trouble giving it to Chase. 4. Viola’s breath caught, the first real crack appearing on her stony face. “Connor, have I been too lenient with you?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave. “Your temper has only gotten worse over the years. You could really learn a thing or two from Chase’s maturity.” The exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I rolled over, pulling the hospital blanket over my shoulders and turning my back to her. Chase, Chase, always Chase. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. After what felt like an eternity, I heard the sharp scrape of the plastic container hitting the metal trash can, followed by the heavy, echoing slam of the hospital door. I kept my eyes shut tight, but the tears leaked out anyway, soaking into the stiff hospital pillow. I gripped the sheets until my fingers cramped, the metallic taste of blood on my tongue. By the time I was discharged three days later, the office gossip mill had already spun a web of rumors. “Do you think Connor is trying to climb his way up through Viola?” “I wouldn’t doubt it. Chase looked like he’d been crying all last week. I bet Connor did something to him.” “Everyone knows Viola and Chase are basically together. Connor is just trying to insert himself where he doesn’t belong.” “Some people will do anything for a promotion.” The whispers followed me down the hallways. I did my best to ignore them, but when I walked into the breakroom and heard Derek say, “Honestly, who knows how many wealthy women he’s had to crawl after,” something inside me snapped. I didn’t think. I just lunged forward and slapped him hard across the face. We ended up on the floor, tearing at each other’s clothes, a chaotic mess of fists and anger. By the time Viola arrived, my collar was torn, my cheek was bruised, and a thin trickle of blood was running from the corner of my mouth. I tried to pull myself up to go after him again, but Viola’s voice cut through the room like ice. “Enough!” She stepped between us, her eyes blazing. “Connor! Instigating a physical altercation in the workplace? You’re acting like an animal!” “Apologize. Now.” I stared at her, disbelieving. Then I looked past her shoulder and saw Chase standing there, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. I understood then. I had hit Chase’s close friend, and Viola was here to play the protector. I let out a harsh, dry laugh, stepped around her, and delivered another hard slap to Derek’s face before anyone could stop me. “Connor!” “Connor, stop! How can you do this right in front of Viola?” Chase cried, his voice trembling as he stepped forward. Viola’s brow furrowed so deeply her eyes were almost hidden in shadow. “Unprovoked violence?” I asked, staring directly at her. “Is that what you think this is?” “Am I wrong?” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, freezing register. “If Chase hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known how arrogant and hostile you’ve been acting in this office.” “You will apologize to Derek immediately. Then you will write a three-thousand-word formal apology and post it to the entire company channel. If this happens again, you’re fired.” I clenched my fists, my eyes burning. My chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath. Every single time there was a conflict, she stood on the other side of the line. She was always my judge, never my partner. Because when Chase was involved, her loyalty was absolute and unconditional. “Viola,” I whispered, my voice shaking with a mix of rage and grief. “Are you really that certain I’m the one in the wrong?” “Your credibility with me is zero, Connor.” Her face was entirely devoid of warmth. “You know exactly what you did. I won’t ask you again. Apologize.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. The tears spilled over, hot and fast. The very last shred of hope I had held for her—the tiny, stupid hope that she might actually care about me—withered and died. I should have known. I had always known. A flicker of hesitation passed through Viola’s eyes, her fingers twitching at her side, but it was too late. I raised my hand and slapped Viola across the face. The breakroom fell into absolute, deafening silence. Chase went pale. “Connor… how could you hit her?” I didn’t look at him. I watched Viola as she slowly turned her head back to face me, her cheek reddening. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand and let out a cold, quiet laugh. “We’re done, Viola.” “I’m leaving the company. And I’m leaving you.”

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Ruth, whose profile picture on our workplace Slack had been a static, default monogram for five years, suddenly changed it to a cute minimalist brown bear. I found it mildly amusing. On a whim, I took a screenshot of the little bear’s paw and set it as my own avatar—a quiet, private joke between us. That evening was the company quarterly dinner. Ruth, who usually ignored the casual group chats, personally posted the announcement. Jesse was the first to reply: “Understood, boss!f” The thread went quiet for a moment before someone ventured a teasing comment: “Hey, Jesse, are you and Ruth wearing matching couple avatars? Is tonight’s dinner actually an engagement party or what?” Ruth replied instantly: “The kid is shy. Don’t tease him.” The group erupted with laughing and cheering emojis. My heart stuttered. I quietly opened my profile settings and changed my avatar back to a generic landscape. Five years in a secret relationship. Suddenly, it all felt incredibly hollow. 1. Leaving the main company channel, I tapped on my dad’s chat. There was a message from three hours ago, asking if I could make it home for dinner this weekend. His tone was hesitant, almost fragile, carrying a quiet ache that made my throat tighten. Tears pricked my eyes. I typed back: I’m coming home tonight. For the past five years, I had neglected my family for Ruth. On my dad’s birthday, I had stayed up late knitting a designer scarf for her. When my mother was hospitalized, I had spent the night pacing in my apartment, worrying about Ruth because she had only eaten half a bowl of soup at her meeting. I had smiled and declined weekend ski trips and hiking invites from my closest friends, always offering the same excuse: “Ruth doesn’t really like the cold,” or “Ruth prefers quiet weekends.” I had built my entire universe around her. But I didn’t want to live in her orbit anymore. At 5:00 PM sharp, I packed my things and clocked out. Passing the executive suite, I ran into Ruth. She looked stressed, brushing some damp coffee off her sleeve. “Drew, go grab an XL merino wool thermal layer from the shop downstairs and bring it to my office.” She looked at me briefly, her gaze cool and detached, as if addressing a stranger. This was how we survived five years in the office together. Pure professionalism. I clenched my fists, tasting the familiar bitterness of my own silence. Size XL. That was Jesse’s size. When I didn’t move or speak, her brow furrowed. She didn’t explain. She just stood there, waiting for my compliance, just like all the other times. When Jesse’s apartment pipes burst, she had pulled away from me mid-embrace, leaving without a word. When Jesse’s stomach ulcer flared up, she had abandoned me on our bathroom floor, writhing in abdominal pain, to drive to his side. She never explained. She deemed it beneath her. In her mind, as her partner, I was expected to be understanding. To have blind, absolute trust. I lowered my eyes, tired down to my bones. “It’s five o’clock, Ruth. I’m off the clock. I’m going home.” I kept my voice perfectly flat and walked away, ignoring the sudden darkening of her expression. I drove out to the west side, taking the long route to buy the pastries and braised short ribs my parents loved. Watching their faces light up with joy, a dull ache bloomed in my chest. No matter how far I drove or how much effort I put into buying things Ruth liked, she always met me with a cool, clinical detachment. Sometimes, she even scolded me. “Drew, are you an idiot? Driving three hundred miles in a storm just to find a vintage vinyl record? Can you not weigh the cost against the benefit?” I was an idiot. Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed. It was Ruth. Upset? Why? The warmth in the room vanished. I scrolled through our chat history. The times she initiated contact were laughably rare. Most of it was me sending updates, talking to myself in a digital void. This text was actually quite long for her. I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh and locked the screen. The short ribs in my mouth tasted like ash. My parents noticed. My dad hesitated, his voice gentle. “Drew, did you and Ruth have a fight?” I shook my head. My dad hesitated again. “You’re twenty-eight now. Have you two talked about the future? About marriage?” “Dad,” I interrupted, setting my fork down. A sudden, cold clarity washed over me. “We’re not getting married.” “We… aren’t right for each other.” 2. Before bed, Ruth called. The line was silent. She was waiting for me to apologize first, as I always did. But this time, I matched her silence, breathing quietly into the receiver. Finally, her patience snapped. Her voice was low, laced with controlled annoyance. “Drew. Explain.” Two words. Spartan, as always. I let out a soft laugh, mocking myself more than her. “Is there an issue with me leaving work on time, Ruth?” Silence on the other end for two beats. Then, a sharp, irritated breath. “What is this tantrum about, Drew? Because I asked you to buy a thermal shirt? Because you skipped the company dinner?” “I told you, Jesse is just a kid. He’s like a younger brother.” A younger brother. That was the lie she used to keep her conscience clean. But everyone in the company saw the blatant, shameless favoritism. In five years of dating, she had never agreed to a matching avatar, and getting her to say “I love you” in private was like pulling teeth. I was just so incredibly tired. “Didn’t you always say we keep work and personal life strictly separate? I left at five. What’s the problem?” “Since when are company dinners mandatory?” Ruth choked on her words. I could picture her face—darkened, eyes cold with disappointment and disapproval. “Drew, how old are you?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone, my lips pressed into a tight line. Drew, can you be rational for once? Drew, grow up. Drew, why can’t you be more like Jesse? I had heard those phrases so many times they had worn grooves into my mind. Every single time, they made me want to cry, but I had always swallowed the tears. This time, I just smiled. “I’m twenty-eight, Ruth.” “Are you really going to be this stubborn?” Her voice flared with genuine anger. Before I could answer, she hung up. My hand froze in the air. The tears I had held back finally spilled over, hot and bitter. I pressed my face into the pillow, muffled my sobs, and felt my chest ache as if it were physically splitting apart. In the middle of the night, the company group chat suddenly erupted. Dozens of photos and videos flooded the thread. I opened them. I saw Ruth—the untouchable, stoic Ruth—flushed and drunk, leaning her head softly against Jesse’s shoulder. She was murmuring answers to whatever he was whispering. But the second video was the one that froze the blood in my veins. Ruth pulled a velvet box from her coat pocket, extracted a diamond ring, and slipped it onto Jesse’s finger. Then, she leaned down and gently kissed the back of his hand. I stared at the screen, my mind completely blank, the chill creeping from my chest to my fingertips. I watched the loop over and over, analyzing her face. At that moment, the final, fragile thread holding me to her snapped. My vision blurred. Under the video, the comments rolled in: “Is that wedding bells I hear?” “Looks like Ruth had a little too much to drink and let the secret slip!” “I didn’t know Ruth could be this soft. She’s practically glowing.” “Matching icons, rings… I’m buying a suit!” “Look at her Instagram!!! Go check it now!” My hands shook so violently I could barely tap the screen. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. I opened her Instagram. A woman who had never posted a single personal photo in five years had just posted a selfie with Jesse. Her eyes were hazy with alcohol, looking softer than I’d ever seen them. Jesse was leaning into her side, a shy, victorious smile on his lips. The public acknowledgment I had begged for over five years—Jesse got it just by existing. Something inside me shattered, scattering like glass across a concrete floor. I sat in the dark, unable to breathe, tears streaming down my face. I wanted to call her. I wanted to scream, to ask her why? Why did you treat me like a secret? Why does he get everything I was denied? Why did you lie to me? But my fingers couldn’t find the strength to press the buttons. Eventually, I sank back onto the mattress, completely broken, and let the darkness take me. 3. I didn’t sleep a wink. My eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Before the workday started, I messaged my department lead to request three days of personal leave. She approved it immediately. But barely two hours after I drifted off, my phone blared. It was my lead’s number, but when I answered, Ruth’s voice cut through the line. “Drew. What is the reason for this sudden leave? No unauthorized leave without a valid medical reason. Have you forgotten company policy?” “Get to the office immediately. My office. Now.” She sounded furious, hanging up before I could speak. My head throbbed with a feverish weight, but I forced myself to get dressed. When I reached the executive floor, my department lead was waiting by the door, looking anxious. “Ruth is in a terrible mood today, Drew. Just apologize, okay? Keep your head down.” I forced a tight, lifeless smile. As I reached for the doorknob, laughter drifted from inside the office. “Ruth, this ring is absolutely stunning! I love the setting so much!” Ruth didn’t answer, but the moment the door swung open and she saw me, her eyes hardened. “If you like it, keep it. Wear it for fun.” Jesse’s face lit up, and he threw his arms around her neck in an buy-in hug. My gaze fell on the ring. It was the exact same one from the video. It fit his finger perfectly. A wave of dizziness hit me. By the time I anchored myself, Ruth was standing right in front of me. “You’ve been crying?” She reached out, her fingers lightly touching my swollen eyelid. “Your skin is still so thin.” I flinched away from her touch, my throat tightening again. Always this condescension. Always the subtle digs. In five years, she had never comforted me the way she comforted Jesse. If she had just lowered her guard once, I would have burned my world down for her. I let out a quiet, dry laugh. “Is there anything else, Ruth? Otherwise, I’ll get back to work.” “Drew!” “Ruth!” I snapped back, looking her dead in the eye for the first time. “Isn’t this what you wanted? ‘At work, we keep it professional.’ I’m doing exactly what you asked. Why aren’t you happy?” I turned on my heel and walked out, ignoring her stunned, furious gaze. Back at my desk, my head felt like it was filled with lead. By lunchtime, when Ruth walked through the department for an inspection, my vision went black, and I collapsed. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. A colleague from my team was sitting by the bed, practically bursting with curiosity. “Drew, Ruth was terrified. When you fainted, she was the first one to catch you. She carried you out herself.” “What’s really going on between you two?” I turned my face to the wall. The bitter taste of regret filled my mouth. Late that evening, Ruth finally walked in. She carried a container of soup. She pressed her palm to my forehead, and I saw a small, almost imperceptible flicker of relief in her eyes. “Your fever is down. Jesse made this soup. He insisted I bring it to you.” “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? You’re an adult, Drew. You should know how to take care of yourself.” She pressed her lips together, her voice holding a rare edge of genuine concern. I saw it. But it felt like nothing. No warmth, no comfort. Just a chore she was checking off. I wanted to laugh. In her vocabulary, I would never hear the words, I’m so sorry you’re hurting. “Let’s break up.” Ruth’s hand jerked. The soup container slipped, nearly spilling onto the floor. Her face tightened, anger flashing in her eyes, but she quickly masked it with her usual cool indifference. “And why is that?” Her tone made me feel like I was punching a brick wall. A profound exhaustion washed over me. I shook my head, letting out a hollow laugh. “I’m tired. Is that enough of a reason?” At the office, I was an employee. At home, I felt like a tenant. And here, in this hospital bed, I was still just a subordinate. I only wanted a partner who cared. Why was that so hard for her to give me? Yet, she did it so effortlessly for Jesse. 4. Ruth’s breath hitched. For the first time, her icy composure cracked. “Drew, have I spoiled you too much?” “Over the years, your temper has only gotten worse. You could learn a thing or two from Jesse.” The familiar weight settled over my chest. I closed my eyes, turning my back to her. Jesse. Always Jesse. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Finally, I heard her throw the soup into the trash can and walk out, slamming the heavy door behind her. I buried my face in the pillow, letting the tears soak into the fabric. My hands gripped the sheets so hard my nails dug into my palms, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. When I was discharged three days later, the office was already buzzing with rumors. “Do you think Drew is some kind of social climber?” “Probably. I saw Jesse crying in the breakroom last week. Drew probably threatened him.” “Everyone knows Ruth and Jesse are practically together. Drew is just trying to wedge himself in.” “Some people will do anything for a promotion.” The whispers followed me down the hallways. I tried to tune them out, but in the breakroom, I heard Brad—one of Jesse’s close friends—say, “I wonder how many rich women he had to sleep with to get this position.” The world tilted. Before I could think, my hand flew out and struck Brad across the face. We collided, slamming into the counters, tearing at each other’s collars. By the time Ruth arrived, my shirt was ripped, my cheek was bruised, and a thin line of blood ran from my lip. I tried to lung forward again, but Ruth’s voice cut through the room like shattered glass. “Enough!” “Drew! Assaulting a coworker? You’re acting like an animal!” “Apologize. Now.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. Then I saw Jesse standing behind her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. I got it. I had hit Jesse’s friend, and Ruth was here to play protector. I let out a sharp, bitter laugh, and before anyone could stop me, I turned and delivered another hard slap to Brad’s face. “Drew!” Ruth roared. “Drew! How can you do this right in front of Ruth?” Jesse whimpered, shrinking back. Ruth’s brow furrowed so deeply her eyes were almost hidden. “Assaulting a colleague?” I spat, looking directly at Ruth. “Is that what he told you?” “Am I wrong?” Ruth’s voice was venomous, her eyes dark with disgust. “If Jesse hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known how tyrannical and arrogant you’ve been acting in this department!” “Apologize to him immediately. Write a formal apology and post it to the entire company Slack channel. If this happens again, you’re fired.” I clenched my fists, my vision swimming. My chest ached so acutely I could barely draw air. Five years of memories flashed before my eyes, and in every single one, Ruth was standing on the opposite side, facing me like an adversary. Whenever Jesse was involved, she chose him. Every single time. “Ruth!” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of five years of silence. “Are you really that sure I’m the one who started this?” “Drew, your credibility with me is zero.” Her voice was completely devoid of warmth. “You know exactly what you did. Don’t make me say it again. Apologize. Now.” I laughed. It was a terrible, broken sound. The very last ember of hope I had kept alive for her died right there. I should have known. I always knew. A fleeting shadow of regret crossed Ruth’s eyes, her fingers twitching at her sides. With whatever strength I had left, I stepped forward and slapped Ruth across the face. The breakroom went dead silent. Jesse paled. “Drew! How could you strike Ruth?” I didn’t look at him. I watched Ruth’s head slowly turn back toward me, her cheek blooming red. I wiped the blood from my lip, my tears dry. “We are done, Ruth.” “I quit the job. And I quit you.”

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On the morning of our big family vacation, I woke up early only to find the house completely, eerily quiet. Confused, I unlocked my phone. A text from my sister, Ida, had just popped up in the family group chat. “Shoot, I completely forgot to text this thread that we moved the departure time up!” A second later, the message was recalled. I stared blankly at the empty screen, a sudden, sharp sting prickling the backs of my eyes. They had another group chat. One that didn’t include me. While I was still trying to process the hollow ache in my chest, my phone rang. It was Mom. “I’m so sorry, Heather,” she said, her voice rushing through the receiver. “We moved our flight up by an hour and it completely slipped my mind to tell you. If you call an Uber right now, you might still make—” “If she didn’t bother to show up on time, just leave her,” my brother Jude’s voice cut in from the background, cold and dismissive. “Ida’s been wanting a trip where she gets to be the center of attention anyway. Let’s just give her this one.” I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump rising in my throat. “It’s fine. I won’t go. Have a great trip.” The moment the line went dead, I opened my airline app. Without a shred of hesitation, I canceled my ticket to Miami and booked a flight to Montana instead. My childhood friend, Oliver, and I had promised each other years ago that we’d see the vast, rolling Montana plains together. This was the perfect time to make good on that promise. For the last eighteen years, my family had poured all their love into Ida—the pretty, vibrant, clever twin. I was just the plain, quiet shadow. But Oliver had never minded my ordinary edges. He had always been there, steady and quiet, right by my side. Excitement fluttered in my chest as I opened our chat to tell him the news. But before I could type a word, his latest Instagram post caught my eye. “Chasing waves with my favorite princess!” It was a selfie of him and Ida on a plane, their heads tilted together, smiling into the camera. The last fragile thread of hope inside me snapped. I walked over to my desk, opened my laptop, and logged into the state college admissions portal. With a few clicks, I deleted my application to our local state university—the one Oliver and I had promised to attend together—and changed my first choice to a university in New York, a thousand miles away. Then, clutching my new itinerary, I called a cab and headed to the airport alone. If no one in my life cared to look my way, then I would go find my own light. … The day I returned from Montana was the exact same day my parents and siblings got back from Hawaii. The moment they walked through the front door, Mom glanced at the pristine, empty kitchen. Her face immediately pinched into a scowl. “You knew Ida gets terrible motion sickness and wouldn’t be able to eat anything on the road,” she complained, throwing her keys onto the counter. “You couldn’t even bother to have dinner ready for her? Do you have any sense of responsibility as an older sister?” I stood there, completely numb under the weight of her irritation. Yes, I was the older sister—but only by a meager sixty minutes. Yet, ever since we were children, I was expected to yield, to accommodate, and to sacrifice for Ida. The slightest failure to do so immediately earned me the label of being “selfish” or “cruel.” Besides, I had only walked through the door ten minutes ago myself. I hadn’t even had a sip of water. Finding a ride from the airport had been a nightmare. I had specifically texted the family chat hours ago, asking if they could pick me up since our arrival times aligned. But my message had been met with absolute silence. I had ended up standing in the sweltering heat for nearly two hours waiting for a taxi. Ida suddenly nudged Mom’s arm, silently gesturing for her to check her phone. Mom blinked, pulling out her device to open the family thread. When she saw my text from earlier, a fleeting look of guilt crossed her face, but she quickly covered it with another sharp sigh. “Next time you need something, just call us,” she grumbled. “Who has the time to sit around checking group threads for random spam all day?” But I knew the truth. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the time. It was because they had built a separate, exclusive digital world for their darling daughter. A private sanctuary where I didn’t exist to clutter their screens. If my memory served me right, that secret group chat had been created when I was in eighth grade. I’ll never forget the rainy afternoon I was hit by a car on my walk home from school. A panicked bystander had used my phone to tag my parents dozens of times in the family group chat, begging them to respond. No one ever did. It wasn’t until a police officer tracked down their landline hours later that they finally showed up at the hospital. And yet, Ida never had to send a single text for them to anticipate her every move. I used to torture myself trying to believe my parents loved me equally, that it was all just a series of misunderstandings. But looking at them now, the truth was simple. In that group chat, and in this house, I was merely background noise. I kept my head down, my voice quiet. “I understand. It won’t happen again.” And it wouldn’t. Because I was done asking. I was done hoping for a warmth they were incapable of giving me. “We’re going out for dinner,” Dad announced, guiding Ida toward the door. Ida paused, looking back at me with a soft, pitying expression. “Heather, do you want to come with us?” Before I could even open my mouth, Jude sneered from the doorway. “Don’t waste your breath. She never eats with us anyway. You know how she is.” He cast a look of pure disgust in my direction. “Honestly, you have zero warmth in you. Having a sister as cold-hearted as you is an absolute embarrassment.” My cheeks burned with a sudden, humiliating heat. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. The unfairness of it clawed at my chest. The only reason I didn’t join them for dinner was because Ida loved spicy food, meaning they always went to Sichuan or Mexican joints. My stomach was too sensitive to handle the grease and spice, so I would end up sitting there, chewing on dry white rice, while my parents scolded me for “ruining the mood” with my fragile health. Eventually, I just stopped going. But my quiet retreat had never been understood as a sacrifice. It was only ever used as proof of my coldness. Ida offered a helpless little shrug, turning to follow Mom and Dad out the door. Once the house fell silent, I walked into the kitchen and boiled a single serving of instant ramen. I sat at the empty dining table, ate in silence, and washed my bowl. Just as I was putting the sponge away, my phone rang. It was Mom. They had gone to the mall after dinner to buy Ida some new clothes. Mom pointed her camera at a rack of basic cotton t-shirts. “Which color do you like? Pick one.” I hesitated, looking at the screen. “Maybe the blue one? Or the white?” Mom waved her hand generously toward the sales associate. “We’ll just take both!” When the call disconnected, I sat on the edge of my bed and let out a shaky, sobbing breath. But for the first time in years, they were tears of relief. Compared to the designer dresses they constantly bought for Ida, two basic t-shirts were practically nothing. But to me, it felt like a lifeline. It felt like proof that somewhere in Mom’s heart, I still existed. For a wild, irrational second, I actually debated logging back into the portal to change my college application back to State U. I wanted so badly to stay. An hour later, the front door opened. Mom, Dad, and Jude walked in, their arms loaded down with dozens of glossy, high-end shopping bags. Every single one of them was filled with the latest summer collections for Ida. I eagerly stepped forward, reaching out for the bag containing my t-shirts. But before I could touch it, Ida let out a delighted giggle, laying her new bags across the sofa. “Seriously, it was such a steal. We got all of this for under five thousand dollars, and the boutique even threw in two basic t-shirts as a free gift!” My hand froze in midair. The fragile warmth in my chest withered into ice. They hadn’t thought of me at all. I was just the recipient of a boutique’s promotional scraps. “Give the t-shirts to whoever you want,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I dropped my hand. “I don’t want them.” I spun on my heel, ran into my room, and slammed the door behind me. The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, soaking into my pillow. Outside my door, the muffled voices of my family drifted through the hallway. “Unbelievable,” Mom sighed loudly. “Ida tried to do something nice for her, and she doesn’t have a single drop of gratitude in her body.” “She’s always been like this,” Jude agreed, his tone dripping with annoyance. “I don’t know how she turned out so warped. She’s nothing like Ida. Are you guys absolutely sure they’re twins? Honestly, our lives would be so much easier if Ida were an only child.” “Don’t worry,” I thought, pressing my face into the mattress as the tears burned my eyes. “You’re about to get exactly what you want.” Soon, Jude wouldn’t have to look at the sister who embarrassed him, and my parents wouldn’t have to deal with the daughter they never wanted. And I would finally stop begging for scraps of a love that was never meant for me. After I washed my face, I lay in the dark. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Oliver. “Did you finalize your application? You went with State, right?” Oliver had dreamed of Yale for years. But a month before the deadline, he had suddenly announced he was staying local. When I had asked him why, he had danced around the question. Now, staring at his text, I decided to ask him plainly. “Why did you choose State, Oliver? Really.” A few minutes later, his reply came. “Honestly? Ida’s mock scores were pretty rough. If she goes to State, she’ll need someone there to help her with her classes and look out for her. It just made sense.” My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. “So you gave up your dream school just to hold her hand?” “It’s just a school, Heather,” he replied instantly. “It’s not like anything is more important than keeping Ida happy.” I stared at the glowing screen, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my lips. When I had believed Oliver was heading to the Ivy League, I had spent my entire junior and senior years in a state of sheer panic. My grades had hovered around average, but I had worked myself to the bone, studying until three in the morning, memorizing vocabulary until my eyes bled, all so I could score high enough to stand beside him. When my results had come back with a near-perfect score, I had sobbed with joy. But he had thrown his own future away for Ida. And in doing so, he had effortlessly discarded his promise to me. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and typed back: “Then why did you insist I apply to State U with you guys?” I waited, a tiny, foolish part of me hoping he would say he couldn’t bear to be apart from me, or that he wanted me close. Instead, his text bubble popped up. “Well, every rose needs its leaves to stand out, right? Ida is the rose. You’re the leaf. Without you around to balance things out, she won’t shine quite as bright.” The words hit me like a physical blow. The “rose and leaf” theory. It was the defining metaphor of my childhood. My parents, my teachers, my peers—they had all used it to lift Ida up while keeping me firmly under their heels. But Oliver had been the one exception. Or so I had thought. He was the one who had sat with me on the hood of his car and told me, “You’re your own person, Heather. Even if you’re quiet, you’re the only star I see.” I had believed him. I had built my entire world around that belief, never realizing that the moment he laid eyes on Ida, his gaze would never return to me. I closed my eyes, the darkness of my room pressing down on my chest. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” I didn’t wait for his response before switching my phone to Do Not Disturb. Just as I reached over to turn off my bedside lamp, the door creaked open. Ida stood there, holding a warm glass of milk. “Heather? Can I come in?” I nodded slowly. She walked over and set the glass on my nightstand. “Don’t forget, we have the family portrait tomorrow morning,” she said, giving me a bright, playful wink. “Make sure you don’t oversleep this time!” I wanted to tell her I wasn’t going, but the words caught in my throat. When we were kids, Ida’s health was fragile, so my parents had sent me to live with my grandmother in a quiet country town so they could focus entirely on her. They were always too busy to visit, but every Christmas, they would mail me a beautifully framed family portrait. In every photo, Jude and my parents would be huddled tightly around Ida, their smiles radiant. I had spent my entire childhood staring at those photos, aching to be included. After I finally moved back home, we had scheduled several portraits. But every single time, I had mysteriously slept through my alarms, falling into a sleep so heavy that not even my parents pounding on the door could wake me. After a few tries, they lost patience and simply went without me. But this was my last chance. Even though I was leaving, I wanted to close this chapter without lingering regrets. To make absolutely sure I wouldn’t miss it, I set three separate alarms on my phone and turned the volume to its highest setting. Then, despite my usual ten o’clock bedtime, I turned off the lights before nine. But history, it seemed, was determined to repeat itself. When my eyes finally fluttered open the next morning, the clock on my nightstand read 10:00 AM. Panic seized me. I threw off the covers and bolted out of my room barefoot, throwing the door open so hard it rattled against the wall. Right there in the hallway, I collided with my parents and Jude, who were just walking in, laughing and carrying proofs from the studio. The impact sent me sprawling onto the floor. My bare heel caught the edge of a stray piece of glass from a broken vase near the console table. Blood began to seep onto the hardwood, but I barely felt the sting. I was entirely consumed by a crushing, suffocating wave of self-blame. Jude looked down at the blood on my foot, his face hardening into a sneer. “So now you’re resorting to self-harm just to avoid taking a photo with us? Heather, your hypocrisy and drama are truly pathetic.” Without another word, he stepped over me and walked down the hall. My parents let out synchronized, heavy sighs, shaking their heads before dispersing to their respective rooms. Only Ida remained. She knelt down beside me, her voice dripping with sweet, performative sympathy. “Oh, Heather, I know you’re devastated about missing the photo again. But don’t worry! I have the perfect solution. We can just have the studio Photoshop you in. How does that sound?” She smiled, but her eyes were gleaming with unmistakable triumph. And then, looking at her face, a memory flashed in my mind. The warm glass of milk from last night. A cold surge of adrenaline shot through my veins. I scrambled up from the floor, grabbing Ida’s wrist. “Tell me the truth. Did you put something in my milk last night?” Ida’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Heather, what are you talking about? You’re hurting me!” As we stood there, my gaze drifted past her shoulder to the small security camera mounted in the corner of the living room. I let go of her arm, pushed past her, and sprinted into the study. My fingers trembled violently as I grabbed the mouse and pulled up the security feed from the previous night. There, on the glowing screen, was the undeniable truth. At 8:45 PM, Ida had crept into the kitchen, pulled a small white pill from her pocket, crushed it into the milk, stirred it thoroughly, and then carried the glass toward my room. My heart hammered against my ribs. It had never been an accident. Every single time I had “overslept,” it was because Ida had systematically drugged me to ensure she remained the sole focus of the family portrait. The sheer shock made my hand slip on the mouse, dragging the video progress bar back by two weeks. The screen flickered, displaying the footage from the night before the SATs. Once again, Ida’s face appeared on screen. Once again, she was carefully sliding a pill into my evening drink. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Missing a family photo was one thing. But she had been willing to destroy my entire future just to keep me down. The only reason I had survived that exam was because I had developed a mild stomach bug that night; I had spent the entire evening vomiting, flushing the sedatives out of my system before they could take hold. Clutching the laptop, I marched into the living room and showed the footage to my parents. But the explosive anger I expected never came. Mom didn’t yell. Dad didn’t look outraged. Instead, Dad simply turned to Ida and said in a mild, almost teasing tone, “You shouldn’t play pranks like that, sweetheart.” Then, Mom turned her frown back to me. “Heather, nothing bad actually happened. Why do you have to make such a massive deal out of everything? Look at how much you’re frightening your sister.” She wrapped her arms around Ida, murmuring soft, comforting words as Ida sobbed into her shoulder. Jude walked in, taking one look at the scene before chiming in. “Exactly. We’re family, Heather. Is it really necessary to be this vindictive? Even if Ida made a little mistake, you must have done something to provoke her.” I looked at the three of them. The people I had spent my entire life trying to please. To protect Ida, they were willing to bend reality itself. Their bias wasn’t just unfair; it was absolute. A sudden, breathless laugh escaped my lips. I laughed until tears mingled with the dry sweat on my face. Mom looked at me with deep distaste. “If you’re going to throw a tantrum over a stupid photo, fine. We’ll take you to the studio and get a make-up session tomorrow.” I stopped laughing. The room felt incredibly cold, but my mind was suddenly, beautifully clear. “There’s no need,” I said, my voice dead and empty. I walked back to my room, pulled my suitcase from the closet, and began packing the few belongings that were actually mine. I blocked every one of their numbers. I tapped the screen to leave the group chat named “One Big Happy Family”. And then, without looking back, I walked out of the house and took a cab to the station, embarking on the journey to New York. Let the road be long and wide. I was finally done looking back.

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It was the summer before my transition to graduate school, and the entire family was gearing up for a road trip to the coast. In the backseat of the SUV, my younger brother and sister were practically vibrating with excitement, loudly debating which viral restaurant they were going to hit first once we arrived. I walked up to the car, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, and pulled open the passenger door. Every single seat was taken. My father blinked, staring at me for a second before lightly tapping his temple. “Oh, sweetheart. I completely forgot you were coming with us.” He gestured vaguely toward the back. “Dylan’s golf clubs and Izzy’s art portfolio are taking up most of the trunk and the middle row. There’s really no room left for a fourth passenger.” From the front passenger seat, my mother turned around, her voice dripping with her signature gentle reasonableness. “Mandy, honey, what if you took the Amtrak down? Once you get to the station, you can just grab an Uber straight to our hotel. I’ll Venmo you the ticket fare right now.” Neither of them seemed to realize that last-minute train tickets during peak summer travel required booking days in advance. Neither of them stopped to ask if I minded hauling a heavy suitcase to the train station by myself. “Don’t worry about it, Mom,” I said, taking a step back and quietly closing the car door. “I just remembered I have some unfinished data analysis to run at the university lab anyway. I think I’ll skip the trip. You guys have fun.” My mother’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. She offered a warm, bright smile. “Alright, sweetie. Just make sure you eat properly while we’re gone. Don’t live entirely on takeout.” The engine roared to life, and the sound of their shared laughter faded as the car swept out of the garage. I watched the red glow of the taillights disappear around the corner before turning back toward the stairs to drag my suitcase out of my room. The truth was, I hadn’t particularly cared about the trip itself. I had only wanted to spend one last weekend with them before leaving for my fully funded Ph.D. program at Cambridge. But I didn’t need to do that anymore. Because in that car, as in so many other places, there had never been a seat reserved for me. … “Mandy, make sure you wash the breakfast dishes on the counter, and don’t forget to take out the trash before it starts to smell.” My mother rolled down her window, giving me a brief wave. “We’ll only be gone at the coast for a few days. Do your best with your lab work.” “I will,” I said, nodding. The window slid back up, sealing the four of them inside their happy bubble as they drove off to celebrate the twins’ high school graduation. I was left behind, cast once again in the familiar, silent role of the responsible eldest daughter. I closed the front door, walked into the kitchen, and washed their grease-smeared breakfast plates one by one under the running tap. My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I dried my hands on a dish towel and pulled it out. My mother had Venmoed me two hundred dollars. “Mandy, treat yourself to a nice dinner while we’re gone. Don’t starve.” I stared at the notification, my thumb hovering over the screen. I didn’t tap accept. Two hundred dollars. Just last night, I had overheard my parents whispering in the master bedroom. Izzy had her heart set on a designer necklace, and Dylan wanted a high-end gaming monitor to take to college. Together, the purchases would run close to three thousand dollars. My father had laughed, telling my mother that the kids deserved a reward after working so hard for their exams, and that money shouldn’t be an issue. But for me, the budget was two hundred dollars. I was twenty-two, a graduating senior. They assumed my frequent trips to the university during these final weeks were to help my advisor wrap up her summer research projects. They had no idea I was actually packing up my entire life to move to England. I had received my fully funded doctoral offer from Cambridge three months ago. I hadn’t asked them for a single cent. Even my visa application fees had been paid out of the academic scholarships I had quietly hoarded throughout college. I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket. Around noon, the family group chat began to ping incessantly. Izzy had uploaded a series of photos from a high-end seafood restaurant by the pier. The pictures showed a massive line outside the venue, and their table overflowing with oysters, rock lobster, and dungeness crab. “Waited two hours for this! Totally worth it!” My father tagged me in the chat. “This place is phenomenal, Mandy. The seafood is incredibly fresh. We’ll bring you here next time.” Looking at those words—”We’ll bring you here next time”—a small, foolish warmth flared in my chest. He still thought of me. Even surrounded by indulgence, he remembered he had another daughter who wasn’t there. I opened the text box and typed: “Dad, I’m severely allergic to shellfish. I can’t eat any of that.” I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. When I was five, I had accidentally eaten a bite of a shrimp dumpling at a family gathering. My body had erupted in hives, my airway began to swell, and I spent half the night in the emergency room under an oxygen mask. Since then, shellfish had been a strict boundary in my life. And yet, at twenty-two, my own father could look at a table covered in crabs and lobsters and tell me he would bring me there next time. I deleted the sentence, letter by letter, and replaced it with a single word. “Okay.” A few seconds later, my mother sent a ten-second voice note. I tapped it, and her cheerful voice echoed in the quiet living room. “Mandy is always the sensible one. She knew we wanted to give the twins a proper break, so she volunteered to stay behind and focus on her research. Not like your brother, who does nothing but complain. Mandy, why haven’t you accepted the transfer yet? Go get yourself something good to eat.” I listened to her praise my “voluntary” decision, offering no correction. I hadn’t volunteered. A week ago, when they were brainstorming the trip at the dinner table, I had softly mentioned, “I’m actually free next week, too.” The dining room had gone dead silent. My mother had carefully placed a piece of chicken onto Dylan’s plate, keeping her eyes fixed on her hands. “Your father’s car is a bit cramped for three adults in the back, Mandy. Dylan is so tall now, his knees would be pressed against the seat the whole drive. Besides, didn’t you say your advisor was pressuring you for those lab reports? Your studies should really be your priority right now.” My father had quickly chimed in. “She’s right, Mandy. You’ve always been the mature one. Don’t make a fuss over this with your brother and sister.” And just like that, I was rewritten as the one who chose to stay behind. I walked into my bedroom and pulled my large black suitcase from beneath the bed. It lay flat on the hardwood floor, a gaping, dark void waiting to be filled. I stood before my bookshelf, calmly taking down my textbooks, research journals, and personal notebooks, placing them into the suitcase one by one. My movements were slow, methodical, and precise. There were no tears. There were no sighs. Over the past twenty-two years, there had been far too many moments where I was asked to “compromise” for the sake of the twins. The sharp, stinging pain of those rejections had long since faded, leaving behind only a thick, protective layer of numbness. When the bookshelf was mostly bare, I walked over to my desk and looked at the silver picture frame resting near the lamp. In the photograph, my parents sat in the front row, each holding a ten-year-old twin in their lap. All four of them were grinning widely under the bright flash. I stood in the background, a shadow behind them, wearing a faded school sweatshirt that was slightly too large. I picked up the frame, gently wiped a thin layer of dust from the glass with my thumb, and laid it face down inside my bottom drawer. In that photograph, I had been the only one who wasn’t smiling. By mid-afternoon, the suitcase was half-full. I sat on the floor, pulling out the folder containing my documents for the UK to review them one last time. Passport, university admission letter, certified degree certificates, health clearance forms… My eyes snagged on a printed sheet of paper with a university letterhead, and my hands stilled. Late last night, I had received an urgent email from the International Students Office at Cambridge. Due to a database migration issue, several of my uploaded scans had rendered blurry, and they needed me to resubmit a parent-signed financial sponsorship declaration by 5:00 PM the following day. Even though my scholarship covered all expenses, the standard visa protocol still required a parent’s signature on the secondary emergency fund declaration just in case. I checked the wall clock. It was 2:00 PM. I picked up my phone and dialed my father’s number. The line rang seven times before the call was abruptly declined. I pressed my lips together and tried again. Once more, the call went through to voicemail, cut off by a manual rejection. I tried a third time, with the exact same result. Five minutes later, a text message arrived from him. “At an art gallery with your sister. Quiet zone. Talk later.” I stared at the screen, my knuckles turning white around the phone. How late was “later”? If this document wasn’t submitted by tomorrow afternoon, my enrollment could be deferred, or worse, my visa sponsorship might be flagged for manual review. This was the single most important juncture of my academic career, the gateway to my independence. But to him, it didn’t warrant stepping out of a gallery for a two-minute phone call. I didn’t call back. In this house, I had learned a long time ago never to interrupt their family moments with my needs. To do so would only invite their disappointment: “You’re an adult now, Mandy. Why must you always be so demanding?” I sat in my quiet room, watching the sunlight slowly retreat from the floorboards, replaced by the cool, blue shadows of dusk. At 10:30 PM, my phone finally rang. “Mandy, sorry about that. We went out for street food after the gallery, and Dylan wanted to check out the local shops, so I didn’t have a chance to look at my screen,” my father said, his voice warm but carrying a faint edge of exhaustion. “What’s going on? Why did you call so many times?” Hearing his voice, the tight coil of anxiety in my chest loosened slightly. “Dad, I have an urgent document that needs your attention,” I said, keeping my voice as level as possible. “My university needs a signed financial declaration submitted by tomorrow.” “I sent the document to your email. You just need to find a print shop, sign it, and email a quick scan back to me.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Tomorrow? Why is this suddenly so urgent?” his voice took on a sharp note of irritation. “There was an administrative error on their end. I only just received the notification,” I explained carefully. “Jesus,” my father sighed heavily. “Mandy, I’ve been driving for six hours today. Your brother ate something bad at the night market and has been locked in the bathroom for the last hour. Your mother is frantic trying to find a pharmacy. I honestly don’t have the energy to go driving around a strange city looking for a FedEx Office right now.” “But Dad, this is incredibly critical. If I don’t submit this—” “You’re a smart girl, Mandy. Can’t you just email the admissions counselor and explain the situation? Ask for a few days’ extension. Tell them your parents are traveling for business. Surely they’ll understand.” In the background, my mother’s voice rose in panic. “Tom! Come here, Dylan is burning up. Where did we pack the ibuprofen?” “Coming!” my father called out. He turned back to the phone, speaking rapidly. “Look, Mandy, we have a minor emergency here. You need to handle this on your own. Stop relying on us for every little thing. Go to sleep.” The line went dead. I sat there, the dial tone buzzing against my ear, feeling a cold sensation of free-fall. “Handle this on your own.” If Izzy had needed a signature for her university housing, would he have claimed he lacked the energy? If Dylan had needed an urgent medical release form, would he have told him to figure it out himself? No. He would have walked miles in the dark to find a printer rather than let either of them suffer a moment of inconvenience. But when it came to my future, it was less important than his driving fatigue and my brother’s mild indigestion. I put the phone down and looked at the white sheet of paper on my desk. I pulled out a black pen. Carefully, stroke by stroke, I forged my father’s signature on the sponsor line, mimicking the precise slants of his handwriting. Once finished, I used my phone to scan the page and hit send. It was the first time I had ever lied to an institution. And it would be the very last time I ever required his name. “Mandy! We’re back!” Izzy’s bright, loud voice was the first thing to pierce the quiet of the apartment. I looked up as the front door swung open. Dylan walked in, carrying several massive shopping bags, with my father hovering close behind to help him with the largest one. My mother entered last, holding a beautifully wrapped gift box tied with a silver satin ribbon. They all looked flushed, their skin kissed by the ocean breeze, radiating the easy, unburdened warmth of a happy family. “The place looks spotless,” my father remarked, kick-starting his sneakers off near the entryway and looking around the pristine living room. I set down my dust cloth. “I just finished deep-cleaning.” My mother slipped off her sandals and walked straight toward me, a soft, affectionate smile on her face. “Mandy, I found something special for you. A graduation present.” She held out the elegant white box. “Go ahead, open it. Your sister picked it out. She insisted this color would look gorgeous on you.” I stared at the box. The heavy cardstock paper felt smooth under my fingers, and the silver ribbon was tied in a perfect bow. A tiny, long-buried ember of hope flared in my chest. They had thought of me. Even while away on their trip, my mother had remembered that I was about to graduate college. “Thank you, Mom,” I murmured. I pulled the ribbon and lifted the lid. Resting inside was a yellow floral sundress. The fabric was incredibly soft, with a beautiful tailored waistline. I picked up the dress by the shoulders to hold it up. But as my eyes caught the small white tag sewn into the inner collar, my hands went completely rigid. “Size 0.” I was five-foot-seven, with a broad, athletic frame inherited from my father’s side of the family. Since middle school, I had never worn anything smaller than a size 8. Izzy, however, took after my mother—slender, petite, and barely five-foot-two. She was a perpetual size 0. The warmth in my chest vanished, replaced by an icy, familiar numbness. “That dress was a nightmare to find!” Izzy chimed in, leaning over my shoulder to admire the silk. “It was the absolute last one on the rack at the boutique, and they only had it in that tiny size. Mandy, if you can’t squeeze into it, can I have it? I’ve been eyeing that exact piece for months.” My mother’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second. She reached up to adjust her hair. “Well, the cut looked fairly generous to me. I thought you might fit. Mandy, have you been spending too much time sitting in the lab lately? Maybe gained a little weight?” She paused, then smoothed over the moment with practiced ease. “If it really doesn’t fit, you should let your sister have it. She has the frame to carry that kind of style anyway.” She couldn’t admit she had bought the dress with her other daughter in mind. Instead, she chose to frame it as my personal failure—my body was simply too large, too heavy, too inconvenient—so the gift could naturally slide to Izzy. Even my own graduation gift was designed to be passed along. I looked at her, saying nothing. She had spent twenty-two years living with me. She remembered Izzy’s favorite color was bright yellow, and she knew Izzy’s size by heart. But she couldn’t remember that her eldest daughter could never fit into a size 0. “Aren’t you even going to try it on, Mandy?” Izzy asked. I quietly folded the dress back into the tissue paper, keeping the store tags intact, and closed the box. “No need. It won’t fit,” I said, offering a small, polite smile as I handed the box to my sister. “You should keep it, Izzy. Thank you, Mom.” Izzy squealed with delight, clutching the box to her chest as she ran down the hall to her bedroom. My mother let out a quiet sigh of relief, patting my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re not making a big deal out of this, Mandy. We’re family. It doesn’t really matter who ends up wearing it.” “It doesn’t matter who.” Which was why it was always me who went without. My father settled onto the sofa, taking a slow sip of the tea I had brewed before their arrival. He sighed contentedly, looking pleased with the peaceful atmosphere of the house. “Oh, by the way, Mandy,” he called out, his tone casual, as if he were asking me to pass the salt. “Dylan’s friends are coming over tomorrow afternoon to celebrate his college acceptance. You’re the best cook in the house. Why don’t you push back your lab work for a day and put together a nice spread for them?” “Dylan wants to show off a bit. Go buy some nice fresh seafood tomorrow morning and set up a proper dinner. It’ll give him some bragging rights.” Seafood. Once again, seafood. “Sure,” I said. My father nodded in satisfaction, picking up the remote control to turn on the television. I turned around, walked into my room, and shut the door behind me. The range hood hummed a low, monotonous tune. I stood in front of the stove, carefully plating the final dish of steamed sea bass. The dining table was already laden with four other plates: steaks, boiled shrimp, garlic scallops, and crab cakes. Except for the steaks, every single dish was seafood. Everything they loved. And everything I couldn’t touch. I checked the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 6:15 PM. This was my absolute final night in this house before my flight to London. My plane departed in the early hours of the morning. I had wanted to use this dinner to say a proper, quiet goodbye to the people who raised me. Even if they didn’t remember my life-threatening allergy, and even if they only valued me as an unpaid cook, I had wanted to finish this chapter with grace. By 6:30 PM, the front door remained shut. The phone on the counter vibrated, the caller ID flashing “Mom”. I picked it up. “Hello?” “Mandy, go ahead and eat without us,” my mother’s voice rushed through the receiver, tight with anxiety. “What happened?” “Izzy fell during her contemporary dance class. She twisted her ankle badly, and it’s already swollen up to her calf. Your father and I are at the orthopedic clinic waiting for an emergency doctor.” “Dylan is still out with his friends. Let him know not to come home for dinner. Just find something in the fridge for yourself tonight.” I looked down at the steaming, beautiful dishes on the table, which had taken me the entire afternoon to prepare. “Mom, is it very serious?” I asked quietly. “We don’t know yet. She’s in hysterics,” my mother said, her voice rising in frustration. I squeezed the phone, taking a slow, deep breath. “Mom, tonight… I really wanted to talk to you and Dad about something.” It was my final attempt. My last desperate plea for just three minutes of their undivided attention. “Mandy, it’s a medical emergency! We don’t have time for this right now,” she snapped, her patience entirely gone. “The nurse is calling our name. We’ll talk about whatever it is tomorrow. You’re not going back to the lab until tomorrow afternoon anyway. I have to go.” “But Mom—” The line went dead. I stood there, holding the phone to my ear, listening to the flat, empty hum of the disconnect. The dining room was silent. The steam rising from the sea bass slowly thinned, and the bright orange shells of the shrimp began to lose their luster under the cold kitchen lights. My chest felt entirely hollow, like a vast, snow-covered field where nothing could ever grow again. I walked over to the table, picked up the platter of steaks, and dumped it directly into the trash can. Then the sea bass. The shrimp. The scallops. The crab. Without a single tear, without a sound, I scraped every single plate of the dinner I had poured my heart into straight into the garbage. The heavy sauces splattered against the white plastic bin, leaving dark, ugly streaks. I tossed the empty, greasy platters into the sink. I left them there, wet and dirty. I grabbed my suitcase, rolled it out of my bedroom, and walked through the front door. The heavy lock clicked shut behind me. The motion-activated lights in the hallway flared to life, illuminating the concrete stairs. I took the elevator down, walked out into the cool evening air, and hailed a taxi. “Where to, miss?” the driver asked, checking his rearview mirror. “O’Hare International, please.” As the car joined the highway, my phone screen lit up with a weather notification. “London: Rain showers expected tomorrow.” I locked the screen and leaned my head against the cold windowpane, watching the streetlights bleed into long, continuous lines of gold. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she had said. But Mom, there is no tomorrow for us.

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