Category: English

On the day we graduated, my boyfriend was finally supposed to fulfill his promise of taking me on a road trip to the coast. But when the morning arrived, he gave the passenger seat to my best friend, Ashley. He said, “Ashley’s had a brutal time pulling herself out of the shadow of her breakup. Let’s not rub our relationship in her face.” I looked down at the motion sickness pills in my palm, suddenly at a loss for words. I had always gotten terribly sick sitting in the back of a car, and Colby knew that. He had always known. Ashley buckled her seatbelt with practiced ease, turning around to flash me a sheepish smile. “May, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your spot.” Colby was already adjusting the AC vents for her, his brow furrowing as he caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Ashley is going through enough right now. Do you really have to pick a fight over a seat?” I didn’t say a word. Before the ocean breeze even touched my face, I tasted the salt of my own tears. When we reached our boutique inn by the shore, the owner handed us three sheets of stationery. He explained it was a tradition for their graduation guests—a letter we could write to our future selves, to be mailed in three years. Once Ashley finished hers, she asked Colby to help her fold it into an origami heart. Colby took it from her with a gentle, reassuring smile. “You’ll find someone who actually deserves you soon, Ash.” I stared down at my own paper. I had written only one sentence: “Three years from now, will I still be the one sitting in his passenger seat?” That night at the beach bonfire, Colby nudged me out of the frame. “Can you take a photo of us? It’s so rare to see Ashley smile like this lately.” And that was when it finally clicked. This trip was never about fulfilling “my” dream. Just before we left to go home, the innkeeper ran after me and slipped an envelope into my hand. There was no return address. The postmark stamped on the front was dated three years in the future. The handwriting was unmistakably mine. With trembling fingers, I tore it open. There were only seven words inside: “Keep your hands on the steering wheel.” … “May, let Ashley have the ocean-view suite.” Colby was holding our suitcases, turning back to look at me in the lobby of the boutique inn. Ashley stood beside him, looking helpless and small. Two keycards lay on the counter. One was the top-floor master suite with a skylight and panoramic ocean views. The other was a dark, cramped room on the ground floor facing the brick wall of the parking lot. I had pulled two consecutive all-nighters two weeks ago just to snag that single skylight suite. “Ashley’s ex really messed her up. She hasn’t slept in days,” Colby said, his tone incredibly matter-of-fact as he slid the suite’s keycard toward her. “The skylight will help her relax. We can take the ground floor. You don’t mind, right?” I stared at the keycard he was offering me, making no move to take it. Ashley waved her hands in a hurried, tearful panic. “No, Colby, really. May has been looking forward to this room for weeks. I can’t take it from her.” “I’ll take the ground floor,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m used to being in the dark anyway.” The more she did this, the deeper Colby’s frown carved into his forehead. He practically forced the card into her hand, then turned to me, his voice dropping into a stern, warning register. “May, where is your empathy? Ashley is in a really fragile place right now. What if she spirals?” “It’s just a room. We have plenty of time to come back to the ocean.” I watched him. From freshman to senior year, it was always “we have plenty of time”. I used to believe him. But now, I was done waiting for his “plenty of time.” I grabbed the ground-floor keycard and dragged my small suitcase toward the stairs. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” No tears. No yelling. Colby let out a visible breath of relief, his tone instantly softening. “I knew you’d understand. You’re always so level-headed.” “Tonight, I’ll take you to that famous lobster shack down the road.” The ground-floor room was humid, smelling faintly of damp carpet. When I pushed open the window, all I saw was a gray concrete wall. I left my suitcase packed in the corner. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the concrete, feeling the walls press in. I had mild claustrophobia; Colby used to know this. Now, his head was so full of Ashley’s insomnia that he’d forgotten my fears entirely. At dinner, Colby ordered a feast of oysters, garlic shrimp, and spicy crab. All of Ashley’s favorites. I stared at the red oil and the platters of shellfish. I am mildly allergic to shellfish—too much of it breaks me out in hives. Whenever Colby had taken me out in the past, he had always made sure there was a simple green salad and a bowl of plain clam chowder or soup for me. Today, there was nothing. “May, why aren’t you eating?” Ashley asked, holding a piece of crabmeat, smiling warmly. Colby was busy peeling shrimp for her. Without looking up, he said, “She’s on a diet. She doesn’t eat much at night.” “Eat up, Ash, you’re getting too thin.” I flagged down a waiter and ordered a bowl of plain potato leek soup. Colby pushed a small bowl of perfectly peeled shrimp toward Ashley. Ashley teased, “You’re feeding me too much, Colby. May’s going to get jealous.” Colby wiped his hands, glanced at me, and chuckled. “She’s not that petty.” I drank my bland soup in silence, offering no defense. After dinner, Colby suggested a walk on the beach. I told them I was tired and wanted to go back to the inn. Colby didn’t try to persuade me otherwise; he just told me to lock the door behind me and walked toward the shoreline with Ashley. On my way back, I stopped at a drugstore to buy allergy medicine. Some of the crab broth had splattered onto my collarbone during dinner, and my neck was already starting to itch. I took the pills back at the inn. The signal inside the room was terrible, so I went out to sit on the courtyard swing. The night air was cool. After some time, the gate creaked open. Colby and Ashley walked in, laughing softly. I sat in the shadow of the trellis, and they didn’t notice me. Ashley was holding a small, distinctive velvet box. “Colby, this is too expensive. I can’t accept it.” Colby’s voice was incredibly gentle. “Keep it. To celebrate your fresh start.” “I know it’ll look beautiful on you.” She opened the box. Under the warm courtyard lights, I saw it clearly: a mother-of-pearl Van Cleef & Arpels Alhambra pendant. Three months ago, we had passed the boutique downtown. I had stared at that exact necklace for a long time. Colby had held my hand, promising he would buy it for my graduation gift. He did buy it. He just changed the recipient. Ashley lowered her head, letting Colby step behind her. He carefully brushed her long hair to one side, clasping the gold chain around her neck. “Do you like it?” She turned around, her smile radiant. Colby nodded, his gaze entirely focused on her. “It suits you perfectly.” I sat in the dark, watching them. The ocean breeze blew through the courtyard, carrying a bitter, salty sting. The next morning, Colby woke me early. “May, get ready. We’re renting a car to drive around the island today.” He wore a crisp white linen shirt and seemed in high spirits. I dressed in a high-neck sun shirt to hide the hives on my neck, finished my morning routine, and stepped outside. A sleek convertible was idling in the driveway. Ashley was already in the passenger seat, adjusting her lipstick in the visor mirror. The gold clover necklace caught the morning sun, flashing a blinding light. “May, hurry up! The weather is gorgeous today,” Ashley called out, waving. I opened the back door and slid into the rear seat. Colby shifted into drive, and we set off. As we hit the coastal highway, the wind roared into the open cabin. Ashley stood up in her seat, laughing and throwing her arms wide. “Colby, go faster! This is amazing!” Colby laughed indulgently and stepped on the gas. The wind whipped violently against my face. I have chronic migraines; I can’t handle strong, direct wind. I curled into the corner of the back seat, covering my ears as my head began to throb with a sharp, agonizing rhythm. “Colby, can we put the top up?” I asked, my voice instantly torn apart by the gale. Colby glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing. “What’s the point of a convertible if we don’t let the wind in? Don’t be a buzzkill, May.” Ashley sat back down, turning around to look at me with an apologetic expression. “May, are you feeling sick? We can close it, it’s fine.” She said it was fine, but her smile completely vanished. Colby immediately patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the first time you’ve looked happy all trip.” “May, just hang in there. We’re almost at the overlook.” I closed my eyes, retreating into silence. I pulled the zipper of my sun shirt all the way to my chin and buried my face in my knees. When the car finally pulled into the gravel parking lot of the cliffside overlook, I bolted out the door. I ran to the edge of the grass and dry-heaved, my stomach churning violently, though nothing came up. Colby walked over, carrying two cold bottles of water. He handed one to Ashley first, then extended the other to me with a heavy sigh. “What is your deal today? You’ve been throwing tantrums left and right.” “Ashley is finally out having fun, and you’re doing everything you can to ruin the mood.” I stood up straight, wiping the tears from my eyes. “My head hurts. I’m going to get a warm drink.” Without waiting for his response, I walked toward the small cafe on the other side of the pavilion. I ordered a hot tea and sat on a wooden bench for a long time, waiting for the throbbing in my skull to quiet down. When I finally walked back to the parking lot, the convertible was gone. I stood in the blazing midday sun for ten minutes before my phone buzzed. It was a text from Colby. “Ashley wanted to go take photos at the cliffside lighthouse, but the path is too narrow for the convertible. We’re dropping it off to swap for an SUV. Walk around the overlook for a bit, I’ll pick you up later.” I stared at the screen, my eyes stinging under the glare. The drive from the overlook to the lighthouse took over an hour. He had left me stranded on a mountain pass without even asking. I didn’t reply. I slid the phone back into my pocket. There was no shade at the overlook. I stood under a small oak tree, watching the distant blue horizon. During our sophomore year, we had gone hiking. I had sprained my ankle, and Colby had carried me on his back for over a mile without a single complaint. His shirt had been soaked with sweat, but he had smiled at me over his shoulder. “As long as I’m around, I’ll never let you walk a hard path alone.” Back then, Colby had genuinely loved me. A tour shuttle pulled up to the curb. I paid the driver and took a seat, riding it back to the inn. I returned to the damp, ground-floor room, crawled onto the bed, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep. When I woke up, the room was dark. The only light came from the screen of my phone, flashing with a social media notification. I tapped it. Ashley had posted a photo five minutes ago. In the picture, she and Colby were standing at the base of the lighthouse, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sunset. Colby was looking down at her, his expression tender and soft. The caption read: “It’s not the scenery that heals you, it’s the person who stays by your side.” Underneath, mutual friends had left comments. “Colby is so handsome! You look gorgeous, Ash!” “Where’s May? Why isn’t she in the picture?” Ashley had replied: “May is resting at the inn. She doesn’t really like the ocean breeze.” I stared at the photo. My thumb hovered over the screen, and I quietly tapped the heart icon to leave a like. Then, I closed the app and opened my email. There was an unread message sitting in my inbox—an official job offer from a major tech company in Chicago. I had actually received it two weeks ago. But because I wanted to stay in the same city as Colby, I had held off on replying. I had even prepared to interview at the local mid-sized firm where he had already signed his contract. I opened the reply field and typed out a short message. “Thank you for the offer. I am thrilled to accept. What is the earliest date I can begin onboarding?” I hit send, tossed the phone onto the mattress, and began packing. I didn’t have much. Within thirty minutes, everything was zipped back into my suitcase. At nine that night, I heard footsteps outside. Colby pushed the door open, carrying a paper bag containing a cold box of takeout. “Why did you leave the overlook on your own? I told you I’d come back for you,” he said, setting the bag on the table with an annoyed sigh. “I called you, but you didn’t answer.” “Ashley thought you were mad at her. She spent the entire drive back blaming herself.” I looked at the cold takeout. Instead of answering him, I asked, “Was the lighthouse beautiful?” Colby paused, caught off guard by how calm I sounded. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was fine. A bit windy. Ashley took a few photos and we left.” He hesitated, his tone softening in an attempt to keep the peace. “We’re going diving tomorrow. I booked that deep-sea charter you always wanted to try. Consider it my way of making it up to you, okay?” I looked at him. “Colby, I have severe thalassophobia.” During our freshman year, we had visited an aquarium, and I had been too terrified to walk through the glass tunnel. He had held me close, promising he would never make me go near deep water again. Colby’s expression stiffened. He had completely forgotten. “I… I must have remembered it wrong,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Ashley said she wanted to go diving, so I figured you’d want to go too.” “It’s fine,” I said, cutting him off. “You two go. I’ll wait on the boat.” The next morning, we set out on the charter. I sat on the deck of the yacht, watching Colby help Ashley into her wetsuit. He checked her oxygen tank with meticulous care, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Ashley leaned into him, laughing like a child. Suddenly, a massive swell hit the yacht, causing the deck to tilt violently. My waterproof gear bag, which I had placed by my feet, slid across the slick fiberglass and went over the railing. I bolted upright and ran to the edge. That bag contained all the physical copies of my design portfolio and thesis materials for the local interviews—months of exhausting, meticulous work. “Colby, my bag!” I yelled, reaching out to him instinctively. Colby started to stand, but Ashley shrieked as the boat swayed again, locking her arms tightly around his waist. “Colby, I’m scared!” Colby immediately wrapped his arms around her, patting her back. “It’s okay, it’s just a wave. I’ve got you.” He looked up at me, his forehead creasing. “It’s just a bag, May. Is there really anything in there that matters?” I pointed at the dark water where the bag was slowly sinking. My voice shook. “That’s my portfolio. Those are my original prints.” Colby dismissed it with a shrug. “You can just reprint them when we get home. Why are you making such a big deal out of this? Can’t you see Ashley is terrified?” I stared at his hands, wrapped protectively around her waist. The ocean wind seemed to freeze the remaining warmth in my chest. The bag disappeared into the dark blue depths, leaving nothing but a fading ripple. Just like my love for him—sinking without a sound. I turned around, walked back into the cabin, and sat down quietly. “See? That’s better. It’s really not that big of a deal,” Colby’s voice drifted in from the deck. My phone buzzed. It was an email from the Chicago recruiter. “We can start your onboarding next Monday. Welcome to the team.” I looked at the calendar on my phone. Today was Thursday. The timing was perfect. Once the yacht docked, Colby and Ashley headed to a seafood restaurant. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and went back to the inn alone. I folded my remaining clothes and packed them away. I booked a flight to Chicago for the next morning. There were still three days left of the graduation trip, but I couldn’t stay here for another minute. That evening, Colby walked into the room carrying a plate of sliced fruit. His eyes were soft. “May, about today… I’m sorry. The boat was rocking too much, and I couldn’t grab your bag in time.” I didn’t look at the fruit, continuing to pack my toiletries. He stepped closer, his eyes landing on the pair of leather loafers sitting on the nightstand. They were a limited-edition pair he had stood in line for three hours to buy me for my birthday last year. “Ashley twisted her ankle when we got off the boat today. Her feet are too swollen for her heels.” He picked up my loafers. “These are soft. Let her borrow them for a few days.” My hands went still. I looked at him. “Those were a birthday gift from you.” Colby smiled, his tone patronizing. “They’re just shoes, May. Don’t be so petty. I’ll buy you a better pair when we get back.” Without waiting for my permission, he took them. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing at the threshold. “Don’t bother going to the interview at the local firm next week.” I raised my head. “Ashley doesn’t want to go back to her hometown. She wants to stay here. That firm has an opening, so I gave her your internal referral.” He looked at me, completely at ease with managing my life for me. “Since your portfolio sank anyway, maybe it’s a sign. You can look for something else later. Besides, I make enough to support you. You can just stay home and take care of things.” I stared at his familiar face, suddenly finding him completely unrecognizable. “Okay,” I said quietly. Colby breathed a sigh of relief and reached out to ruffle my hair. “I knew my girl was reasonable.” He left, carrying my shoes, perfectly content to go comfort another woman. The next morning, I dragged my suitcase out of the damp room. Ashley was sitting on the lobby sofa. On her feet were my leather loafers. Around her neck was the clover pendant. Seeing my suitcase, a smug, knowing smile crept onto her face. “Where are you going, May? Colby told you to stay and look after me, didn’t he?” I ignored her, walking straight past. “You’re pathetic,” Ashley said softly behind me. “You think if you run away, he’ll chase after you?” “He stayed in my room the entire night.” “He told me that being with you is exhausting. Like raising a daughter. He said he finally feels relaxed when he’s with me.” My fingers on the suitcase handle didn’t even tremble. I pushed the door open, letting the crisp morning air sweep away the stale scent of the room. I got into the waiting taxi. Two hours later, my plane climbed into the clouds. At the exact same time back at the inn, Colby walked into the lobby carrying a bag of medicine. “Ash, I got the wraps. Where’s May?” Ashley sat on the sofa, offering a helpless shrug. “She packed her bags and left. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.” Colby froze, his brow knitting tightly. “Left? Where?” He pulled out his phone and dialed my number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently busy…” Frowning, he opened our chat and sent a voice note. “May, what kind of drama is this? Where did you go? Get back here right now.” A red exclamation mark popped up. “Message blocked. You are no longer connected with this user.” Colby stared at the screen, his face pale with utter disbelief.

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When the acute stomach spasms hit in the dead of night, I called Galen, asking if he could take me to the ER. His response was prompt, clipped, and devoid of warmth: “Kendra’s running a fever. She just moved to Austin, lives alone, and has no one else. I need to drop off some medicine for her first. Just hang in there for a bit, okay?” She was always his exception. For three years, I had trained myself to step back. During dinners with my family and friends, he would duck out early because Kendra sent a text saying she was feeling down. Even our anniversary dates—months in the making—were routinely derailed by a single, desperate call from her. I used to believe that my patience would eventually earn me a place of priority in Galen’s life. Left with no choice, I gripped my aching abdomen, doubled over, and made my way to the hospital alone. During the slow drip of my IV, boredom set in, and I absentmindedly refreshed my Instagram feed. The top post was from Kendra. It was a photo of a steaming bowl of homemade porridge Galen had cooked for her. Her caption read: “Always there to catch me. Always choosing me.” A draft from the hospital window cut through the room, carrying the chill of late autumn. In that quiet, sterile space, the fog finally cleared from my mind. I was done keeping vigil for a relationship that burned through my spirit while giving nothing back. I opened my phone, switched to my inbox, and pulled up the job offer from the headhunter in Chicago. … The outpatient infusion room was sparse, occupied by only a few night owls and exhausted patients. Across from my station, a couple sat squeezed together in a double recliner. The young man held his girlfriend’s hand—the one hooked to the IV—rubbing her skin to keep it warm, carefully blowing on a plastic cup of tea before handing it to her. I watched them from afar until a sudden prickling behind my eyes forced me to look away. I unlocked my phone. My feed was still parked on Kendra’s post. Kendra was a junior from Galen’s alma mater, someone he had sponsored and mentored through college. Galen viewed her fragility as a sacred duty he was obligated to shoulder. Yet he consistently overlooked the fact that I was carrying heavy loads of my own. The memory of 2:00 AM came flooding back—that sharp, wringing pain in my upper abdomen. I had spent the last two weeks pulling fifteen-hour days to pull off a major client launch. My stomach had been sending warning shots for days. Before I left for an out-of-town conference last week, I had pulled Galen to the medicine cabinet, pointing out that our supply of GI medication was completely depleted. He had nodded, his thumb flying across his screen as he typed a reply to Kendra. “Got it, babe. I’ll restock it,” he’d said with effortless ease. So when I found myself doubled over on the cold hardwood at two in the morning, blindly digging through the drawers, all I found were empty blister packs and boxes that had expired two years ago. In our three years of living together, every domestic errand—from stocking paper towels to buying cold medicine—had fallen on me during my rare hours off. Galen couldn’t tell detergent brands apart, nor could he distinguish Advil from Tylenol. It was as though keeping our shared life running was entirely my burden to bear. With trembling fingers, I had dialed his cell. Even as the line rang, a foolish spark of hope lingered in my chest. He didn’t even ask, “How bad is the pain?” “Kendra just moved into her own place downtown,” he’d said instead. “She’s got a bug, and she’s all by herself.” “I have to drop off some meds. Can’t you just tough it out until morning and hit an urgent care then?” My breath came in ragged shallow gasps. “Galen, I can barely stand up. Can you just bring her the meds and then come back to take me? I’m really scared.” His answer was laced with unmistakable irritation. “She’s a young girl alone in a high-rise late at night. Do you know how unsafe that is? You’re a grown woman, Daphne. Can’t you just call an Uber? Stop being so difficult.” “A grown woman.” As if being an adult meant I was required to suffer agonizing pain alone in the dark. I had gripped the warm plastic of my phone, my chest feeling colder than my stomach. Without another word, I hung up and booked a ride to the emergency room myself. Now, Kendra’s photo of the warm porridge still lingered on my screen. It reminded me of last month, when I had running a 102-degree fever. Galen had dropped a bag of lukewarm takeout on the entryway table, tossed out a hasty “Eat something while it’s warm,” and walked right back out the door to take Kendra out for some fresh air because she was stressed about work. They stayed out past midnight, posting photos from a night market. His tenderness, his patience, his meticulous care—none of it had ever been reserved for me. My phone buzzed, startling me. It was a call from the head of HR, a woman I considered a personal friend. Her voice was hesitant. “Daphne, I’m going to be straight with you,” she began softly. “The promotion to Marketing Director was slated for you. But Director Adler brought up Kendra in the leadership sync today. He argued that as a fresh grad, she needs the foothold more. I wanted you to have a heads-up.” The rhythmic “drip-drip” of the IV bag amplified in the quiet hall, beating against my brain like a relentless clock. I had given three years of my life to this firm, pulling countless late nights, landing three multi-million-dollar accounts, and maintaining the top performance metric in the entire department. I had bled for that director seat. And with a casual, “She’s under more pressure,” Galen was going to hand it over to her on a silver platter. In life and in work, I was forever relegated to second place behind Kendra. I pulled up the long-ignored email from the Chicago executive search firm. My thumb hovered over the green button that read: “Accept Offer.” The last shred of hesitation in my heart shattered right there in the hospital waiting room. The following day was our three-year anniversary. After being discharged, I made a detour to a boutique decor shop. I carried home a heavy bag filled with fairy lights, custom balloons printed with photos of us, and a bottle of the vintage Cabernet Galen had been talking about for months. A pathetic, self-deceiving part of me still hoped that once he saw how badly off I was, he might finally grasp what mattered. Suppressing my physical weakness, I spent the afternoon decorating the living room. By early evening, everything was set. I sat on the couch in the dimming light, waiting. At 8:00 PM, my screen lit up with a brief text from Galen: “Kendra’s landlord is giving her trouble and she had a meltdown. Taking her out for dinner to calm down. Don’t wait up.” Not a single question about my stomach. Not a mention of what day it was. At 11:00 PM, the front door clicked open. Galen walked in carrying the chill of the midnight air, holding a small box containing half a slice of strawberry shortcake. He glanced around the illuminated room, his brow furrowing in immediate disapproval. “Why did you turn the place into this? It doesn’t match the condo’s aesthetic at all.” He paid no mind to the quiet exhaustion in my eyes. He casually thrust the half-eaten dessert toward me. “Kendra loves strawberry shortcake. Here’s what was left.” The doctor had explicitly instructed me to stay on a strict liquid diet for the next few days. I stared at the leftover cake sitting in his hand and felt a sudden, hollow urge to laugh. I didn’t take it. Without a word, I stood up and began stripping down the decorations, packing them away in silence. Galen assumed I was throwing a silent tantrum, heading off to shower and sleep without another thought. That weekend, our parents had arranged a joint dinner to mark our anniversary and formally discuss our engagement. The night before, I had caught Galen by the arm, stressing how critical this dinner was. I intended to use the presence of our families to finally talk to him about the stolen promotion—to demand the fairness I was owed. He was busy typing a response to Kendra, nodding vaguely. “Got it. Relax. I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t leave early.” We reserved a private dining room at an upscale steakhouse. My mother had brought a large box of artisanal smoked meats and preserves—Galen’s favorites—asking him to take them home afterward. Throughout the meal, the elders dropped gentle hints about wedding dates. I forced smiles and played along, waiting for the right moment to pull Galen aside to discuss work. Halfway through the main course, Galen’s phone vibrated violently on the table. Kendra’s name flashed across the screen. He answered. Within two minutes, his face hardened into an expression of acute panic. He pushed his chair back and stood up. I instinctively caught his wrist, keeping my voice low. “You can’t leave right now, Galen. Both of our families are sitting right here.” “The power went out in Kendra’s building,” Galen snapped, shaking off my grip. “She’s the only one on her floor, and she’s terrified.” “Can you be reasonable for once?” his tone turned accusatory. “She needs me.” Ignoring the stunned silence that fell over the table, he grabbed his coat and strode out of the private room. My relatives exchanged uncomfortable glances, asking where he was off to in such a hurry. My fingers dug into the linen tablecloth. I forced a composure I didn’t feel and lied, “An urgent crisis came up with one of his key accounts. He had to handle it personally.” The remainder of the dinner felt like an eternity. Whispers circulated among the extended family, the unspoken consensus clear: Galen did not care about me. My mother sat beside me, her eyes filled with aching sympathy. She took my hand under the table, squeezing gently. “Daphne, sweetheart… I can tell he doesn’t put you first. You need to think long and hard about this engagement.” The box of handcrafted treats sat quietly in the corner of the room, forgotten. When I got home that night, I pulled up the recruiter’s email and scheduled the final interview for the Chicago position. Whatever was keeping me tethered to this city had run its course. Galen didn’t return until well past 1:00 AM, reeking of bourbon. The moment he walked through the door, he turned on me: “If you hadn’t tried to hold me back today, Kendra wouldn’t have had to sit in the dark terrified for an hour. You’re being incredibly selfish.” “She was already having a rough week. Why can’t you be a little more understanding?” I stood under the hallway light, looking at him in total silence. The last flickering ember of love inside me died out completely. At the end of the workday on Tuesday, I pushed open the front door of our apartment and froze at the entryway. On the top shelf of the shoe rack sat a pair of plush, cream-colored slippers. Size six—her size. They were thick, soft, and bore the discreet logo of a high-end department store. By contrast, my own grey slippers sat in the corner, worn thin and frayed at the toes. I had asked to replace them several times, but Galen had always brushed it off, saying they were fine for around the house. I walked into the master bathroom. More than half the vanity was now occupied by a set of luxury skincare products—the exact order I had seen hit Galen’s credit card statement two weeks ago. He had never bought skincare for me in three years. At the time, I had naively assumed it was a surprise anniversary gift. The guest bedroom door was standing open. The bed was made with fresh, high-thread-count sheets. The closet was hung with Kendra’s clothes, and a plush stuffed animal from her childhood sat on the nightstand. Every corner of the apartment bore her imprint. It felt as though I was the intruder in my own home. Galen walked out of the guest room holding a glass of warm water, offering a casual explanation: “A pipe burst in Kendra’s rental. The drywall is soaked, and it’s unlivable for now.” “Our place is closer to her office anyway. The extra room was just sitting here going to waste, so I told her she could crash here for a bit. Don’t overthink it.” “Crash here?” My voice trembled as my eyes swept over her belongings. “She has her entire wardrobe and skincare line set up. You call this “crashing”?” Galen’s brows knit together, his voice laced with the familiar annoyance that signaled I was being “irrational.” “It’s just a few personal items. Do you really have to be this petty?” “She’s a young girl trying to make it on her own. What’s wrong with me helping her out a little?” Three years of quiet resentment surged to the surface. I turned, walked into the home office, and pulled open the bottom drawer. I tossed a thick stack of printed bank statements onto the coffee table. Every expense over the past three years was meticulously line-itemed. Every utility bill, every grocery run, every mortgage contribution split strictly fifty-fifty between us. When Kendra had crashed on our couch in the past, those extra expenses had come out of our shared account. She had never contributed a cent. I pointed at the statements, my voice cold and measured. “When she stayed over occasionally in the past, we split the costs. I let it go.” “Now she’s moving in long-term, and you’re furnishing her entire life out of our funds. How do you plan to settle this?” Galen glanced at the paperwork and waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, I’ll cover her share out of my personal account. Is it really that big of a deal?” “I didn’t realize you were keeping a tally of every penny. It’s pretty calculating.” “Besides, my name is on the deed to this condo. Who I allow to stay here isn’t up to you to dictate.” With one sentence, he demolished three years of shared labor, shared dreams, and shared investment. I looked at the man I had trusted with my youth and my heart, feeling only an overwhelming, hollow chill. To him, three years of my devotion were worth nothing. I stopped arguing. I walked silently into the bedroom, pulled my suitcase from the closet, and began packing my clothes. I didn’t sleep a wink. At the department meeting the next morning, Galen announced that the company’s flagship account for the year was being handed entirely to Kendra. All premium client accounts and promotional budgets were to be diverted to her team. I was assigned to do administrative wrap-up work on depleted accounts. It was all setup for the upcoming Director evaluation next week. He wanted Kendra to walk into that board review with an enviable portfolio to impress the executive panel. During the lunch hour, I stepped into his office and laid out two firm conditions: First, every piece of Kendra’s personal property had to be removed from the condo immediately. I would not share my living space with another woman. Second, work resources must be allocated fairly. I deserved an equal share of the flagship project based on merit. Galen leaned back in his leather chair, his face painted with profound disappointment. “Daphne, why have you become so small-minded and bitter?” “Kendra has no family here. She’s completely alone in this city. It’s my responsibility to guide her. Why do you insist on competing with her for everything?” Realizing the futility of the conversation, my heart hit absolute zero. I turned and walked out without another word. On the morning of the evaluation, Galen left the condo before sunrise. When I finished organizing my presentation slides and went down to the garage, my car was gone. I texted him repeatedly and called his cell. It took twelve calls before he finally picked up. “I took your car to pick up Kendra,” he said casually. “She’s nervous about her presentation today, so I picked her up early to run through her deck on the drive over.” “My car is in the shop for routine service. What’s the big deal if I borrow yours?” A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. I gripped the phone, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. “You know how important today is for me, Galen.” “I’ve spent three years pulling eighty-hour weeks for this position. Everything comes down to today.” On the other end of the line, Galen’s voice remained detached, almost chastising. “I know.” “But whether Kendra can establish herself in Austin is clearly more important than a single promotion review for you.” As the line clicked dead, I finally understood that words were useless. I forced down the rising sting in my throat, walked out to the street, and pulled up a rideshare app. It was peak morning commute. The wait for an Uber took forty minutes. When I finally arrived at the corporate center, I ran through the lobby in high heels, the stiff leather digging into my ankles until blood seeped into my nude flats. By the time I reached the executive floor, out of breath and disheveled, the presentations had been underway for fifteen minutes. The administrator at the desk looked at me impassively. “Late arrivals exceeding ten minutes are automatically disqualified from the evaluation process.” As the workday drew to a close, an official notification popped up in the company-wide Slack channel: “Announcing our new Director of Marketing: Kendra Wu.” Subtle, pitying glances began shifting toward my cubicle. A short while later, Galen walked over to my desk, leaning down to whisper: “You took a hit this time, but I’ll make it up to you on the next major client pitch.” I looked up at him. The plastic straw from a custom boba tea—the kind Kendra drank—was still sticking out of his shirt pocket. My phone chimed in my hand with a new text. It was a formal offer letter from the search firm in Chicago. “Start Date: Next Monday. Title: Senior Vice President of Marketing. Compensation: Double current package.” In that moment, I felt no sorrow. Only an overwhelming sense of liberation. I went straight back to the condo after work. The air inside still smelled faintly of Kendra’s signature vanilla perfume. I walked into the storage room to grab the rest of my things and pulled open the top cabinet. More than half the space was stuffed with wrapped gift boxes and imported snacks—all gifts Galen had bought for Kendra over the past year. In the far corner sat a tiny cardboard box containing everything he had ever given me over three years: two dollar-store hair ties and a cheap, tarnished silver-plated necklace. I packed the rest of my belongings. After living in that apartment for three years, everything I owned fit into a single suitcase. Half the lights in the stairwell were broken. I dragged my heavy suitcase down the steps alone. The sharp metal corner of the luggage banged hard against my shin, and I felt warm blood trickle down my skin. I knelt down, wiped it away with a tissue, and kept moving. I didn’t shed a single tear. Instead, I felt lighter than I had in years. At 1:30 AM, Galen returned home after taking Kendra to a movie to celebrate her promotion. The foyer was bare. Every trace of my presence in the apartment had vanished. His immediate reaction was not to look for me, but to dash into the guest bedroom, meticulously checking Kendra’s items to make sure nothing was missing. Once he confirmed her belongings were untouched, he finally remembered to text me. A red exclamation mark flashed on his screen. He dialed my number, only to be met with an automated recording: “The party you are trying to reach has blocked your number.” LinkedIn, email, Instagram, Slack—every line of communication was severed. Only then did he realize that something was terribly wrong. He began frantically reaching out to anyone who might know where I was.

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In my first life, I died because I tried to keep the peace. My sister-in-law, Molly, had moved into our apartment under the banner of extreme ahimsa—the belief that every living thing, no matter how parasitic, had an equal right to exist. I was in my third trimester, exhausted and heavy, but she wouldn’t let me keep meat in the house. When flies and mosquitoes invaded, she forbade me from swatting them. She even began secretly leaving food out for the mice and cockroaches in the kitchen. When my due date drew near, I finally tried to gently ask her to leave for the sake of the baby’s health. She exploded. She ran to the internet, sobbing on live streams about how heartless I was for throwing her onto the street. The online mob doxed me, leaving me too terrified to step outside. Eventually, a rat she had been feeding bit my ankle. I contracted rat-bite fever, miscarried, and died in a sterile hospital room. Molly’s only response to my death was that it was cosmic karma for my lack of compassion toward animals. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day she started feeding the cockroaches. … “Todd, can you talk to your sister? Ask her to go back to her own place for a while?” I gripped my phone, my heart hammering against my ribs. In my last life, I had approached Molly directly. I had been polite and soft, but she had still turned it into a war. This time, I was putting Todd in the middle. They were siblings; let them handle the friction. Over the line, Todd’s voice was instantly defensive. “Rachel, she’s only been here a week. You’re already trying to kick her out? Don’t you think that’s a bit much?” A familiar tightness squeezed my chest. I forced myself to take a slow, steady breath. “She’s refusing to let me eat meat, Todd. I’m in my third trimester. The baby needs nutrition.” “She’s just soft-hearted, Rachel. She’s been like that since we were kids,” Todd sighed, his tone dismissive. “Just eat some tofu. Get some plant protein. It’s basically the same thing.” A dull ache began to throb behind my eyes. “This isn’t just my baby. It’s yours too. Do you even care?” “She’s family. How am I supposed to just bring that up?” Todd muttered. “So you’d rather your child be born malnourished?” “Fine, fine,” he snapped, exasperated. “I’ll call her.” Within five minutes, Molly burst into the kitchen, tears already streaming down her face. “Rachel! Why are you trying to throw me out?” she wailed, waving her phone. Todd was still on the line, listening silently on speaker. Molly didn’t give me a chance to answer. “What is so wrong with going vegetarian? Women back in the day survived on basic grains, and their babies were fine! I’m doing this for you. I’m trying to build good karma for you and my nephew!” My mother-in-law, Helen, stepped out from the guest room, nodding in agreement. “She’s right, Rachel. When I was pregnant with Todd, we barely had eggs, let alone steak. I did just fine.” From the speaker, Todd’s voice chimed in. “Look, Rachel, let’s just drop it. It’s embarrassing to fight over a piece of chicken. Let’s not make a scene.” I stared at the three of them, the sheer absurdity of the moment washing over me. “Fine. If Molly is staying, I’ll go. I’m checking into a hotel.” Molly let out a dramatic sob. “If you do that, everyone will think I drove you out! Why do you have to be so manipulative?” Todd’s voice hardened. “Rachel, stop being so dramatic!” Without a word, I pulled out my phone, turned on the camera, and recorded a quick ten-second video of the kitchen. The footage was horrifying: a mouse darting behind the trash can, a cluster of roaches scattered near the baseboard, and flies buzzing over the counter. I sent it directly to Todd. “I can buy my own meals outside,” I said. “But look at this. How am I supposed to live in these conditions?” There was a brief silence on the line. Todd sounded genuinely taken aback. “Molly… is it really that bad?” But Molly was ready. “They’re living souls, Todd! Who are we to decide they don’t deserve to live? Rachel is pregnant. Bringing chemical pesticides into this house will only hurt the baby. Besides, having little creatures around just proves our environment is clean and toxin-free!” I waited for Todd to snap some sense into her. Instead, there was a long pause before he said, “Rachel, she does have a point about the chemicals. Don’t be so sensitive. Just bear with it for a little while.” A cold, hollow disappointment settled in my chest. They were cut from the exact same cloth. I turned around and walked to the bedroom to pack. Helen grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly tight. “Rachel, don’t do this. If you walk out, what will the neighbors think of us?” “I’m not risking my baby’s health for your reputation,” I said, pulling away. “Todd gets back from his business trip tomorrow morning,” she pleaded, her voice rising. “Just stay one more night. We’ll figure it out then.” “I can’t stay here another second.” Suddenly, Helen scrambled over to the open window, stepping onto the sill of our second-floor apartment. “Rachel! If you walk out that door, I’ll jump! You want to make us the laughingstock of the building? I’d rather be dead!” I looked at her, my voice flat. “Go ahead.” In my previous life, this exact threat had broken me. I had stayed, only to end up infected and dying in a hospital bed, losing my baby. I wouldn’t play this game again. I grabbed my suitcase and opened the front door, only to find the hallway crowded with neighbors. They had heard the screaming and were gathered around, whispering. Seeing her audience, Helen quickly stepped down from the window, rushing over to tear into me. Molly joined in, sobbing loudly, painting herself as the victim. “Rachel, this is shameful,” Mrs. Jeffrey, our next-door neighbor, said, shaking her head. “How can you try to kick your husband’s family out? At the end of the day, you married into this family. You’re the one who should show some respect.” “Who said I was kicking anyone out?” I asked coldly. Helen slapped her thighs, wailing. “You said it yourself! Either Molly leaves, or you do! Isn’t that just a passive-aggressive way of forcing my daughter onto the street?” I stepped aside, gesturing to the open doorway behind me. “Molly refuses to let us use pest control. She is actively feeding the mice and roaches. I am eight months pregnant. Am I supposed to raise my child in a disease-ridden nest?” The neighbors shifted, their expressions turning from judgment to disgust as they peered inside. “Wait, feeding mice?” Mr. Harriet from down the hall wrinkled his nose. “Molly, that’s disgusting.” “Yeah, that’s a serious health hazard for a pregnant woman,” another neighbor muttered. “If I were Rachel, I would have thrown her out days ago.” Molly’s tears redoubled. “I only did it because pesticides are toxic! I was trying to protect the baby! Why does no one understand that I’m just trying to build good karma for my nephew?” Her fragile, tearful act worked. The neighbors’ skepticism began to soften into pity. Mr. Harriet cleared his throat. “Well… her intentions were good, Rachel. You have to give her credit for that.” Mrs. Jeffrey added, “You’ve made it this far, Rachel. What’s another day or two? Just stay and talk it out.” I frowned. “So whoever cries loudest is right? Please step aside. I’m leaving.” Their pity turned back into indignation. An elderly woman stepped forward, blocking my path. “You are incredibly disrespectful, young lady. We are trying to help you, and you’re just ignoring us? I’m seventy years old, and you won’t even listen to me?” Before I could react, she snatched my wallet out of my hand, pulling out my ID card and handing it to Helen. “Keep her ID. Let’s see how she checks into a hotel now. Why throw away good money on a hotel when you have a perfectly good home? Back in my day, we gave birth in much worse conditions.” Helen and Molly lunged forward, grabbing my arms and dragging me back into the apartment. I wanted to fight them off, but I had to protect my stomach. Just then, the front door opened, and Todd walked in, suitcase in hand. “Todd,” I gasped, “tell them to give me my ID. I need to go to a hotel.” Todd looked at the chaos, his forehead creasing with irritation. “Can you stop making a scene? I just got back from an exhausting business trip. Let me rest.” He slumped into a dining chair. “Is there any food?” Helen hurriedly set a plate of leftovers and a glass of water in front of him. Todd picked up the glass, but froze. A dead fly was floating on the surface. He turned to the plate, only to see several roaches scuttling away from the rice. He gagged, pushing the plate away in disgust. “What the hell? This place is a dump! Is this how humans live?” Helen, scratching at a fresh cluster of mosquito bites on her arm, muttered, “It’s just a few bugs, Todd. It’s not going to kill you.” Molly sniffled. “It’s for the baby’s karma, Todd. It’s so he can have a blessed life.” Todd glared at me. “Look at what you’ve done. You’ve dragged the whole family into this mess. Are you happy now?” I stared at him, my last shred of hope evaporating. I had thought his return might change things, but they were all the same. “Give me my ID,” I said, my voice dead. “I’m checking into a hotel. And then, we’re getting a divorce.” Todd froze. He pulled Helen and Molly into the corner, whispering frantically. After a tense exchange, Helen walked over, scowling, and threw my ID onto the floor. Being heavily pregnant, bending down to pick it up was a struggle, but I managed. I went to the bedroom, packed a bag, and walked out. As I opened the door, Helen’s wails echoed down the hall. “My son married a monster! We came all this way to help her, and she treats us like garbage!” The neighbors gathered again, glaring at me. Mrs. Jeffrey stood in my way. “Rachel, you can’t just leave like this. It’s wrong.” I pushed past her without a word, got into a cab, and drove straight to a clean, quiet hotel. The relief of stepping into a sterile, fresh hotel room was overwhelming. I took a hot shower and lay down on the crisp white sheets, finally able to breathe. Once I was settled, I opened the security app on my phone to check the live feed from our apartment. Things were not going well for them. Without me there to act as their buffer, the tension was boiling over. Todd was pacing the living room, swatting frantically at flies. Helen was scratching herself raw, complaining bitterly about the mosquitoes. They had expected me to bear it, but they couldn’t survive an hour of their own making. Suddenly, Helen let out a piercing shriek. She had stepped on a mouse, and the startled creature had bitten her foot. She collapsed onto the floor, clutching her ankle in agony. In my past life, I had been bitten by that very mouse. Helen had forbidden me from going to the hospital, claiming the vaccines would harm the baby. She had patched me up with cigarette ash and some tissue paper. A few days later, I was dead. This time, Helen was the one screaming for a doctor. “Todd! Take me to the ER!” she wailed. “Is that really necessary?” Todd snapped, not looking up from his phone. “Stop being so dramatic. I’m trying to order food. I’m starving.” She turned to Molly. “Molly, help me!” Molly covered her phone screen. “Mom, shut up, I’m streaming live!” Left with no choice, Helen hobbled to the cabinet, found some ash, and pressed it onto her bleeding wound. Curious, I searched for Molly’s stream. It didn’t take long to find her live broadcast. She was sitting in front of her camera, weeping crocodile tears for her viewers. “My sister-in-law is so cold-hearted,” she sobbed. “My mother and I came all this way to care for her, and she treated us like servants. She looked down on us because we’re from a small town. She literally went to a luxury hotel just to get away from us.” The chat was flooded with sympathy for Molly and vitriol for me. Molly wiped a tear, a sly glint in her eye. “But you know what? I don’t hold grudges. Before she left, I snuck a little gift into her suitcase. When people throw dirt at me, I use it to grow lotuses. Hotels are full of toxic formaldehyde, but my gift will keep her safe.” I frowned. “A gift?” Then, a cold dread seized me. I remembered seeing a strange drawstring bag at the bottom of my suitcase when I was unpacking. I rushed over to the luggage. My heart nearly stopped.

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The spiritual medium said that my brother, who had been missing for ten years before being brought home, was deeply traumatized—his soul fractured. He needed my memories as fuel for the ritual candles. Only by draining them every day for forty-nine days straight could his spirit finally be anchored. The first time my memories were extracted, I forgot that I was lethally allergic to shellfish. I ate a prawn my older sister placed in my bowl, suffered anaphylactic shock, and ended up in the ICU. My parents stayed in the adjoining room watching cartoons with my brother. Complaining that the incessant beeping of my heart monitor was too loud, they shut the connecting door. By the twentieth ritual, I forgot how to crave my parents’ praise, or how to long for their affection. By the fortieth ritual, I forgot what it felt like to stay up late into the night, sitting by the window, waiting for my sister to come home from work. Today is the forty-ninth day. The final session. My sister came down into the basement carrying a bowl of hot porridge—a gesture so rare it felt almost alien. “Once we extract the last bit today, consider your debt paid for taking up ten years of his life,” she said, her voice smooth. “After this, we’ll treat you like a real brother.” I raised my head and stared at her in silence. Then, nervously, I wiped my dirty, calloused hands against my tattered trousers. Reaching deep into my pocket, I pulled out a tarnished quarter and held it out to her. “Thank you for your kindness… for sheltering me,” I whispered softly. “This is all the money I have. Is it enough to buy this bowl of porridge?” The faint, gentle smile at the corner of my sister’s lips froze instantly. What she didn’t know was that just a moment ago, the last thread snapped. I had completely forgotten who I was. And I had forgotten how desperately I once loved them. … My older sister stood there, holding the steaming bowl of porridge. The subtle arc of her smile stiffened, fracturing piece by piece until it collapsed completely. She stared down at the grime-covered coin sitting in the palm of my hand, her brows knotting tightly together. “Sam, what kind of childish game are you playing now?” “A game?” I flinched, pulling my shoulders inward. I looked down at the coin in my palm. The hand holding it began to tremble uncontrollably. “I’m… I’m sorry. If it’s not enough, I can sweep the basement for you. I can work it off…” My sister’s face turned deathly pale, shadowed with anger. She slammed the bowl of porridge down onto a nearby wooden crate. The scalding broth splashed over the rim, reddening the back of her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. “Enough!” her voice cracked through the damp air. “How long do you plan on dragging out this amnesia act?” Her fingernails dug deep into my flesh. The sheer force of her pull dragged me upright, the sudden pain jerking hot tears into the corners of my eyes. “The forty-nine days are over! You’ve paid your penance!” she snapped, hauling me up the narrow basement stairs as I stumbled behind her. “There’s no need to put on this pathetic victim routine in front of us anymore!” The searing pain in my wrist made me struggle instinctively, but her hold was relentless. I stumbled out of the dark into the blinding light of the main floor. “Why are you dragging him like that?” A soft, mildly scolding female voice echoed through the foyer. I forced my tear-blurred eyes open. A middle-aged woman in a silk loungewear set was stepping out of the kitchen. Her brow furrowed as she reached out and swatted my sister’s hand away from my wrist. She glanced at my frayed sleeves and my filthy, smudged face. Her eyes faltered for a fraction of a second. She reached a hand toward me, then hesitantly pulled it back. “Honestly, Sam, it was just a memory ritual,” our mother said, letting out a weary, resigned sigh. “It’s not like they harvested your bone marrow. Why must you throw a fit and make yourself look like a street beggar?” She sighed again, a subtle compromise softening her tone. “Fine. Now that the ritual is over, let’s just move past it and live normally. Go take a shower and put on some clean clothes.” As she spoke, she glanced up toward the second floor, deliberately dropping her voice to a whisper. “Your brother Tobias is sleeping upstairs. Keep your footsteps light. His nerves are fragile, and it took forever for him to fall asleep.” I stood awkwardly on the edge of the plush, expensive rug, completely out of place. My fingers fidgeted uselessly against my sides. “Excuse me…” I asked in a small, tentative voice. “Where… where should I wash up?” The air in the room suddenly went dead silent. Beside me, my sister let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Look at him, Mom. He’s still acting.” My mother’s brows knit even tighter, whatever faint flicker of sympathy she had instantly replaced by annoyance. “You don’t even know where your own bedroom is? Second floor, at the very end of the hall. Go on.” She paused, adding sternly, “And don’t use the shared bathroom in the hallway. Toby finds it dirty when other people use his things.” With that, she turned to the stove and ladled a steaming portion of chicken soup into a large porcelain bowl. I watched the broth, my throat working as I swallowed hard. Noticing my hollow stomach, she pulled a smaller bowl from the cabinet and ladled a tiny portion for me. “Drink this before you go up. I made extra, so there’s some for you too.” Yet, as she carried the larger bowl upstairs for Tobias, her footsteps were quick and eager. My sister stayed behind, arms crossed, looking down at me with cold detachment. “There. Mom gave you a way out, so don’t push your luck. Drink the soup, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. From now on, you’re still a Norman. Whatever Toby gets, we’ll make sure you get a share too.” If the old Sam had heard these words, he might have burst into tears of validation. He might have furiously knocked the bowl over, demanding to know why ten years of shared life meant less to them than a DNA match. But I didn’t. Instead, I looked around the pristine kitchen, my eyes landing on a yellow cleaning rag by the sink. Under my sister’s bewildered gaze, I walked over, picked up the rag, and knelt on the floor. I began wiping away the dirty footprints I had accidentally left on the polished marble, rubbing them clean inch by inch. When I was finished, I stood up and carefully placed the tarnished quarter right next to the small bowl of soup. “Miss, ma’am… I won’t drink the soup,” I said softly. I took two steps back and gave the tall, elegant woman a polite, quiet bow. “For the porridge earlier… I don’t have enough money right now. But I can collect plastic bottles outside and sell them to pay you back, okay?” I raised my head, my eyes entirely devoid of anger or resentment. “Please… just don’t lock me back in that dark room. I’m very quiet. I can do heavy chores.” My sister stood frozen where she was, her arms dropping to her sides. Following the older woman’s instructions, I walked up to the second floor, keeping my footsteps as light as air. The moment I pushed open the door to my room, I saw how every trace of my existence had been slowly devoured. My memory wasn’t completely wiped; fragmented, faint recollections still floated in my mind like distant echoes. Two months ago, Tobias had brought several massive designer shopping bags home and carelessly tossed them onto my bed. When I carried the bags back to his room, he had broken down into soft, tragic sob. My mother had berated me without hesitation: “Sam, Toby spent ten years living on the streets without any security! He hoards things because he’s traumatized. How can you be so selfish as his older brother? Why must you fight him over every little thing?” From that day on, my bedroom became Toby’s secondary closet, overflowing with his streetwear and overflow junk. On the corner of the desk sat a small desk lamp with a chipped base. I had bought it years ago with the very first paycheck I earned handing out flyers in the snow. Later, Toby decided his room was too dim and wanted my lamp. When I refused, a struggle broke out just as my sister walked upstairs. Without asking a single question, she snatched the lamp from my hands and smashed it onto the hard floor. “Are you insane, Sam?” she had screamed at me. “It’s a twenty-dollar piece of junk! Is it worth making your brother cry over? I’ll have my assistant buy you a hundred new ones tomorrow. Now apologize to Toby immediately!” Of course, she never bought me a new one. I closed my eyes, forcing the rising tide of bitterness back down into the dark. It didn’t matter anymore. The person I was now didn’t need to remember any of it. I walked into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower. Freezing water poured down over my head, soaking my clothes. My mother had told me to use my own bathroom, but she had forgotten one thing: the hot water pipe in this room had burst a week ago and was never fixed. I used the cold stream to scrub the grime from my skin. Where the water hit my raw skin, it stung like needles—yet it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the hollow ache in my chest. When I finished, I huddled in the corner by the bathroom door, sitting on the cold tile beside a discarded cardboard box. I lost track of time. Suddenly, the bedroom door was pushed open with a heavy, impatient bang. “Sam, how long are you going to throw this temper—” My sister’s voice cut through the air, sharp with suppressed anger. But the words caught in her throat. Her eyes drifted downward, fixing on the corner of the floor. “What… what are you doing on the floor?” Her voice trembled slightly. “Why aren’t you in bed?” I shuddered, pulling myself backward in terror. “I’m—I’m sorry, Miss! I didn’t know this was your storage room… I shouldn’t have come in…” I swallowed hard, keeping my voice as low as possible. She dropped to her knees, reaching out to grab my arm. “Sam, get up first… the floor is freezing…” “Don’t hit me!” I shrank back frantically against the wall, shielding my head. “I’ll dry my clothes right now! I won’t ruin the floor! Please, Miss, don’t hit me…” She stared at my defensive posture, her gaze landing on my shivering shoulders. She reached out and seized my upper arms. “Why are your clothes ice cold? Your hair is freezing! Did you take a shower in cold water?!” “I…” I swallowed hard, my eyes darting nervously around the room. “The lady of the house said… I shouldn’t use the hallway bathroom because I might dirty the young master’s things. My room— I mean, the storage room’s shower… doesn’t have hot water. I was afraid I’d smell bad and upset you, so I just used cold water.” My sister’s throat constricted, her breath catching violently. She hadn’t known the shower had no hot water. A week ago, when the pipe ruptured, I had tried to tell her. But she had been busy helping Tobias assemble a limited-edition Lego set worth tens of thousands of dollars. Without even looking up, she had snapped at me: “Do you really need to bother me with every little thing? Are you doing this on purpose because Toby is back? Trying to start drama?” After that, no plumber was ever called. “I…” My sister opened her mouth, her voice dry and rasping. She looked at my lips, which were turning blue from the cold, and instinctively reached down to unbutton her suit jacket to put it over me. Just then, faint footsteps sounded outside the doorway. “Jennifer? Why are you in Sam’s room?” Tobias stood in the doorway. Hearing his voice, my sister’s body stiffened noticeably. She instinctively took a step back, widening the distance between us. “Toby? Why are you awake? Did we disturb you?” Her tone softened in an instant. Tobias bit his lip, his eyes welling with tears on command. “I had a nightmare… Jennifer, is Sam still angry at me? If it’s my fault, I can give him his room back. I’ll go live in the basement. Please don’t fight because of me…” My sister rushed to comfort him. “Toby, don’t say such silly things. How could any of this be your fault? You suffered so much while you were lost. Living in the best room in your own home is only right. Sam… Sam just finished the ritual, so his head is a little confused. Don’t take it to heart.” Hearing the commotion, my mother came hurrying up the stairs in her slippers. The moment she saw Tobias standing there with tear-stained eyes, her expression darkened into a scowl. She marched into the room, shoving Tobias safely behind her back. “Sam! How much longer are you going to keep this up?” She glared down at me. “Toby has weak nerves and finally fell asleep, and the second you get out of that basement, you start making trouble for the whole house! We just asked you to take a bath, and you sit there looking like a corpse for who to see?” I huddled deeper into the freezing corner, wrapping my arms around my knees, shivering violently. I kept my head buried low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m not angry… I’ll leave right now. I’ll get out…” I made a move to crawl toward the door, my hands scraping against the dirty floorboards. My mother watched me. She had come up the stairs armed with a barrage of sharp scoldings, but now it felt as though her punches were landing on thin air. Her face turned a sickly shade of pale frustration. “Mom… look at him. He seems… really…” My sister stared at me, her mouth slightly open, as if a terrible suspicion was finally dawning on her. “Jennifer, is he actually crazy now?” Tobias sniffled softly. My mother let out a cold snort, pulling Tobias back a step. “He’s acting fake. Fine, play dumb all you want. Did you really think pulling a stunt like this would win back our affection? Since his head is messed up, I’ll have a doctor look at him tomorrow.” She turned away coldly. “Toby, let’s go back to your room. Ignore him.” Her voice was laced with pure impatience. Before walking out, she turned to my sister. “Jennifer, lock the door from the outside so he doesn’t wander around at night and scare Toby. And tomorrow, throw out all the dirty old junk in his room. It’s an eyesore.” “Got it, Mom,” my sister replied softly. She stole one last glance at me before obediently following them out into the hallway. The door clicked shut, and the heavy iron lock turned from the outside. Listening to their fading footsteps, I slowly pulled myself up from the floor. Reaching into the very bottom of the battered cardboard box, I pulled out a small, waterproof pouch I had hidden long ago. Inside was a private debit card I had secretly opened, containing the meager savings I had scraped together over the years from side jobs, alongside a one-way train ticket I had bought weeks ago. Clutching the ticket stub in my palm, my mind suddenly flashed back to my eighteenth birthday. We had taken a family portrait together that day. My mother had wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and my sister had held up a birthday cake, smiling warmly. Back then, it felt as though they truly considered me family. They loved Tobias so much. In that case, they should let Tobias stay with them forever. At dawn, the bedroom door was unlocked and pushed open once again. This time, my mother walked in holding a steaming bowl of sweet glutinous rice ball soup. “Sam, you must be hungry. Hurry and eat this,” she said, stepping over to the bed and reaching out to pat my hair. “Yesterday, your sister and I were just overly anxious. Toby isn’t in good health, and we panicked when he got upset. Don’t take what we said to heart.” My sister walked up behind her, letting out a soft sigh. “Sam, the spiritual medium spoke to us again last night. She said Toby suffered too much during those ten years away, so his spiritual aura is extremely weak. Meanwhile, you lived comfortably in the Norman house for ten years, so your presence naturally clashes with his. That’s why he suffers chest pains and nightmares whenever you’re around.” She pulled a smooth jade pendant from her pocket and took my hand. “Sam, this is the absolute last time. The final sacrifice the family will ever ask of you. You just need to use a few drops of your blood to consecrate this jade. It will absorb the negative energy and protect Toby. After this, we will double our efforts to make it up to you. We’ll treat you as a real son and brother, and we’ll never let you suffer again, okay?” Watching the picture-perfect scene of family reconciliation unfold before me, I felt only a profound, hollow irony. Tobias sat on the small armchair nearby, his voice choking up. “Brother, my chest hurts so badly every night… If you just help me this once, I’ll share half of Mom and Jennifer’s love with you from now on. I’m begging you…” Under the weight of their three converging gazes, I raised my head, trembling. “If I give my blood… Toby won’t be in pain anymore?” I swallowed hard, looking frightened. “Then… Miss, ma’am… will you really like Sam after this? You won’t lock Sam back in the dark basement?” “Of course! I promise you, from now on, you are the second young master of the Norman family,” my mother agreed instantly, a glint of desperate greed flashing in her eyes. My nose stung with a sudden wave of warmth. In a fleeting moment of hallucination, I remembered cutting my finger while peeling an apple last year. My sister had panicked, tearing through the entire medicine cabinet looking for bandages, whispering, “Don’t cry, Sammy. Sister will blow on it, and it won’t hurt anymore.” Now… I closed my eyes. I would consider this single cut the final repayment for ten years of shelter. “Okay… Sam will be good. Sam will protect brother…” I sniffled, submissively extending my right hand. Seeing me agree, a sharp light flared in my sister’s eyes. Without a single word of warning—without even telling me to brace myself—she seized the sharp, jagged edge of the jade stone and dragged it forcefully across my palm! “Miss! It hurts! It hurts so much!” A strangled cry tore from my throat. My body jerked violently as I tried to pull my hand back by instinct. But my sister held my wrist in a vise grip, pressing harder. “Don’t move! Just hold still a little longer! Be a good boy, Sam. We told you this is the last time, why are you being so difficult?” When I was little and scraped my knees bleeding on the pavement, she had carried me on her back all the way home, her forehead drenched in sweat, comforting me every step of the way. Now, sitting beside us, my mother didn’t show a single trace of pity. Instead, her face twisted in disgust as she gently patted Tobias’s back. “It’s just a little bit of blood,” my mother muttered coldly. “Is it anywhere near the suffering Toby endured wandering the streets for ten years?” Late that night, the entire Norman mansion sank into absolute silence. By afternoon, Tobias’s “chest pain” had miraculously vanished. To celebrate, the three of them had booked a table at the most luxurious restaurant downtown. As for my hand, which wouldn’t stop bleeding, they hadn’t even left behind a single band-aid. When they left that evening, I had watched from the window as my sister opened the car door for Tobias, and my mother lovingly straightened his jacket collar. Just like they used to do for me. Listening to the steady, quiet hum of the empty house, I opened my eyes. The moment my feet stepped over the threshold of the Norman estate, I knew I was never coming back. I boarded a late-night taxi heading straight to the train station. I’m done playing your games. I powered off my phone and leaned my head against the cold glass of the car window. At that exact moment, sitting at the candlelit restaurant table downtown, my mother’s phone buzzed with a text message from her brother: “Helena, Tobias’s physical exam results just came back. Everything is normal. But there’s a massive problem… I remember both you and Richard are blood type O. How could you possibly have a child with type AB blood?” “Helena, did you bring home the wrong kid?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “552796”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On Sunday afternoon, I was packing up a few designer kids’ clothes that my son had outgrown, getting them ready to ship to one of my regular buyers on Poshmark. The buyer was a single mother. She was raising a toddler on her own, and I knew how hard she was struggling. Over the past two years, I’d practically given the clothes away, often dipping into my own pocket to slip expensive educational toys and books into her packages. My six-year-old son, Toby, wandered over to the living room floor, glanced down at the shipping label on the box, and suddenly ripped the packing tape right off. “You don’t need to mail that,” he said, his voice entirely flat. “Dad’s just going to put it in his trunk on Friday and take it to him.” I laughed, gently swatting his hand away. “Stop messing around, sweetie. This is going to a sweet little boy who lives out of state. He needs our help.” Toby didn’t laugh. With a chilling calmness, he reached into the box, pulled out a toy sports car I’d packed, and slid it into his pocket. “He’s my real brother,” Toby said, looking me dead in the eye. “And he doesn’t live out of state. He lives in that big house on the south side of town.” The smile on my face stiffened, then crumbled. “What brother, Toby?” He pulled off his little smartwatch, tapped the screen a few times, and held a photo up to my face. In the picture, my husband—the man who claimed he was constantly traveling for business—was laughing on a sun-drenched lawn, holding a two-year-old boy in his arms as they flew a kite. The toddler was wearing a limited-edition designer windbreaker. It was the exact same windbreaker I had sold to my “struggling single mom” on Poshmark last month for next to nothing. “Dad said Melanie is sick and can’t work, so we have to help support her,” Toby said, his little chest puffed out with a strange, defensive authority. He looked at me with a hint of accusation. “Mom, you make so much money anyway. Why do you make Melanie pay for things? You’re being selfish.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a threat. “Next time, you’re not allowed to take her money. If you do, I’ll tell Dad, and he’ll stop talking to you.” … It was the first time Toby had ever looked at me that way. Six years old, and his face was twisted with disgust, as if he were a disappointed adult lecturing an ignorant child. A bucket of icy water felt like it had been poured down my spine. I gripped the edges of the cardboard box, my knuckles turning white as I forced a fragile smile. “Toby, stop playing. If you keep making up stories, Mommy is going to get really upset.” He stuffed the toy car deeper into his backpack, zipped it shut, and stood up. “It doesn’t matter if you’re upset. Dad said the baby gets the best of everything. Your old, dusty hand-me-downs aren’t even good enough for him anyway.” He didn’t run off to his room. Instead, he stood right there in the middle of the living room, hugging his backpack like a little sentry who had just delivered a critical report, waiting to see how I would break. I forced the panic down, kneeling so we were eye-to-eye. “Toby, look at me. Tell Mommy the truth. Who taught you to say these things?” He took a sharp step back, dodging my hand as I reached for him. “Nobody. You’re just stupid.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door. I sank onto the hardwood floor, kneeling among the scattered boxes and packing tape. My heart was hammering so violently against my ribs I could taste copper in the back of my throat. With trembling fingers, I opened Poshmark and scrolled back through two years of chat history with the buyer. During our very first transaction, she told me she lived in a quiet town three states over, that her husband had passed away early in her pregnancy, and that her little boy was sickly. I had taken a Burberry jacket listed for three hundred dollars and dropped it to twenty bucks, covering the shipping myself. I’d even thrown in a pair of brand-new leather shoes. As the months went on, we grew closer. She would occasionally send photos of the boy from behind—a chubby, healthy little toddler. Once, I messaged her: “He looks so strong and loved. He looks like a boy who has a father watching over him.” She replied: “His father might not be here, but thanks to a wonderful sister like you, he never goes without.” Another time, she sent a voice note thanking me for a Lego set. In the background, a man’s low, familiar chuckle echoed through the recording. I had teased her, asking if she’d finally found a boyfriend. She replied with a shy emoji: “I guess you could say that. He’s incredibly good to both of us.” I had genuinely, wholeheartedly congratulated her. Now, I played that three-second voice note again. And again. And again. That laugh. I had heard it every morning for the last ten years. I woke up to it. I fell asleep to it. It was Matt’s. A wave of violent nausea hit me, and I had to press my forehead against the cool floor to keep from throwing up. With shaking hands, I checked her shipping address. It was indeed a P.O. Box in Oregon. But Toby had said the south side of town. I opened my phone and logged into the online portal for Matt’s secondary credit card. It was a card tied to a separate phone number, with bills paid automatically from his business account. I’d only discovered its existence a month ago when a random bank rewards text came to his iPad, but I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, I scrolled through the statements. Every single Friday, without fail, there were transactions. A boutique baby store on the south side: formula, diapers, educational toys. A high-end grocery store on the south side: organic produce, baby food, fresh fruit. A pharmacy on the south side: infant fever reducers, vitamins. Two straight years. Every Friday. Our son was six. He hadn’t used diapers or baby formula in years. I went back to Poshmark and clicked on a short video the buyer had posted to her profile a few days ago. The caption read: “Theo took his first steps today!” In the video, the little boy wobbled across a plush rug. In the background, sitting on a modern marble coffee table, was a custom ceramic mug. It was the mug I had designed for Matt last Father’s Day. It had Toby’s messy finger-paintings on it, along with the words “I love you, Daddy” in shaky, kid-written print. A one-of-a-kind mug I had custom-ordered, sitting in another woman’s living room. At eight o’clock that night, the front door clicked open. Matt walked in. He peered into Toby’s room first, then walked over to the sofa, scooping me up in his arms with a bright, easy smile. “Hey, Jo. You didn’t make dinner? No worries, I’ll order delivery. What are you craving?” He was clean-shaven, smelling faintly of expensive hand soap. His hands were spotless. Just like they were every Friday night when he “returned from his business trips.” I buried my face in his chest, keeping my voice level. “Matt, are you still traveling to San Francisco this Friday?” “Yeah, babe. Major client. You know how it is, I can’t get out of it.” “Can you skip it? Just this once? I haven’t been feeling well lately. I really need you here.” He pulled me tighter, resting his chin on the top of my head. “This deal has been in the works for six months, Jo. I really can’t blow it off. Next week, I promise. I’m all yours next Friday.” The study door creaked open, and Toby poked his head out. “Mom, stop clinging to Dad. Baby brother is almost out of formula. Dad has to go deliver it.” “Toby!” Matt’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and suddenly terrified. Toby flinched and ducked back into his room, shutting the door. Matt turned back to me, his expression shifting instantly back to his trademark warmth. “Kids say the craziest things. Don’t pay attention to him.” He cupped my face, his thumb gently wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “Why the tears, Jo? Tell you what, I’ll try to catch an earlier flight back on Friday, okay?” I stared into his eyes. They were so clear, so incredibly sincere. For ten years of marriage, every time he said “You’re the only one for me”, he had used this exact look. Flawless. Impervious. On Friday afternoon, after Matt and Toby left the house, I called an Uber and gave the driver an address on the south side of the city. At the gates of the luxury high-rise development, the security guard flipped through his clipboard. “Are you here for Unit 1501? Mr. Carter’s family? Go ahead on up.” “Family.” Even the gate guard knew about this “family.” I didn’t go up. Instead, I walked across the street and sat in a small café, watching the entrance all afternoon. At two o’clock, Matt’s black SUV pulled into the underground garage. At three-fifteen, a young woman in a white sundress pushed a stroller out of the lobby. She was thin, fair-skinned, with long, dark hair. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Nearly ten years younger than me. The little boy in the stroller was waving a small rubber duck. Three months ago, I had slipped that exact toy into a shipping box as a freebie, along with a sticky note: “For sweet little Theo.” Matt walked out right behind her. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, athletic shorts, and slides. The relaxed, sloppy lounge clothes he only wore at home. He naturally took over pushing the stroller with one hand, while his other arm slid smoothly around the woman’s waist. Toby ran out from behind them, kneeling by the stroller to tickle his baby brother, making the toddler shriek with laughter. The four of them walked toward the community park like a perfect portrait of suburban bliss. Eventually, the woman sat on a bench, leaning her head comfortably against Matt’s shoulder as she scrolled through her phone. Matt leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and she playfully slapped his arm, laughing. It was so casual. So intimate. The quiet, effortless rhythm of a long-standing marriage. I bit down on my straw, my nails digging so hard into my paper cup that it collapsed, spilling iced coffee over my fingers. At four-thirty, she held up her phone and took a photo of the toddler. Five minutes later, my Poshmark app buzzed. “Look, sister! Theo wanted to wear the little vest you sent today. All the neighbors are saying how handsome he looks!” The photo was cropped perfectly. Just the little boy and a swing set. No Matt. No Toby. For two years, every single photo she sent had been cropped just like this. Completely clean. Never a single slip-up. I typed back: “So cute. It fits him perfectly.” She immediately replied with three heart emojis and a voice note. “Hey, sister! What size does your little guy wear? Theo has a gorgeous designer coat that’s getting a bit tight. I’d love to send it over to your boy so we can trade! Let me know!” She wanted to send her son’s hand-me-downs—clothes bought with my husband’s money—to my own son. I set the phone face down on the table, my nails cutting into my palms until they bled. By the time I got back to our house, the sun had set. At eight-thirty, Matt and Toby walked through the door. Matt immediately placed a sleek pink pastry box on the kitchen counter. “Got this on the way home. Your favorite lemon crepe cake.” I opened the box. Tucked inside was a small receipt with a rewards loyalty card number printed at the bottom. The name on the account wasn’t Matt’s. It was “Melanie Cross”. The rewards activity showed over forty transactions. Every single one of them on a Friday. Every Friday, he went to the bakery right below her apartment, bought treats using her rewards account, and brought a slice home to me. Using her card. Toby sat at the dining table, eyeing the pastry box, and mumbled, “Theo loves that cake too. He always tries to steal my bites.” Matt’s eyes darkened. He gave Toby a hard, warning look, and Toby immediately shrank back, shutting his mouth. I took a fork and took a bite of the cake. The sweet cream coated my tongue, thick and sickeningly sweet. “It’s delicious,” I said, smiling up at my husband. “Next time, buy two boxes. One isn’t enough.” Matt’s eyes flickered with a brief, nervous tension. “Sure. Two boxes next time.” He had no idea I was actually saying: “Buy one for her household too, since you’re already there.” That night, Matt was exceptionally attentive. He opened a expensive bottle of Cabernet, rubbed my shoulders for forty minutes, and talked eagerly about taking me shopping this weekend to buy a new fall wardrobe before going to that high-end sushi spot downtown I’d wanted to try. I nodded along to every word. “Sounds perfect, babe. Whatever you want.” He smiled and kissed my forehead. But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was his hand resting on the small of that young woman’s back. The exact same hand that was now gently massaging my neck. Over the next week, I played the part of the perfect wife. I went to work, cooked dinner, drove Toby to school, and ironed Matt’s shirts. Everything was normal. But behind the scenes, I was putting together the final pieces of the puzzle. On Monday, Melanie sent another photo on Poshmark. It showed a man’s hands carefully clipping a little boy’s fingernails. Her caption: “Theo’s dad is so clumsy. It takes him half an hour just to trim ten tiny nails. But he insists on doing it himself every time he’s here. Says he doesn’t trust anyone else with his boy.” On the man’s ring finger was a wedding band. It wasn’t the white gold band Matt wore at home. This one was different—thinner, platinum, catching the light. I zoomed in until the pixels blurred, confirming what I saw. That afternoon, I took a half-hour off work and went to the jewelry store where we had purchased our wedding bands. The sales associate still remembered me. “Mrs. Carter! It’s so good to see you. Your husband actually mentioned you when he came in for a ring cleaning recently.” I offered her a pleasant, easy smile. “Oh, really? He brought his ring in?” “Yes, last month. He brought two rings in together, actually. He mentioned one is for daily wear and the other is for ‘special events.’ I told him he was incredibly sophisticated!” Two rings. Cleaned at the same counter. One for me. One for her. Swapping them out must have been as second nature as putting on a watch. On Wednesday, while Matt was in the shower, I opened his laptop and accessed his personal cloud drive. I tried two passwords before typing in the little boy’s birthdate. It clicked open. There was a hidden folder titled “Home.” It was packed with hundreds of photos. Melanie cradling her pregnant belly. The baby’s wrinkled, newborn face in the hospital. One-month milestone, one-year birthday, two-year birthday. A photo of Toby holding baby Theo for the first time, grinning so wide his missing baby teeth showed. And the last photo, taken just last Wednesday. The four of them in matching navy-and-white outfits on a beach. Matt was lifting Theo above his head, Toby was riding piggyback on his shoulders, and Melanie was wrapping her arms around his waist. The timestamp on the file was last Wednesday afternoon. The day Matt told me he was stuck in back-to-back corporate meetings, returning home late, claiming he was “dead tired” before collapsing onto the bed. Now I knew exactly what had exhausted him. On Thursday, I shipped one final package to Melanie on Poshmark. It was an expensive, barely worn Patagonia fleece jacket Toby had outgrown. When she received it, she happily messaged me a photo. Theo was wearing the red fleece, standing on their high-rise balcony. But in the background, draped carelessly over the arm of the living room sofa, was a dark blue silk tie. The very same tie I had hand-knotted around Matt’s neck yesterday morning before he left for work. I stared at that tie for a long time. Then I typed: “He looks so handsome in red!” She replied: “He really does! Doesn’t he look just like his daddy?” “Yes,” I thought. “Exactly like him.” On Thursday night, after Toby finished his bath, I stopped him in the hallway. “Toby, come sit down. Mommy wants to talk to you.” He looked at me with immediate suspicion, holding his towel tight. “What?” “When you go over to that apartment… do you go because you want to, or because Dad tells you to?” He gripped his towel and remained silent. My voice was soft, barely a whisper. “You can tell Mommy the truth. I won’t be mad.” After a long, agonizing silence, he looked up, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. “I want to go. Theo is cute, and Melanie is nice to me.” “Nicer than you,” he added, his voice sharp. “She doesn’t yell at me to do homework. She doesn’t scream at me, and she never leaves me alone in the house to go work late.” Every word was a calculated strike to my chest. But the vocabulary, the syntax—they weren’t the words of a six-year-old. “Did your dad tell you to say that to me?” His head snapped up. “Nobody told me anything! You’re just not as good as Melanie! Dad thinks so too!” He screamed the last word, threw his towel onto the floor, ran into his bedroom, and slammed the door. The echo of the slam reverberated through the quiet house. “Dad thinks so too.” That was the line that broke through my final defenses. Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that those words were entirely true. On Friday morning, I walked into my lawyer’s office. My friend and attorney, Rachel, slid the document across her desk. “Are you absolutely certain about the custody clause, Jo?” I had stayed awake all night thinking about it. I thought about Toby’s constant scowls when I asked him to do his homework. I thought about his bright, gap-toothed smile in that beach photo with Melanie. I thought about the absolute lack of hesitation in his eyes when he told me “She’s nicer than you”. I picked up the pen and, under “Primary Physical Custody,” wrote: “The Father.” The metal tip of my pen dug so hard into the paper it tore a tiny hole. Late Friday night, the sound of the front door unlocking woke me. The hallway light flooded into the dark master bedroom. Matt walked in, carrying two large suitcases, followed closely by a young woman holding a sleeping child. Melanie. The woman I had watched from across the street was now standing in my hallway. Up close, she looked even younger, her skin radiant, her demeanor fragile and soft. Theo was fast asleep in her arms, his little face pressed against her neck. Matt froze when he saw me standing at the bedroom door. He quickly walked over, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Jo, Melanie’s apartment had a massive pipe burst. The place is flooded, and she has nowhere to go with the baby. They’re going to stay in the guest room for a couple of days. I was going to explain everything in the morning.” Without waiting for my response, he walked past me, opened the guest bedroom door, and ushered Melanie inside. I stood there barefoot on the hardwood floor, wearing an old, faded t-shirt, my hair a tangled mess. Meanwhile, she was wearing a pristine linen dress, her makeup perfectly intact, looking like she had spent hours preparing for this exact arrival. Toby came padding out of his room, his eyes wide. The moment he saw the toddler, his face lit up. “Theo’s here!” Melanie gently placed a hand over his mouth. “Shh, baby is sleeping, sweetie. You can play with him tomorrow, okay?” Toby nodded eagerly, his eyes crinkling into a wide, adoring smile. “Are you staying here now, Melanie? Yay!” He stood right in front of me, joyfully calling another woman by her first name with maternal affection, never once looking at his own mother. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Through the thin walls, I could hear Theo whimpering in the guest room, followed by Melanie’s soft, soothing voice. And then, Matt’s voice. “Is the blanket warm enough? I’ll go warm up a bottle of milk for him.” In my house, in the middle of the night, my husband was warming milk for another woman’s child. The next morning, when I walked into the kitchen, someone was already there. Melanie was wearing my favorite linen apron, flipping eggs. Four neat breakfast plates were set on the counter. She turned around, giving me a sweet, timid smile. “Good morning, Jo. I saw you weren’t up yet, so I figured I’d whip up some breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.” Matt was sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, smiling. “Come eat, Jo. Melanie makes the best breakfast sandwiches.” He was praising her cooking right in front of me. Toby stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth, mumbling, “It’s ten times better than your cooking, Mom. You should just let Melanie do all the cooking from now on.” Melanie quickly chuckled, trying to soften the blow. “Oh, don’t say that, Toby. I’m sure your mom is a wonderful cook too.” The graceful modesty of a victor. Every single word she spoke was a quiet reminder that she had won. I didn’t touch the food. I looked directly at Matt. “We need to talk.” We stepped into the master bedroom, and I shut the door behind us. “When is she leaving?” Matt leaned against the closet doors, crossing his arms. “I’m not planning on having her leave, Jo.” His voice was calm and measured, as if he were delivering a routine corporate update. “Theo is two now. He needs his father around full-time. I can’t keep letting them float around in apartments. This house is big enough. There’s plenty of room.” “You want me to live under the same roof as your mistress?” “You’re my wife. She’s the mother of my youngest child. It doesn’t have to be a conflict. You’re a mature woman, Jo. I expected you to have more perspective than this.” “Perspective.” He wanted me to use “perspective” to swallow his betrayal. I turned around and pulled open the master closet doors. As the doors slid back, I froze. On the left side of the closet, a neat row of clothes hung that did not belong to me. Floral dresses, cashmere sweaters, and a silk slip. They were freshly washed, the tags already removed. In the corner sat a diaper bag and a small basket of toddler clothes. They hadn’t been put in there last night. This had been prepared weeks ago. I reached out, grabbing one of the floral dresses to rip it off the hanger. Matt instantly grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening until my bones ached. “Joanna. Those are Melanie’s things. Don’t touch them.” My closet. My home. Another woman’s clothes were hanging next to mine, and I wasn’t allowed to touch them. I violently wrenched my arm free, tearing the dresses off their hangers and throwing them onto the floor. “This is my house! Her trash doesn’t belong in my closet!” Matt knelt to pick up the fallen clothes, his face turning a deep, angry red. “Can you stop being so incredibly childish?” “Childish? You shoved another woman’s clothes into my closet and you’re calling me childish?” I screamed, my voice finally cracking as the tears spilled over. The bedroom door flew open. Toby stood in the doorway, his face pale, his tiny hands shaking. He looked at the crumpled dresses on the floor, then rushed forward, scooping them into his arms. “Don’t touch Melanie’s clothes! I helped her pick this one out!” He shielded the dress with his body, glaring up at me with absolute hatred. “You’re always the one screaming! You’re always making a scene! Melanie never acts like this!” I knelt down, trying to reach for his shoulders. “Toby, listen to Mommy—” He scrambled backward, hiding behind Matt’s legs. “Don’t touch me!” He looked up at his father, his voice trembling but clear. “Dad, I don’t want to live with her anymore. I want to live with you and Melanie.” My hands hovered in the empty air, freezing. From the hallway, the sound of Theo crying drifted into the room. Melanie appeared at the door holding the baby, staying just outside the threshold. She didn’t say a word. But the look in her eyes was no longer the timid, apologetic gaze of “the houseguest.” It was a cold, settled triumph. The look said: “See? They both chose me.” Matt pulled Toby behind his back and sighed. “Look at yourself, Jo. Look at what you’ve let yourself become.” “Get some rest. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down and can think logically.” He turned and walked out, leading Toby with him. Melanie stepped aside to let them pass, then followed. As she passed me, she murmured softly, “Take a deep breath, Jo. I left a glass of warm water for you on the kitchen island.” The bedroom fell completely silent. Our clothes lay scattered together on the floor, tangled and indistinguishable. Just like this house. I could no longer tell what was mine and what was hers. I stood there for a long time. Then, I walked over to my purse, pulled out the signed divorce agreement, and walked into the living room. Matt was sitting on the couch, holding Theo, with Toby nestled against his other side. Melanie was in the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the space as she washed the breakfast dishes. I placed the papers quietly on the marble coffee table. I walked to the foyer, put on my shoes, and took my car keys from the hook. As I opened the front door, Toby’s voice drifted over from the living room. He was looking at Melanie. “Melanie, now that she’s gone, can we start redecorating her room?” “The lady is gone.” “Her room.” The very second I stepped out, my own son was already planning how to erase my existence. The door clicked shut. Behind it, the sounds of a happy family immediately resumed. Melanie was humming, Matt was laughing, and Toby was chatting happily. It was as if I had never existed at all. I got into my car and sat in the dark garage for a long time, my hands resting on the steering wheel. When I finally turned the key, I drove out of the garage and merged into the late-night traffic. The city lights blurred into long, yellow streaks. In my rearview mirror, the warm, glowing window of our apartment grew smaller and smaller. Until it became a tiny, insignificant speck, and vanished into the night. I didn’t look back.

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On my twenty-second birthday, my childhood sweetheart boyfriend and my best friend presented me with an award. The title printed in bold letters read: “Best Doormat of the Year.” The citation underneath expressed heartfelt gratitude for writing both of their senior capstone theses, acting as their human mouthpiece whenever they fought, and finishing whatever leftovers they didn’t feel like eating. The room erupted into hysterical laughter. Guests clapped, agreeing that the title couldn’t be more deserved. Luther handed me the framed certificate, his hands shaking with laughter. “Lara, keep up the good work.” Chaya, standing beside him, eagerly high-fived him in celebration. “I told you she’d accept it without complaining! You owe me fifty bucks, Luther.” Luther glanced at me, his eyes gleaming with playful mockery. “Seriously, Lara, how did you turn into such a spineless turtle? You say yes to literally everything.” I looked down at the certificate in my hands. Where my name was supposed to be written, someone had drawn a cartoon turtle retreating into its shell. The deafening waves of chuckles and whispers echoed off the venue walls. I pulled my lips into a slow, faint smile—and tore the framed certificate into shreds in front of everyone. “I’m not a turtle,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “I’m a rabbit. And even a rabbit bites when it’s backed into a corner.” … A collective gasp echoed across the room. Luther stared at the paper fragments scattered over the floor, his brows pulling into a tight, dark line. “Lara, you’re taking this way too far.” “Chaya spent hours coming up with that gag. Do you even know the meaning of the word respect?” Behind him, Chaya shrank back, her lower lip trembling as she put on her best victim facade. “Lara… I genuinely thought you’d find it funny,” she whimpered. “Whenever we ask you to run errands for us, you always look so happy doing it. Why are you suddenly acting like this?” The way she described me didn’t sound like she was talking about a friend. It sounded like she was talking about a stray dog trained to fetch. Several mutual friends stepped between us, trying to smooth things over and warning Luther not to ruin my birthday. Luther let out a harsh snort. “What kind of friend can’t take a harmless joke?” He looked at me with a face full of bitter disappointment. “I fell for you in the first place because you were easygoing and open-minded. When did you become so petty?” With just a few casual words, he dumped the entire blame on my shoulders. I pressed my lips together, meeting his gaze head-on. In his eyes, I couldn’t spot a single trace of remorse. My hands clenched into tight fists at my sides as past memories resurfaced with sharp, jagged edges. “A harmless joke?” I asked, my voice dangerously steady. “So when you two had that massive cold war and forced me to run back and forth playing messenger all night, was that a joke too?” “You both knew perfectly well that my final thesis defense was scheduled for the very next morning. Yet you kept me awake until dawn, airing out your petty drama.” Because of that night, I had walked into my defense running on pure exhaustion. The committee tore my presentation apart, and I was publicly humiliated. They almost delayed my graduation. Meanwhile, Luther and Chaya patched things up by lunchtime, leaving me to pick up the broken pieces of my academic life alone. Luther crossed his arms, looking completely unbothered. “You’re our best friend, Lara. Friends help each other out. That’s what friendship is.” He let out a long sigh, taking a step forward and reaching out to grab my wrist. “Besides, you’re my girlfriend. If you were unhappy, you could have just said so. You chose to bottle it inside.” I stepped back, dodging his touch cold and clean. Talk to Luther about my feelings? From the day we started dating, he and Chaya had used me as a dumping ground for every toxic emotion they had. Whenever they felt off, I was expected to listen, soothe, and solve. But on the rare occasions I felt overwhelmed and needed a shoulder to lean on, they stepped back and watched from the sidelines, claiming they were helping me build “emotional resilience.” Seeing me shrink away from his touch, Luther’s face darkened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed his expression back over. “Fine,” he said, forcing his voice into a gentle, coaxing cadence. “Maybe giving you that certificate as a gift wasn’t the smartest move today. If you’re mad, be mad at me. Don’t take it out on Chaya. Her intentions were good.” Chaya nodded, her eyes rimmed with red. “Lara, I really didn’t realize you were carrying so much stress. I promise I won’t trouble you as much in the future.” Luther patted her shoulder gently. “Hey, if you need anything in the future, you can always trouble me. I’d love to be useful.” His eyes flicked toward me, waiting for a reaction. “If anyone wants the job,” I said quietly, “they’re welcome to it. I’m done.” The air in the room froze solid. Fortunately, a waiter chose that exact moment to push a cart with the birthday cake into the room, breaking the agonizing silence. “Come on, Lara,” someone chimed in quickly. “Don’t overthink it. Let’s light the candles so you can make a wish!” Seeing the cake, Luther’s eyes brightened, eager to sweep the awkward tension under the rug. But as the waiter uncovered the cake, his smile stiffened. It was a matcha cake—a deep, vibrant green, identical to the color of a turtle shell. Chaya let out a soft sob. “I’m so sorry, Lara… I only remembered that matcha was your favorite flavor.” She and Luther watched me nervously, terrified I might blow up again. When I remained entirely calm, Luther let out a visible sigh of relief. He quickly stepped in to insert the candles and light them up. The lights went down. Soft golden flames danced in everyone’s pupils. Luther carefully took my hand, pulling me closer to the cake. “Make a wish, Lara.” I clasped my hands together and closed my eyes in quiet reverence. In that brief, dark second, my mind drifted back to a conversation I’d had with my academic advisor earlier that week. She had mentioned an opening in a rural public service teaching program located deep in an isolated, impoverished mountain town in Appalachia. My safety net was already set. Naturally, my wish took shape. “I wish for a clean, permanent breakup from Luther.” I opened my eyes and blew out every single candle in one long breath. “What did you wish for, Lara?” Luther asked the moment the overhead lights clicked back on. He leaned in close, his face filled with sudden urgency. “Tell me. As long as it’s within my power, I’ll make it come true.” The crowd broke into playful teasing, mocking him for suddenly remembering how to play the devoted boyfriend. Luther chuckled, wrapping an arm around my waist. “How could I ever let go of a girlfriend this wonderful? If I lost her, I wouldn’t even know how to run my own life.” I dropped my gaze, making a quiet, cold calculation in my mind. He didn’t need a girlfriend. He needed a live-in maid. Chaya suddenly squeezed herself next to me, grabbing my forearm with a needy tug. “Lara, I’m so jealous. You’re so lucky to have a guy like Luther.” She sighed, pouting slightly. “Honestly, I feel like I’m the real doormat here—just an extra wheel tagging along with you two.” A wave of nausea hit me so fast I almost yanked my arm away in disgust. Luther overheard her whining and waved his hand dismissively. “You’re no extra wheel, Chaya. Since I lost that bet earlier, here’s your prize. I was planning to give it to you anyway.” Chaya’s eyes lit up. She stared at him intently as he reached into his jacket pocket. When he pulled out the object, my heart climbed straight up into my throat. It was another award certificate. Luther cleared his throat, reading aloud in a booming voice while the rest of the room exchanged subtle, uncomfortable glances. “Congratulations to Chaya, officially voted Girlfriend of the Year!” The words felt like a serrated blade tearing through my chest, leaving a cold, hollow ache. Chaya hesitated, deliberately holding back from taking the paper. “Luther, this isn’t right… Your actual girlfriend is standing right here.” Luther offered a relaxed, effortless smile. “She already has the best boyfriend in the world. She doesn’t need a paper certificate to prove her worth. Besides, if she were the type to get jealous over something like this, she wouldn’t qualify as a good girlfriend anyway.” Every pair of eyes in the room shifted to me, waiting in breathless anticipation. Nobody stood up for me. They were all just waiting to see how much humiliation I was willing to swallow. I leaned forward, took the certificate from Luther’s hands, and placed it gently in Chaya’s grip. “Congratulations,” I said, my expression entirely peaceful. Chaya clutched the paper to her chest as if it were made of solid gold. “Thank you for understanding, Lara. I’ll keep this forever. I’d never ruin someone else’s hard work.” At those words, several guests cast lingering looks at the torn paper scraps still resting on the floor near my feet, their eyes glinting with quiet amusement. I was famous on campus for my endless patience. Everyone wanted to test where my breaking point was. During the second half of the party, someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare. Chaya was picked in the very first round. “Dare!” she announced proudly. Her challenge was to princess-carry one of the guys present. She turned to me immediately, her face swimming with fake apology. “Lara, I’m so sorry… Luther is the only guy here I’m actually comfortable with. Can I borrow your boyfriend for a second? I’ll give him right back!” Luther agreed instantly, looking entirely unbothered. “Lara’s naturally generous. She’s helped us out so many times—she won’t mind a small thing like this.” I watched in silence as they attempted the dare. Chaya couldn’t lift Luther’s weight, so the dare flipped: Luther picked Chaya up instead, cradling her snugly in his arms. His warm breath brushed across Chaya’s cheek as he lifted her, and the tips of her ears flushed a deep, crimson red. I offered a faint smile, my heart completely still. Luther was right. I “was” generous. Generous enough that once my boyfriend was borrowed, I had no intention of ever asking for him back. A few rounds passed before the bottle finally pointed at me. “Truth,” I said calmly. The room fell quiet. Nobody dared to ask the birthday girl anything too risky. Luther quickly intervened, suggesting that everyone write down a question on a slip of paper so I could draw one at random. A pile of folded paper slips quickly accumulated in front of me. I reached out and picked one from the top. Unfolding it, I read the text: “Do you ever feel like a complete third wheel when you’re around Luther and Chaya?” The room plunged into silence, followed by a sudden ripple of nervous whispers. Luther bolted up from his seat. “Who wrote this? What a stupid, immature question! Lara, don’t answer that. Let’s just move to the next round.” Watching his righteous indignation, I smiled faintly and dropped the paper slip into the ash tray. “I can’t answer this,” I said quietly. “I’ll take the penalty drink instead.” A flicker of relief slipped across Luther’s eyes before he could catch himself. I turned away from him, pouring myself a full glass of bitter draft beer. Did Luther really believe I wouldn’t recognize his left-handed handwriting? Back in high school, in order to help him finish his late homework assignments, I had spent months imitating his left-handed script until even he couldn’t tell our penmanship apart. The birthday party ended on a sour note. Before leaving, Luther drank heavily, getting himself completely plastered. He stumbled toward me, leaning in for a drunken hug, but I stepped aside swiftly, letting him stagger past. “Lara…” he slurred, catching himself against the table. “I promise I’ll make it up to you with a real birthday present… something you’ll actually love…” Chaya stepped in, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. “Lara, I know how much you hate the smell of alcohol. I’ll take Luther home tonight.” I watched the two of them climb into a cab together, then turned to walk back to my rented apartment alone. The night sky was deep and suffocating. As I walked, memories flooded back unbidden. In our three-way friendship, I had always been the one giving everything away. I was the one who planned every detail of our road trips, the one holding the camera for their photos, the one carrying their bags while shopping. Luther used to comfort me by saying they simply couldn’t function without me, that my usefulness was proof of how deeply they loved me. I had believed him. I had believed him right up until today. Now, the veil had been torn away. All his past tenderness was nothing more than an efficient way to squeeze every last drop of labor out of a willing doormat. The cold night air hit my face, making me shiver. Pulling out my phone with trembling fingers, I opened my email app and formally submitted my application for the Appalachian volunteer teaching placement. The confirmation email stated that processing would take one business day. I lowered my phone and jogged the rest of the way back to my apartment. I stepped inside and looked around. Framed photos of Luther and me covered almost every surface. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out storage boxes and systematically packed away every single item that had anything to do with him. There was only one object I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. I held a smooth, icy jade pendant in my palm, staring at it in a quiet daze. Luther had given me this pendant when he confessed his feelings to me after high school graduation. He told me that before his mother passed away, she had handed it to him with a strict instruction: it could only be given to the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with. Back then, Luther had looked into my eyes and whispered that he couldn’t imagine giving it to anyone else. I closed my eyes, deciding that I would hand it back to him before I left the city for good. I didn’t expect him to show up at my doorstep early the next morning. He stood in the hallway, looking down at his shoes, his voice low and subdued. “Lara… about the certificate thing at your party yesterday… just forget it, okay? I was out of my head. I promised I’d get you a proper birthday gift, and I will—something completely unique.” I shook my head gently, signaling that it didn’t matter, but I kept my body firmly blocking the doorway so he couldn’t step inside. His gaze flicked down to the jade pendant tucked in my hand, and his posture shifted instantly. “Actually, I came over because I need to ask you something. Can you give that pendant back to me for a bit?” “Chaya’s grandmother fell ill recently, and her medical bills are piling up. I was thinking I could sell or pawn the pendant to help her family out.” He looked up at me, his eyes entirely calm. “You’re Chaya’s best friend, Lara. I know you want to help her.” I looked into his eyes, struck by how effortless it was for him to care about someone else. When my own parents were involved in a severe car accident two years ago and I was short a thousand dollars for their emergency surgery, I had literally dropped to my knees to beg Luther for a loan. He had refused, claiming Chaya had a severe case of the flu and needed emergency funds for her clinic visits instead. In the end, I had to take out a high-interest payday loan to cover my parents’ hospital bill, working two part-time jobs night and day for a full year to pay off the debt. A bitter, quiet smile touched my lips. Luther’s favoritism had always been glaringly obvious. I had just chosen to be blind. I tossed the pendant toward him. He caught it instinctively. “If you don’t have anything else to say,” I said, my voice flat, “you should go.” At least it saved me the trip of returning it to him myself. The moment the pendant landed in Luther’s palm, the worried, subdued look vanished from his face, replaced by a triumphant, mocking grin. “Lara, why are you always so obedient?” he chuckled, tossing the stone in his palm. “I ask for something, and you just hand it over. You really can’t blame me for calling you a turtle.” He turned toward the stairwell and called out, “Chaya! You can come out now! You won the bet again!” Chaya came bouncing out from around the corner, her eyes curved into cheerful crescents. “Thanks for playing along, Lara! You made me win another fifty bucks!” She giggled, leaning against Luther’s arm. “Luther said you treated this pendant like your own life, but look at you—you handed it over without even asking a single question.” I stared at the two of them standing side by side in the dim hallway, a cold numbness creeping from my fingers straight to my heart. It had been another setup. A bet. From beginning to end, I was nothing more than a clown performing for their entertainment. Luther weighed the pendant in his hand, then casually thrust it back into my palm. “A bet’s a bet. I have to take Chaya out for a high-end dinner now,” he said lightly. “Hold onto this stone, Lara. But if you hand it over so easily next time I make up an excuse, I might not give it back.” I watched their retreating backs as they walked down the stairs, laughing together. Once they vanished from sight, I turned around and tossed the jade pendant into the trash bin by the door. “There won’t be a next time, Luther.” That afternoon, I received an email from my academic advisor. My application for the Appalachian teaching program had been officially approved. Because my application was submitted late, I was required to board a transport van heading for the rural mountain site in three days. Three days. In three days, Luther, you and I will never cross paths again. Three days passed in a blur. Luther was buzzing with energy, preparing a grand gesture to surprise Lara. He knew he had pushed things too far at her birthday party, so he had spent the last three days meticulously planning a graduation trip for just the two of them. Lara was always complaining that she was the only one who ever made travel itineraries. This time, Luther had handled every hotel reservation, route, and activity himself, ensuring she wouldn’t have to worry about a single detail. He even made a mental note to carry all the heavy luggage himself throughout the trip. With a setup like this, he was certain Lara would be moved to tears. After all, Lara had always been an easy woman to coax. Still, a strange melancholy hovered over him when he realized how few words Lara had spoken to him over the last three days. He shook his head, pushing the creeping unease out of his mind. From the very first day they got together, he had always known that he wasn’t the one dependent on Lara. Lara was the one who couldn’t survive without him. Just as he was double-checking their flight details, his phone rang. It was Chaya. “Luther! Come down to the shopping district right now and help me carry my bags!” Chaya was panting into the receiver. “I bought a mountain of clothes, and my arms are falling off!” Luther knit his brows, annoyed. “Why are you calling me? Call Lara! You know she’ll run right over to play pack mule for you.” At the mention of Lara’s name, Chaya’s voice dropped an octave, turning ice-cold. “She blocked my number. I can’t reach her at all.” Luther froze in place. The subtle anxiety that had been brewing inside his chest over the past few days suddenly expanded, clawing at his heart. A rush of heat surged into his cheeks. “I’ve clearly been spoiling her too much lately. She actually dared to block her best friend?” “Hold on,” Luther snapped into the phone. “I’ll text her right now. Let’s see if she has the nerve to block me.” He pulled up his messaging app and typed out a text. “Message failed to send. You have been blocked by this user.” He tried dialing her number directly. The call went straight to a dead, automated tone. A cold, unfamiliar panic seized Luther by the throat. Without wasting another second, he grabbed his keys, picked up Chaya, and rushed straight to Lara’s rented apartment. When they arrived, the front door was wide open, but Lara was nowhere to be seen. Only an elderly landlady was inside, sweeping the bare floorboards. Sweat broke out across Luther’s forehead. “Where’s the girl who lives here?” The landlady paused, giving them a slow, unimpressed look. “You looking for the young lady?” “She broke her lease and cleared out early this morning.”

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My girlfriend, Caroline, was a linguistic prodigy fluent in eight languages. I, on the other hand, was a complete dud when it came to foreign tongues. Everyone in her academic circle thought we were a mismatch. But in our early days, she used to smile, ruffle my hair, and tell me my clumsy attempts to pronounce her favorite French words were the cutest thing she’d ever seen. Then, her senior from graduate school, Oliver, returned to the States after a long stint in Paris. At dinner, when she and Oliver started discussing a new French translation, their banter was so seamless, their pauses so perfectly timed, it felt rehearsed. Everyone at the table laughed at their inside jokes. I sat there, gripping my water glass, not understanding a single word, forced to stretch my lips into a hollow, polite smile. Suddenly, Oliver looked directly at me and said something in rapid, fluid French. Instinctively, I tugged at Caroline’s sleeve. “What did he say?” But she was already leaning back in, busy cross-referencing a term with him. She gave my hand a brief, distracted pat. “Just a second, Will.” But that “second” stretched through the entire dinner. Later, someone at the table asked with a smirk, “Hey, Caroline, does your boyfriend even know what we’re saying?” Caroline finally looked at me. A brief flicker of apology crossed her eyes, but she just gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. Then she turned back to Oliver, seamlessly launching into another dense, academic topic I couldn’t hope to follow. I held my glass, my fingertips completely numb from the ice water. In that moment, a quiet exhaustion settled deep in my bones. The long, tiring race of chasing after her, of trying so hard to prove I was worthy of standing by her side—I didn’t want to run it anymore. … When the dinner finally ended, I followed Caroline out of the private dining room. Oliver was still talking to her about the French manuscript. He spoke quickly, and Caroline listened with rapt attention, occasionally nodding and citing an original source. They walked side-by-side ahead of me. I lagged half a step behind, the chill of the condensation from my water glass still lingering on my skin. A few times I tried to speak, but my voice was instantly swallowed by their shared laughter. At the hotel entrance, a cold wind swept over us. Caroline glanced back at me, reaching out to tighten my loosely wrapped scarf. “It’s freezing out here. Keep yourself warm.” I looked into her eyes. “What did he say to me earlier? In French?” Caroline’s hand paused on my wool scarf. Oliver tilted his head, offering a soft, easy smile. “Are you still thinking about that, Will?” Caroline let her hand fall. Her voice softened. “We’ll talk about it later.” I stared at her. “You said ‘later’ at the table, too.” Her brow furrowed, but before she could speak, Oliver interjected gently. “Did I say something wrong? Will was so quiet tonight. I thought he didn’t mind.” One of the guests quickly laughed, trying to smooth things over. “Will is just the strong, silent type. Quiet and steady.” My fingers curled into my palms. Three years ago, at another gathering with her friends, someone had asked me about a complex literary movement I knew nothing about. I had flushed, utterly mortified. But back then, Caroline had squeezed my hand and stepped in with a laugh. “He’s an engineer, guys. Don’t grill him.” Her hand had been so warm then. Now, standing in front of me, she simply shrugged. “He’s always like this. Takes a while to warm up.” “Warm up?” I repeated quietly. Caroline didn’t seem to hear me. She was already pulling out her phone to look up directions for Oliver. Oliver glanced at the screen, lowering his voice. “I just got back to the city and my sense of direction is terrible. It looks like it’s impossible to get an Uber around here right now.” “I’ll drive you back to your hotel,” Caroline said instantly. I looked at her. “I want to go home, too.” “I’ll be quick,” she said, checking her watch. “Wait for me in the lobby. Ten minutes.” “Caroline,” I called out. She stopped. “What if I say I do mind?” I asked. The smile on Oliver’s face faltered. The chatter around us died down. Caroline spoke under her breath, her voice tight. “Will, don’t do this. He just got back. He doesn’t know the city.” I looked at her. “So my feelings don’t matter?” She remained silent for two seconds, as if the question wasn’t even worth answering. Oliver lightly touched her arm. “You know what, forget it. I can manage on my own.” Caroline immediately stopped him. “Wait for me. Don’t push yourself.” I slowly let go of my scarf. “Go ahead,” I said. Caroline let out a sigh of relief and patted my shoulder. “Wait for me. Don’t run off.” She turned and walked away. Ten minutes passed. She didn’t return. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed. A text from Caroline: “Oliver’s blood sugar dropped. I’m helping him up to his room to rest for a bit. Go on ahead without me.” I stared at the screen for a long time, frozen. Five years ago, my own blood sugar had crashed in the library. Caroline had practically carried me to the campus clinic, her hands shaking so violently she couldn’t even hold a cup of water steady. When I woke up, her eyes were red, and she scolded me through tears. “Don’t you dare push yourself like that again, do you hear me?” Back then, she was genuinely terrified of losing me. I didn’t go back to the apartment we shared. Instead, I drove to the tiny studio I hadn’t lived in for years. The lock was stiff. When I finally got it open, the musty smell of dust rushed out. On the windowsill, the colored paper and pens I used to make children’s scrapbooks were still sitting there, their edges yellowed with time. My phone lit up repeatedly. “Did you make it home?” “Don’t be upset about tonight. Oliver is new here, I couldn’t just abandon him.” Late that night, Caroline found her way there. She stood in the doorway, holding a container of warm soup, her eyebrows knitted in frustration. “Why did you come here? I was worried.” I sat on the floor, looking up at her. “Were you worried about me, or were you worried that I didn’t stay put where you left me?” Caroline froze. She held out the soup. “Eat something first. Your stomach is already sensitive, and you’re running around in the cold.” I didn’t reach for it. “Caroline, what did Oliver say to me in French?” The room fell into a heavy silence. This time, I refused to hear “later.” Caroline hesitated for a few seconds. “It was nothing. Just a joke.” “What kind of joke?” She set the soup on the table, avoiding my eyes. “He just said you were cute. Nodding and smiling along even though you couldn’t understand a word.” My fingers pressed into the hardwood floor, the cold dust clinging to my palm. “So you were laughing at me.” Her tone hardened. “Will, there’s no need to make a big deal out of a casual dinner.” “I asked you what he meant, and you told me to wait,” I said, looking at her. “You knew exactly what he was saying, and you knew I was sitting there in the dark.” Caroline rubbed her temples. “Oliver didn’t mean anything by it. You’re being incredibly petty.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Petty?” Five years ago, she told me my earnest clumsiness was what she loved most. Now, she looked at me like I was a difficult, immature child. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s passing,” I said. “You promised you’d go with me to her graveside.” Caroline’s expression softened slightly. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me. “I remember. I already ordered the white lilies. They’ll be delivered tomorrow morning.” I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t hug her back either. The next morning, I stood at the train station holding the white lilies, waiting for her. A drizzle was falling, quickly dampening the wrapping paper. I called her. First call went to voicemail. Second call, still no answer. Forty minutes later, she called back. The background was incredibly noisy. Someone in the distance shouted, “Professor, the projector is set up.” Caroline’s voice was rushed. “Will, I am so sorry. Oliver was asked to give an emergency literary lecture. The organizers desperately needed someone familiar with the original French texts, and I had to come help him.” I squeezed the paper wrapping of the lilies. “Do you remember what today is?” Silence stretched over the line for a heartbeat. “I’m so sorry, Will, but I really can’t leave right now.” And then, Oliver’s voice drifted through. “Caroline, I’m not sure about this passage. Could you take a look?” Instinctively, Caroline replied, “Coming.” I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear. Her voice was still faint through the speaker. “Will, I’ll make it up to you tonight. I promise.” I hung up and went to the cemetery alone. The lilies were soaked. I laid them before the headstone. My mother was still smiling in her photograph. The first time she met Caroline, she told me Caroline had a steady gaze, that she would take care of me. When my mother was in the hospital, Caroline had sat outside the ICU with me all night. When I drifted off, she had draped her own coat over me, leaving her own fingers stiff with cold. In the evening, Caroline sent a text. “The lecture is over. I’m on my way to you now.” Then, she sent a photo from backstage. In the photo, Oliver was wearing her coat, holding her thermos. The thermos was a gift I had given her last winter, engraved with my initials, W.S. I stared at those letters for a long time. I typed out my reply: “Caroline, let’s break up.” Ten minutes later, she replied: “Don’t be ridiculous.” I flipped my phone face down on the table, my knuckles turning white. Caroline rushed over to my studio late that night. She wasn’t angry. She just tried to wrap her arms around me and soothe me, the way she always did. “I know you’re hurt.” I stepped back, out of her reach. “I’m not hurt. I’m done.” Her outstretched hands hovered in the empty air. “You shouldn’t throw around the word ‘breakup’ so lightly.” “I’m not saying it lightly.” She looked at me, her voice softening. “You’re just exhausted. Once this busy season is over, I’ll take you on a trip. Just the two of us.” I looked her in the eye. “Caroline, today was my mother’s memorial. You promised you’d be there. Did you even think about it once?” Her lips parted, but no words came out. “Will, don’t keep score.” I didn’t say another word. The next day, I went back to the agency. Caroline’s new book launch was in its final stages of preparation. I was supposed to be the lead event coordinator. Over the last three months, I had revised the schedule six times and visited the venue over a dozen times. The flowers at the registration desk, the reader gift bags, the quotes printed on the photo wall, even the warm water and stomach medicine prepared for everyone backstage—I had curated every single detail. I didn’t understand French literature. I didn’t know their highbrow theories. I just knew Caroline had a weak stomach, that she couldn’t drink cold water before going on stage, and that she hated harsh, bright spotlights. The director called me into her office. “Will, we’re changing the special guest speaker to Oliver. You’ll be stepping back to handle the backstage execution.” I froze. “But according to the program, Caroline was supposed to thank me in her opening remarks.” The director gave me a polished, professional smile. “Oliver’s international background is much more impressive. He looks better standing next to her on stage.” I took the schedule sheet and went to find Caroline. The meeting room door was slightly ajar. Oliver was flipping through the layout designs I had spent weeks creating. My opening speech drafts, which had taken me three sleepless nights to write, were spread out on the table, marked up with red ink. I walked in. “Why do you have those?” Caroline looked up. “Oliver is stepping in for the panel discussion. He needs to familiarize himself with the setup.” “So he just gets to use my entire proposal?” Oliver stood up, offering a breezy, polite smile. “Don’t misunderstand, Will. I just think your work is incredibly thorough.” He paused, adding, “Some of these execution details really aren’t my strong suit.” I stared at him. In that moment, I realized it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. He just knew that the effort I put in was cheap. At least, in Caroline’s eyes, it was worthless. I turned to Caroline. “What about my name on the credits?” She hesitated. “Don’t get so hung up on a name, Will. I know how much work you put into this.” I looked at her. “You know, so you feel entitled to just give it away?” During rehearsals, Oliver stood on stage reading the English translation printed on the signature wall. “I have finally waited for the return.” I snapped my head up. That translation was wrong. I didn’t know French, but I remembered that line. Last winter, Caroline had been editing until 4:00 AM. She had curled up on the sofa and explained this exact chapter to me. She told me the most beautiful part of the original text wasn’t the waiting; it was the acceptance of loss. She had said, “Will, the line should read: ‘I have finally accepted the loss.’” Back then, I couldn’t follow her academic jargon, but I had written that phrase down in my journal. Because she had told me it was the very heart of the book. I walked over and spoke in a low voice. “Isn’t that line incorrect?” The smile on Oliver’s face dimmed. “Will, this is a literary adaptation. You might not fully grasp the nuance.” Caroline frowned as well. “Will, don’t cause a scene during rehearsal.” I looked at her. “You were the one who told me that.” She went quiet for a second. Oliver said softly, “Caroline, the event is about to start.” Caroline closed her folder. “Let’s stick with Oliver’s version for now.” My hands clenched into tight fists. Even the things I remembered because of her could be discarded so easily. Back stage, I saw the final program. Where my name had been listed under “Event Director,” it now read “On-site Support.” And the copy on the signature wall, the reader journals, and the gift cards was now credited as a “Collaborative Creative Space” designed by Oliver and Caroline. I looked at those words and let out a quiet, tired laugh. Three months of late nights, a dozen venue visits, layout blueprints revised until dawn. All reduced to “On-site Support.” Right before the show started, the director rushed in. “Oliver needs to present some of his creative inspiration slides on stage. Go double-check the projector files.” I opened the presentation. Several slides were my original designs for the reader journals and signature wall sketches. My handwritten notes had been cropped out. Oliver stood beside me, his voice smooth. “Don’t take it personally, Will. I just felt these materials perfectly captured the spirit of Caroline’s book.” I turned to Caroline. “This is my work.” She glanced at it, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make a fuss. I’ll make sure they credit you after the event.” “And if I hadn’t noticed?” She was silent. I stared at her. “Would you have credited me then?” She didn’t answer, brushing it off. “Today is not the time to argue about this.” During the panel, Oliver sat next to Caroline. They talked about original French texts, their college years, the books they had read together in Paris. The crowd applauded warmly. I stood in the wings, my headset buzzing with cue alerts. Then, an elderly professor stood up in the audience, holding a copy of the new book, his face grave. “The citation at the end of Chapter Seven is incorrect,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. The room fell dead silent. The professor continued, “The original text doesn’t say ‘waiting for the return.’ It says ‘accepting the loss.’ This error shifts the entire emotional weight of the book. It shouldn’t have made it to print.” Oliver’s face went pale. He instinctively looked at Caroline. Caroline held the microphone, silent for several long seconds. In those seconds, I actually found myself waiting. Waiting for her to speak the truth. Instead, she said, “The coordination of the event materials was quite complex. It seems there was a lapse in the execution phase, and the slides weren’t updated in time.” The director immediately whipped her head around to look at the backstage wing. Everyone’s eyes followed her gaze, landing squarely on me. Whispers broke out in the crowd. “Is that Caroline’s boyfriend?” “I heard he doesn’t know anything about literature, but they let him run the event.” “No wonder there was a mistake.” Standing there, I felt a wave of cold absurdity wash over me. It was true—I didn’t know French. But I knew how to remember every word she said. I knew to slip medicine into her bag when her stomach flared up. I knew how to stay up all night fixing schedules for her book launch, and I knew how to fill an entire venue with her favorite flowers. None of that mattered now. Caroline walked backstage, her voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Will, just take the fall for this. Don’t make things ugly on stage.” I looked up at her. “You know it wasn’t my mistake.” She looked away. “I’ll make it up to you later.” “Make up for what?” I asked. “My name? My work? Or the lie you just told?” Caroline’s face drained of color. The whispering outside grew louder. Slowly, I slipped the silver band off my ring finger. It was a five-year anniversary gift from her. She had told me that no matter how far she went, she would always carry me with her. I picked up a spare microphone from the backstage desk and walked out onto the stage. The entire room fell silent, every eye on me. I placed the ring on the table. The metal hit the wood with a quiet, hollow click. “Caroline told me this translation herself last winter,” I said, my voice steady through the speakers. “She told me the original line meant, ‘I have finally accepted the loss.’” I pulled out my phone and tapped a voice memo from a year ago. Caroline’s voice echoed through the sound system—exhausted, but incredibly tender. “Will, we can’t translate this as ‘return.’ It’s about loss. It’s about letting go.” The stage went absolutely still. Oliver looked as though he might faint. Caroline stood frozen. I unlocked my phone and pulled up my photo album, projecting it onto the screen behind us. There they were: my sketches of the signature wall from three months ago, my early mock-ups of the reader journals, the backstage schedule drafts. Every single page was watermarked with my name and the date. “These designs were mine,” I said. “My name was demoted to ‘On-site Support,’ and my layout was stripped of my name and presented as someone else’s inspiration.” I looked at Caroline, nudging the ring slightly forward. “Caroline, I don’t understand French. But I know what it sounds like when you lie to me.” Without another word, I turned and walked out.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “552814”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On moving day, I made sure to reserve the primary suite on the ground floor for my mother. It had a roll-in shower and a smooth, zero-step threshold to accommodate her mobility issues. But when the movers finished unloading the last box, I found out the ground floor room had already been claimed—by Loretta, the mother of my husband’s deceased ex-wife. My mother had been relegated to the fourth-floor bedroom. In a building with no elevator. I watched her lean heavily on her metal cane, pulling herself up step by agonizing step. At every landing, she had to stop, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. I dialed Glenn. His voice came through the receiver, calm and dismissive. “The top floor gets better natural light. Don’t be dramatic.” Yet only an hour earlier, I had seen him on his knees outside Loretta’s doorway, carefully installing a warm motion-sensor nightlight. He was afraid the old woman might trip if she got up in the dark. When Mom finally reached the fourth floor, she leaned against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath, and forced a bright smile for my benefit. “Sweetheart, look how bright it is up here. Your mom loves it.” Her pant leg was rolled up slightly, exposing a dark, nasty bruise across her calf that she hadn’t had time to hide. I looked down the stairwell toward the sleek, custom-built wheelchair ramp on the ground floor. A sudden, cold nausea washed over me. I didn’t want to live in this house for another single day. … I closed the door to the fourth-floor bedroom as quietly as I could. The cold sweat from my mother’s forehead was still slick on my palms. She had swallowed two pain pills and lay on her side, her cane propped against the nightstand, unable to fully draw down her pant leg over her swollen, purple calf. When I walked downstairs, the smooth concrete of the wheelchair ramp looked blindingly white. Glenn had even wrapped the handrails in soft, non-slip grip tape. The kitchen door was pushed halfway open. Glenn had his crisp shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, using a mesh skimmer to lift every trace of floating fat from a heavy ceramic pot. The kitchen smelled rich with slow-simmered herbal broth. On the dining table sat plates of delicate, soft pastries—all of Loretta’s favorites. I held onto the doorframe, keeping my voice low. “Glenn, why didn’t you tell me you gave the ground-floor suite to Loretta?” He didn’t turn around. He just tipped the skimmer into a small porcelain bowl. “It’s just room assignments, Lola. Do you really have to make a scene on moving day?” “My mother has three surgical steel plates in her leg,” I said, my voice shaking. “She had to climb four flights of stairs today. She’s in so much pain she couldn’t even eat dinner.” Glenn turned down the burner. His tone remained perfectly even. “Loretta’s doctor warned us last week about early signs of a mini-stroke. She can’t handle physical exertion. She’s entirely alone in the world now that her daughter is gone. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t step up and take care of her?” I stared at the side of his face. “And my mother? She can barely walk—you’ve seen it with your own eyes.” He finally turned to face me, his brow furrowing into tight lines. “Your mother has you looking after her every single day! What does Loretta have? She lost her daughter. As her former son-in-law, I have a moral obligation.” “A moral obligation?” I pulled up the original architectural blueprints on my phone and thrust the screen in front of his face. “This ground-floor room was designed for my mother from day one. The ramp, the grab bars, the shower bench—every single measurement was customized for her body.” Glenn glanced at the screen for less than a second. “The fourth floor gets better sun. It’s good for an old person’s arthritis. Stop being so small-minded.” My fingertips went numb with rage. “Switch the rooms back. Tomorrow.” He set the metal ladle onto the granite countertop with a sharp, echoing clatter. Glenn wiped his hands on a hand towel and walked over, stopping inches from me. “Loretta can’t take stress right now. If you go down there and cause a scene, if you set off her heart condition, don’t expect me to spare your feelings.” I looked up into his eyes. “Are you threatening me?” He reached out and took my wrist. His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Lola, we’re family. Family can endure a little hardship. But people outside are watching how we handle our responsibilities. Don’t make me look bad.” “So my mother just has to suffer?” “If that’s how you insist on seeing it, there’s nothing I can say.” He let go of my wrist, picked up the covered bowl of broth, and his voice dropped to a cool, distant tone. “I’m taking this soup to Loretta. She hasn’t been sleeping well.” As he brushed past me, a faint scent of sandalwood drifted off his clothes—the calming incense Loretta burned constantly in her room. Standing alone in the kitchen, a violent wave of nausea hit me. I braced my hand against the stainless-steel refrigerator, pressing my palm flat over my lower stomach. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was an automated reminder from the clinic. “Ms. Lola, you are currently eight weeks pregnant. Please remember to attend your scheduled follow-up appointment.” I stared at the black text on the bright screen. I had planned to tell him tonight, hoping a baby would bring a light of joy into our new home. From down the hall, Loretta’s delicate voice drifted over. “Oh, Glenn… you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble. Lola isn’t upset with me, is she?” Glenn’s low, reassuring voice answered her immediately. “She’s just being childish. She’ll get over it in a bit.” I turned off the screen, but the dull, dragging ache in my lower abdomen wouldn’t fade. Outside the door, Loretta sighed with practiced humility. “An old sack of bones like me… I really don’t deserve such a beautiful room.” “You deserve it,” Glenn said softly. “Don’t think like that.” I leaned my back against the cold refrigerator, my fingers slowly tightening into fists. The next morning, rain beat mercilessly against the windows. Glenn, who had promised weeks ago to drive us to the hospital for Mom’s orthopedic checkup, was nowhere to be found. His car was gone from the driveway. Mom stood in the foyer, holding her cane, wincing at the pain in her leg while still trying to make excuses for him. “Glenn has a busy job, sweetheart. Taking a taxi is just the same.” I clutched my phone, staring at the message he had sent ten minutes ago. “Loretta was craving those specialty fresh pastries from the bakery downtown. I’m standing in line for her. Just order a cab for your mom.” I dialed his number. It rang for a long time before he picked up. In the background, I could hear noisy crowd chatter and street traffic. “Glenn, you promised last night you’d drive my mother to her appointment,” I said, keeping my voice from shaking. “Her leg has been throbbing all night. It’s pouring rain, and no drivers are accepting rides out here.” His voice sounded instantly irritated. “I’ve been standing in this line for an hour, Lola. If I leave now, it’s a total waste of time. Just order an Uber Black. I’ll reimburse you, alright?” “There are over a hundred people in the queue for premium rides! In this weather, no one is picking up!” “Lola, stop turning every minor inconvenience into a tragedy. You’re an adult—do you really need someone to hold your hand to go to the doctor?” Mom gently tugged at my sleeve. Her face was dangerously pale. “Don’t fight, sweetheart… Mom can just walk a little slower.” I hung up the phone and walked to the guardhouse to borrow a large golf umbrella. The rain hammered relentlessly against the canvas overhead. With every step my mother took, the rubber tip of her cane skidded on the slick, wet pavement. I kept one arm locked under her elbow, holding the umbrella over her with the other. “Lean on me, Mom. Don’t put weight on that side.” She was breathing heavily, but she still managed a faint smile. “I’m fine, darling. This old leg used to work the fields in the mud. It can handle a little walk today.” The bus stop was only three hundred yards outside the gated community. On a clear day, it was a short stroll. Today, it felt like crossing a continent. As we reached the curb near a wide puddle, Mom suddenly pulled her arm out of my grip. “You’re… don’t strain yourself. You can’t be lifting heavy things right now. Mom can step over it herself.” My heart skipped a beat. “Mom… you know?” She looked down at my tote bag. “Your lab results slipped out yesterday. I didn’t ask because I wanted to wait until you were ready to tell me yourself.” A sudden wave of warmth and sorrow hit my chest. But before I could speak, the tip of her cane hit a patch of wet algae on the curb. She went down hard. Her knee slammed directly into the concrete curb, and her cane flew out of her hand, skittering beneath the wheels of a parked car. “Mom!” I lunged forward to grab her, but as I pulled, a sharp, violent spasm ripped through my lower belly. Cold sweat broke out across my mother’s forehead, but she immediately pushed my hands away. “Don’t lift me! Don’t move! Call a car… call an ambulance!” I knelt in the muddy water, waving frantically at the road. A few cars sped past, splashing dirty water over us, none of them stopping. My hands shook violently as I dialed 911. Just as I finished stammering out our location to the dispatcher, a notification banner popped up at the top of my phone screen. It was an update from Loretta’s social media page. In the photo, a plate of steamed, golden pastries gave off delicate trails of steam. Next to a porcelain teacup lay Glenn’s hand—his crisp shirt cuff spotless, his long fingers resting casually on the table. The caption read: “Even though my daughter is no longer with me, having half a son who is more devoted than blood is a blessing others can only dream of.” I stared at those words, my fingernails digging into my palms until I broke the skin. By the time the ambulance arrived, my mother was drifting in and out of consciousness from the pain. The paramedics lifted her onto the gurney, the lead EMT frowning deeply as he looked at me. “Why was an elderly woman with prior hardware in her leg walking outside in torrential rain? A fall like this is severe.” I opened my mouth, but no real words came out. “Please… just hurry.” At the hospital, the orthopedic surgeon examined the X-rays, his face darkening immediately. “The internal steel plates have shifted out of alignment, and there is extensive deep-tissue inflammation. Has she been repeatedly climbing stairs recently?” Mom lowered her head, her voice barely a whisper. “We just moved into a new place… my room is on a higher floor.” The doctor turned his stern gaze to me. “She needs absolute bed rest. Moving forward, she must use a wheelchair. No stairs. Under any circumstances.” I nodded numbly. I walked to the billing counter and cleared out the very last of my personal savings to pay the deposit, then rented a heavy, second-hand wheelchair from the medical supply desk. As I pushed my mother toward the exit, Glenn’s call finally came through. His voice was entirely casual. “Did you guys make it to the hospital? Loretta felt a little lightheaded after her tea, so I’m going to be back a bit late.” I looked down at my mother’s water-logged, mud-stained pants. “Glenn. My mom fell.” There was a second of silence. “Is it serious?” Before I could answer, the faint sound of Loretta coughing sounded near the receiver. Glenn immediately lowered his voice. “Look, I have to go. Stop blowing minor scrapes out of proportion. We’ll talk when you get home.” The line went dead. My mother sat in the wheelchair, holding her bent metal cane against her chest like a child. She looked up at me softly. “Lola… that ramp at home… is it really never going to be for me?” My hands froze on the wheelchair handles. Cold rainwater dripped from my coat sleeve into my palm, freezing me to the bone. By the time we navigated the logistics and returned to the house, it was late afternoon. The doctor’s warnings echoed in my mind: “Absolute bed rest. No stairs.” I had rented the wheelchair and hired two off-duty building maintenance workers to help me carry my mother inside, fully prepared to tear the marriage apart tonight if that was what it took to put her in the ground-floor room. But the moment I pushed open the front door, a burst of loud laughter crashed over us. Balloons, elaborate floral arrangements, and a massive seafood spread covered the long dining table. Loretta sat at the head of the table wearing a tailored red silk jacket, a gold brooch pinned to her chest, her face radiant with joy. In the center of the table stood a three-tiered cake piped with silver lettering: “Wishing Godmother Health, Honor, and Longevity.” Glenn walked out from the crowd of guests. When his eyes landed on my mother in the wheelchair, his brows immediately knit together. “What happened to you two? Can’t you be more careful when you walk?” I gripped the wheelchair handles, my voice ice cold. “She fell in the storm because she had to go to her appointment alone. The appointment you were supposed to drive her to.” Glenn glanced nervously at the room full of guests, stepping closer to whisper harshly, “Today is Loretta’s sixtieth birthday. I’m hosting an official ceremony to take her as my godmother to bring some good energy into the house. Don’t ruin this for everyone with that face.” Loretta immediately used the edge of the table to push herself up, her voice dripping with frail sorrow. “Oh, Lola… please don’t blame Glenn. It’s my fault. An old woman like me shouldn’t have caused such a fuss for my birthday.” Her words were full of remorse, but the heavy jade bangle on her wrist gleamed brightly under the chandelier as she gestured. My mother tightened her grip on the armrests. She looked at the crowded room, swallowed her pain, and spoke in a raspy, strained voice. “Lola… I’m tired. Ask the gentlemen to carry me back up to the fourth floor. Let’s not ruin everyone’s gathering.” The maintenance workers exchanged uncomfortable glances, then carefully lifted the heavy wheelchair to carry her up the long flights. My mother wiped cold sweat from her forehead the entire way up. I watched her pale, trembling lips, a suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. Once the workers came back down and left, I turned my eyes toward the ground-floor suite. A brand-new custom brass plate had been mounted beside the doorframe. “Mrs. Gable’s Suite” Through the open door, I could see a luxury massage chair, a temperature-controlled mattress, an emergency pull-cord by the bed, and a completely flattened doorway threshold. This was the accessible room I had spent months designing for my mother. I walked slowly over to the birthday cake. My fingers reached out and grabbed the edge of the white linen tablecloth. Glenn sensed something was wrong and took a sharp step forward. “Lola! Don’t do something stupid. All our guests are here.” I stared at the word “Godmother” written in silver frosting. Then, with everything I had left inside me, I yanked the cloth upward. Porcelain plates, crystal wine glasses, and the three-tiered cake crashed onto the hardwood floor in a deafening explosion of shattering glass and flying food. White frosting splattered across the hem of Loretta’s silk jacket. The entire living room went deathly silent. Loretta clutched her left chest, her body swaying as she sank toward the floor. “Glenn… I can’t… I can’t breathe…” Her relatives immediately swarmed forward. “Are you insane?! How could a woman be so vicious to ruin an elder’s milestone birthday?!” Glenn’s face turned thunderous. He lunged across the mess, grabbing my shoulder with a violent grip and shoving me away from the table. My back slammed hard against the heavy wooden doorframe. A sharp, searing pain tore through my lower abdomen. “Lola, have you completely lost your mind?!” Glenn roared, his face contorted in disgust. “Your mother falling was her own damn fault for being careless! Why are you taking your pathetic frustration out on Loretta?!” I stared straight into his eyes. “Say that again.” Glenn’s thin lips pressed into a hard line. “Today is Loretta’s birthday. She cannot take this kind of shock. You are going to apologize to her right now.” A cold, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “Apologize?” Before the word fully left my mouth, my inner organs felt as if they were being twisted into knots. A moment later, I felt a heavy, warm rush of fluid trickling down the inside of my thighs. I looked down. A dark red stain was slowly spreading through the fabric of my light gray trousers. Glenn’s eyes followed mine. The anger in his face instantly froze. Right then, Loretta let out a faint, gasping cry. “Glenn… maybe I shouldn’t be alive… I’m ruining your marriage…” Glenn’s body jerked. Instinctively, he turned back toward her, stretching out his arms to catch her as she slumped. In that single second of hesitation, I stopped looking at him. I pressed my icy fingers against the doorframe, leaning all my weight against it. “Glenn. I’m bleeding.” He turned his head back to look at me, his throat working silently. But before he could take a step toward me, the housekeeper came sprinting down the stairs in complete panic. “Ma’am! Ma’am, come quick! The old lady heard the crashing downstairs and tried to come down to stop it—she couldn’t catch her breath and collapsed on the fourth-floor landing!” A loud ringing exploded in my ears. Glenn moved to run toward the stairs, but I surged past him, charging up the steps with a speed I didn’t know I possessed. Drops of red trailed behind me, falling onto the dark wood steps. Glenn’s face turned deathly pale. He started to spring after me, but Loretta’s body went limp, her fingers clutching tightly to his shirt cuff. “Glenn… my heart hurts so much… am I dying…” Glenn stopped. His hands automatically caught her under her arms to keep her from hitting the floor. That single second of delay was all he gave. I never looked back at him again. When the paramedics brought my mother down on a stretcher, Glenn was still sitting on the living room sofa, frantically placing emergency nitroglycerin pills under Loretta’s tongue. As the heavy rear doors of the ambulance slammed shut, my mother’s limp hand slid off the edge of the gurney. The paramedic placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, while the nurse checked her blood pressure with an urgent frown. “You need to contact your family to secure funds immediately. She needs to go straight to the Neuro-ICU. The standard beds are completely full.” I nodded, my palms dripping with cold sweat. At the emergency department, the neurologist came out of the trauma bay within minutes, speaking with rapid urgency. “Massive cerebral hemorrhage. Our standard ward doesn’t have the specialized monitoring equipment available right now. We need to transfer her to the Neuro-ICU immediately, but the system requires a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit to clear the green-channel reservation.” I clutched the paper requisition slip. “My investment accounts mature tomorrow morning. Can we please open the channel first?” The doctor looked at me grimly. “We are doing everything we can to stabilize her, but the ICU system won’t assign the surgical team without the deposit cleared. Every minute increases the risk of irreversible brain death.” I walked to the end of the sterile hallway, sank against the wall, and dialed Glenn. First call: no answer. Second call: he picked up. The background was quiet, like he was sitting in his car. My voice was trembling so badly I could barely form words. “Glenn… my mom had a massive stroke. She needs to go into the Neuro-ICU right now. Please… transfer twenty thousand dollars from our emergency savings account to me.” There was two seconds of silence on the line. Then, his tone came through, dripping with profound exhaustion and annoyance. “Lola, I know your mom passed out on the stairs. Old people get lightheaded when they get agitated. Stop using terms like ‘stroke’ to scare people.” I froze, a wave of sub-zero cold rushing through my veins. “What did you just say?” “I said stop exaggerating her condition just to throw a tantrum,” he interrupted coldly. “Loretta almost had a heart attack because of the scene you threw. I just used that twenty thousand dollars to pay the non-refundable holding deposit for her premium assisted living suite. Your mother just has her usual weakness. Stop using her health as a bargaining chip to compete for my attention.” I pressed my back hard against the wall, a copper taste rising in the back of my throat. “She is in active brain surgery prep! The doctors are standing here waiting for the transfer code! That money is to save her life!” Glenn’s voice dropped into a dark, heavy tone. “The deposit is paid. It can’t be refunded.” He paused, his voice turning into the condescending tone he used when teaching an unruly child. “Lola, adults have to take responsibility for their emotional outbursts. You ruined a major celebration today. You can’t keep expecting to win every argument by throwing dramatic scenes.” The line went dead. I stared at the black screen of my phone. Slowly, I stood up, walked to the billing window, and handed the clerk every single credit card in my wallet, one by one. The clerk kept shaking her head. “Declined. Insufficient funds.” I called relatives, distant acquaintances, real estate brokers—offering to sell my small, pre-marital studio apartment at fifty percent below market value if they could wire cash tonight. But the fastest contract couldn’t settle until the following afternoon. A sudden, continuous flatline alarm echoed from the trauma bay. The double doors swung open. The lead surgeon stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. His eyes were heavy. “Ms. Lola… we did everything we could. She missed the critical window for surgical intervention. You should prepare to say goodbye.” I stared at his mouth as it opened and closed, but no further sound reached my ears. The nurses pushed my mother out. A white sheet covered her up to her chest. Her arm rested at her side, a fresh purple needle mark visible on the back of her pale hand. I walked over, wanting to take her hand in mine, but my own fingers were so cold they felt completely dead. Right then, a violent, tearing spasm ripped through my abdomen. I looked down. Red drops were falling onto the white hospital floor, one after another. The nurse’s face instantly changed. “Are you pregnant?!” I opened my mouth to say “eight weeks”, but before the words could form, the room tilted, and everything went black. When I woke up, I was lying in a small room in the OB/GYN emergency ward. A female doctor held a clipboard, placing a surgical consent form on the tray beside me. “The ultrasound shows no fetal heartbeat. There is significant internal bleeding. We need to perform an emergency D&C right now. Where is your husband?” I stared at the words “Surgical Consent”. A faint, dry laugh escaped my lips. “I don’t have a husband. I’ll sign it myself.” When the pen touched the paper, my hand shook so violently the signature was barely legible. As the nurse pulled away the paper, she looked at my colorless face, her tone softening. “What’s his phone number? You shouldn’t be alone after a procedure like this.” I flipped my phone face down on the mattress. “There’s no need to call anyone.” The overhead surgical lights clicked on, casting a harsh, cold white glow across my face. In the blinding light, my mind suddenly drifted back to the night we moved into the new house. I remembered that small motion-sensor light Glenn had carefully installed outside Loretta’s door. He was so terrified she might fall in the dark. And yet, he had left my mother to climb four flights of stairs alone in the quiet. … After settling Loretta into her new room, Glenn felt an unsettling flicker of anxiety in his chest, remembering the dark red patch he had seen on my pants before I ran out. He tried to brush it off, but the image wouldn’t leave his head. Finally, he grabbed his keys and drove to the hospital. As he walked past the central nurses’ station in the emergency wing, the staff were standing together, completing their shift change. They kept their voices low, but a few distinct words cut through the quiet hall, striking him like a physical blow. “That poor woman… Lola. Her mother suffered a massive stroke, but they couldn’t get into the Neuro-ICU because they lacked the deposit. The mother passed away right there in the ER.” Another nurse sighed, shaking her head. “And she was eight weeks pregnant. Had a severe hemorrhage and had to sign her own emergency D&C consent form while her mother was being moved to the morgue.” “What kind of absolute monster is her husband?” The car keys in Glenn’s hand slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor.

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My mother is a parenting influencer with over ten million followers. Her bio reads: “Mother of two exceptional girls. Believer in gentle, present parenting.” In her videos, she documents how my older sister, Mallory, practices flawless self-discipline through “co-regulation,” and how my younger sister, Mia, is being nurtured into a child prodigy. But I have never once appeared in her frame. When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to stand beside her in just one video. She had glanced at my faded, hand-me-down school hoodie, her brow furrowing. “You’re too quiet, Gill. And you don’t translate well on camera. Don’t ruin the aesthetic.” Over the years, she never showed up to a single one of my parent-teacher conferences. She was terrified the world would find out she had another daughter—one she couldn’t show off. On my college graduation day, I was awarded Summa Cum Laude—the outstanding graduate of my department. Clutching my leather-bound certificate, I called her, begging her to come to campus just this once to see me. She said she was too busy. Yet that very night, she hosted a massive celebration party for Mia. I rushed over, desperate to show her my degree. At the venue, a family friend noticed me and asked, “Oh, is this your other daughter?” My mother’s smile froze. She waved her hand dismissively, laughing it off. “No, no. Just a distant relative’s kid, tag-along.” Then she leaned in close, her voice a sharp whisper: “You look so frayed and plain. Stay out of the shots.” Standing outside the ring of light, hugging my certificate to my chest, I realized how pathetic I was. That night, I formally accepted the study abroad exchange program in London. Since her life’s narrative only had room for two children, it was time for me to vanish from her frame entirely. …… When I got back to the house, it was completely dark. The living room drapes weren’t fully closed, letting a thin sliver of amber streetlamp bleed through the gap. I didn’t turn on the lights. I just sat on the edge of the sofa, hugging my leather-bound degree certificate. The sharp, embossed corners pressed hard against my wrist, leaving a dull ache, but I didn’t let go. During the ceremony, when the dean handed it to me, the applause had been deafening. At that moment, all I wanted was for my mother to see it. Even if she only looked at it and said, “Not bad.” So I sat there in the dark, waiting. I waited until my legs grew numb, until the gold-stamped letters left a deep red imprint in my palms. Finally, the sound of bright, echoing laughter drifted from the driveway. My mother’s voice was always the loudest. “Mia, sweetheart, you did so well today. Your camera presence is getting so natural.” My older sister, Mallory, chimed in. “The comments are going to be flooded with people praising your parenting style, Mom.” Mia giggled. “Mom, did I take too much of the spotlight from Mallory today?” My mother coaxed her gently. “Silly girl. You’re both my absolute pride and joy.” The front door swung open, and the lights flooded the room. I winced, blinking against the sudden brightness. When my mother saw me, the warmth evaporated from her face. “Gill? What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” She scoffed. “No wonder your personality is so cold and gloomy.” My throat tightened. Her eyes drifted down to the certificate in my arms. “Didn’t I tell you?” she snapped. “Keep out of the shots at those events. But no, you just had to pull focus. Are you that desperate to let everyone know you exist in this family?” My fingers clenched, the paper cutting into my skin. “I just wanted to show you,” I whispered. “I’m successful too.” My mother let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re always so calculated, Gill. You knew tonight was Mia’s celebration, and yet you had to try and steal her spotlight.” I held out the certificate. “I graduated Summa Cum Laude. Only six students in the entire department got this.” She glanced at it, then tossed it carelessly onto the pile of discarded cardboard and wrapping paper from Mia’s gifts by the coffee table. The corner of the certificate struck a box and bent. “Is this little thing really worth bragging about?” she said. “Does it even pay the bills?” A sharp, stinging burn rushed up my nose. I bit the inside of my cheek, refusing to let the tears fall. Mia blinked her wide, innocent eyes. “Gill, is that thing really that important?” I stared at my degree lying in the trash pile like a piece of worthless scrap paper. The thing I had worked myself to the bone for over the last four years, just so my mother would look at me. Now it sat among torn ribbons, treated like garbage. Mallory held up her phone. “Mom, I saw this gorgeous Miu Miu bag online.” She didn’t even look in my direction as she spoke. “I can style it for our next vlog.” My mother took the phone, her voice softening instantly. “Add it to the cart.” Then she turned to Mia. “Let’s get one for Mia too. Sister bags. It’ll look perfect on camera.” I looked down at my own backpack. I had carried it for ten years. The canvas straps were frayed, and the zipper had broken twice, held together by a safety pin. Clutching the worn strap, my voice was barely audible. “Mom… can I get a new backpack? Just a cheap one. Twenty bucks.” The living room fell dead silent. My mother’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you need a new backpack for?” she asked, her tone dripping with annoyance. “You don’t even go on camera. Who are you trying to impress? Besides, you’re naturally plain anyway. It’s not going to make a difference.” My face burned with humiliation. I hung my head, my fingernails digging into the split seams of my backpack strap. Mallory finally looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my old bag down to my scuffed shoes before quickly turning away. “Gill, Mom had a really exhausting day. Stop making things difficult.” Mia added in her soft, sweet voice, “Yeah, Gill. Don’t ruin Mom’s mood over a bag.” My vocal cords felt frozen. I wanted to scream that the cost of their designer bags could buy a lifetime of my backpacks. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t trying to make trouble. But under the weight of their cold, dismissive glares, the words died in my throat. After they went upstairs, I knelt by the trash pile and pulled my certificate out from the cardboard boxes. The corner was permanently creased. I tried pressing it flat with my fingers, over and over, but the scar remained. I took a picture of the degree and posted it in the family group chat. “Gill Keller awarded Summa Cum Laude.” The group chat remained silent for a long time. Ten minutes later, my aunt replied: “I saw Mia’s celebration video today! She looks absolutely stunning.” My mother replied almost instantly: “Mallory and Mia are both such exceptional girls.” Within seconds, the screen flooded with heart emojis and compliments. My message was swallowed up, pushed entirely out of sight. I put my phone down and pulled out an old sketchbook from the very bottom of my desk drawer. Inside was a drawing from when I was a child. It was a drawing of my mother standing in front of a camera, holding my hand. Beside it, in messy, childish handwriting, was a caption: “Hi everyone, this is my daughter, Gill.” I had written those words dozens of times back then. I was so terrified that when the day finally came for my mother to introduce me to her audience, she would forget her lines. I gripped the page until the paper crumpled. Then, I closed the sketchbook. If she was never going to introduce me, I would have to find my own way into the light. The next morning, I was jarred awake by the screech of a power drill. My bedroom door was wide open. Two construction workers stood in the doorway, tools in hand. I was still in my pajamas, my hair messy and stuck to my face. As the blanket slipped down to my waist, I scrambled to pull it up, shielding myself. My mother stood right behind them, her face completely indifferent. “This room gets the best natural light,” she said. “We’re turning it into a shooting corner. Move your stuff to the study today.” I froze. “The study doesn’t have any windows.” My mother frowned. “You don’t do on-camera work. Why do you need good lighting?” Before I could protest, the workers were already lifting my desk. They pulled open the drawers, and my sketchbooks tumbled out onto the floor. All those childhood drawings of my mother were swept mercilessly into a black trash bag. I lunged forward to grab them, my knee slamming hard against the metal bedframe. A wave of blinding pain washed over me. Mallory picked up one of the stray sketches, flipped through a couple of pages, and let out a soft chuckle. “Wow, Gill. You really lived in a fantasy world back then, didn’t you?” My mother’s face grew colder. “No wonder you’re always trying to sneak into the background of my videos.” Mia pulled a paper bag from the bottom of my closet. “What’s this?” she asked. My heart stopped. It was a new blue dress. I had saved up my allowance for three months to buy it, and the tags were still attached. My mother snapped the dress and shook it open. The soft, pale blue fabric draped elegantly in the air. “So you did have hidden motives,” my mother sneered. “Who were you planning to dress up for? Trying to steal someone’s spotlight?” I reached out to grab it. “Give it back.” My mother sidestepped me effortlessly and handed the dress to Mia. “Mia, try this on. Your skin is pale; it’ll look beautiful on camera.” My hand remained frozen in mid-air. My fingers were still curled in the shape of grasping the dress, but they only held cold, empty air. But before I could lower my arm, Mallory’s phone chimed. She looked down at the screen, and the smug smile faded from her lips. “Mom,” she said, her voice dropping. “Someone in the comments of yesterday’s video is asking who that girl in the corner was. They’re saying… ‘Wait, I thought you only had two daughters?’” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. My mother slowly turned her head to look down at me. The next second, her hand swung. The slap was so hard my ears rang, and the left side of my face went entirely numb. “Was it you?” she hissed. I held my burning cheek, tasting copper in my mouth. “No.” My father walked into the room, his face dark with anger. “Who else could it be but you?” Mallory thrust her phone right in front of my face. “You just posted your little certificate yesterday, and suddenly today the comments are blowing up. Gill, do you seriously think we’re stupid?” Mia clutched the blue dress to her chest, her eyes welling with tears. “Gill… I worked so hard to get people to like me. Why do you have to ruin it?” I shook my head violently, tears finally spilling over. “It wasn’t me! I swear, I didn’t do anything!” My mother snatched my phone right out of my hand. I tried to lunge for it, but my father pinned my shoulders down. His grip was so tight it felt like my bones were going to shatter. Tears and mucus smeared across my face, but I didn’t even have a hand free to wipe them away. My mother opened my messages. From my college classmates to my roommates, even my professor’s assistant. Using my account, she began typing and sending messages to every single contact: “Please don’t contact me anymore.” “We are not friends.” “Blocking you.” I watched those chat bubbles go dark, one by one. My head felt like it was going to explode. “No! Stop!” I screamed, my voice cracking into a desperate shriek. “Those are my friends! You can’t say that to them!” I screamed until my throat bled, my entire body shaking with rage and terror. But nobody stopped. Mallory helped block them, her fingers moving lightning fast over the screen. Finally, my mother threw the phone back onto my chest. “You don’t need a social life anyway. It just gives you opportunities to talk too much. Get out and think about what you’ve done.” By the time the front door slammed shut behind me, the rain had started to pour. I stood on the sidewalk in my pajamas, the fabric clinging to my shivering frame. The rain pelted my phone screen, and I wiped it desperately with my wet sleeve. Tears mixed with rainwater, running into the corners of my mouth, tasting bitter and salty. But I couldn’t accept this. With trembling fingers, I tapped into the comment section of the viral video. Someone had posted a screenshot of the source of the rumor. It was a leaked chat log. The profile picture belonged to Mia. “My sister dressed like a total peasant today and insisted on bringing her degree to force her way into the shot. My mom said she’s not allowed in the videos because she ruins our family brand.” My heart seized. I could barely breathe. I pressed down on the image to save it. The next second, the screen went blank. “This content has been deleted.” Rainwater dripped from my hair. In the window of the house above, the lights were warm and bright, and the faint sound of their laughter drifted down to the street. I clutched the phone to my chest, my body shaking uncontrollably. And yet, I realized with a sickening wave of dread, I had absolutely nowhere to go. The rain only grew heavier. I sat huddled outside a convenience store, water dripping from my hair. A little girl standing next to me tilted her umbrella slightly over my head. She looked up at her mother. “Mommy, where is this girl’s mommy? Why isn’t she holding an umbrella for her?” I froze, my hand flying to wipe my eyes. But my skin was already drenched, and the gesture only smeared more water across my face. “This girl doesn’t have a mother,” I whispered. The little girl’s mother gasped softly. Without a word, she gently pressed the umbrella handle into my hand. The plastic handle was still warm from her grip. I held onto it, but my hand only shook harder. My phone screen lit up again. The university forum had a new thread pinned to the top of the homepage: “Summa Cum Laude Gill Keller looks down on her classmates?” “She apparently thinks the school didn’t promote her enough and claims they owe her.” “What an ungrateful brat. The school literally gave her the highest honors, and she’s still crying about it.” I stared at the word “ungrateful,” gasping for air as if I were drowning. I wanted to explain. I dialed my roommate’s number. First call: “Busy.” Second call: “The user you are trying to reach is unavailable.” I tried sending friend requests back. My fingers were shaking so violently I couldn’t type the words right. “I didn’t say those things.” “It wasn’t me.” “I don’t look down on you guys.” Over and over. Nothing. No response. The rain drummed against the plastic umbrella, a deafening, relentless roar. I forced myself up and began to run toward campus. My cheap slippers splashed into puddles, cold water spraying up my calves. When I finally reached the dorm building, the security guard stopped me at the door. “Miss, you can’t come in looking like this.” I pounded on the glass door, my voice cracked and raw. “Please, let me in! I swear I didn’t write those messages!” Students passing by stopped to stare. Someone whispered, “Is that her? The girl from the forum?” “She looks completely unhinged.” My body went stiff. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Just then, my roommate, Hannah, ran out of the building. “Gill?” She immediately took off her dry jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth of the fabric hit my skin, and the tears finally broke through. Another roommate, standing behind her, whispered, “Let’s get her inside and changed first.” I grabbed their sleeves, desperate. “Do you believe me?” Hannah was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know what to think,” she said softly. “But… I know you. You’ve never been that kind of person.” Those words, though quiet, made my knees buckle. I sank straight onto the linoleum floor. I had just changed into dry clothes when my mother’s call came through. Her voice was sharp with impatience. “Have you thrown enough of a tantrum yet?” “Get back here. Mia has a shoot and needs some material.” I clenched my jaw, my voice trembling. “I’m not coming back.” Mia’s voice drifted from the background. “Gill, please, I really need you. Your writing is always so creative. If you come back and finish this script, I’ll convince Mom to let you sleep in your room.” “Sleep in my room.” But my passport and exchange documents were still in that house. I closed my eyes, tears slipping silently down my cheeks, my fingertips cold. “Okay,” I said. When I walked through the door, I didn’t even take off my shoes. My mother pushed her laptop toward me. “Get to writing.” I sat at the kitchen table. My hands were swollen and bruised from the cold, and every keystroke sent a dull throb through my knuckles. Behind me, they chatted happily about lighting setups and makeup. No one asked if I was okay. At 1:00 AM, the script was finished. I rewrote the final line three times before hitting save. The next afternoon, the video was uploaded. Mallory sat in front of the camera, smiling warmly. “This is a little story I wrote for Mia.” Mia wore my pale blue dress, laughing brightly for the lens. The comments flooded in: “Mallory is so talented!” “Mia is gorgeous.” “Dr. Cynthia Keller really knows how to raise brilliant children.” I sat in the windowless study, watching the screen. My stomach twisted into painful knots. I wanted to throw up, but there was nothing left inside me. Later that day, Hannah and my other roommates posted a clarification on the campus forum. “Gill Keller didn’t write those messages,” they wrote. “Her family took her phone and blocked us using her account.” I sat on my dorm bed, staring at the screen, my fingers slowly curling into fists. That afternoon, the study abroad director called me. “Gill Keller? Your exchange slot has been officially approved.” “Your materials are perfect, and the stipend has been cleared.” “You are free to prepare for departure.” I held the phone close to my ear, leaning my back against the dorm door. The screen went dark. The room was so quiet I could hear the steady beat of my own heart. One. Two. I closed my eyes, my throat tight. I had finally made it out, yet the tears kept falling. After a long silence, I whispered, “Thank you, professor.” Hannah slid a paper bag into my hands. Inside was a brand-new gray backpack. “Stop carrying that old, broken thing,” she said, looking away to hide her own watery eyes. “Go to London and live your life.” I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tightly. The paper bag crinkled loudly between us. I buried my face in her shoulder, my voice thick. “Thank you.” When I went back to the house to gather the rest of my things, the living room was crowded with lighting rigs and tripods. The moment Mia saw me, she ran over with a bright, performative smile and grabbed my arm. “Gill! You’re back just in time!” “We need you to co-star in this episode!” I froze, my chest fluttering with a tiny, pathetic spark of hope. For a fleeting second, I thought my mother was finally willing to let me be in her videos. But then my mother looked up from the monitor. “Don’t wear those clothes,” she said flatly. “Go find something older. Something ragged.” The warmth in my face drained completely. Mallory walked over, holding the script, her expression indifferent. “You’re playing a girl from a poor, rural family we’ve been sponsoring,” she explained. “You came to thank us for paying your tuition.” I clutched the paper bag with my new backpack. “I am your family,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My mother’s face instantly darkened. “Gill, are you doing this again?” she hissed. “It’s just one scene. Do you have to turn everything into a personal crisis?” I stood my ground, refusing to move. My mother stepped forward, her hand swinging. The slap sent my head spinning, and my ears began to ring. Mallory frowned, snatching the paper bag from my hands. “What is this?” She pulled out the new gray backpack, her eyes filling with disgust. She threw the bag onto the floor and stepped directly onto it, grinding her shoe into the clean fabric. I bent down to grab it, but she shoved me back. “Just get in position. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” My knee collided sharply with the corner of the coffee table, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Mia stood under the bright studio lights, clutching my blue dress to her chest, her eyes wide and tearful. “Gill, please just do this for me. Once we finish, Mom won’t be mad anymore.” I slowly stood up. I pressed my palm against my scraped knee and felt something wet. I didn’t know if it was water or blood. The camera started rolling. My mother barked from behind the lens, “Look natural. Smile.” I stared into the black lens of the camera. Slowly, the corners of my mouth curled upward. My mouth tasted like copper. “Thank you so much for sponsoring my education, Mrs. Keller,” I said, the words heavy and hollow. “I will always remember your family’s kindness.” The moment the director yelled cut, everyone let out a sigh of relief. Mallory excelled at spinning the narrative. “Honestly, her awkwardness made it feel so authentic.” I knelt down and picked up my new backpack. There was a dirty footprint stamped onto the gray fabric. Before dinner, my mother dragged her suitcase into the hallway. “A brand partner sponsored a family trip,” she announced. “We’re flying out to Hawaii tomorrow for a three-day shoot.” Mia squealed with joy. My father clapped his hand onto my shoulder. “You stay behind. You can use the time to clean the house.” My mother tossed a stack of papers onto the dining table. “Here is the script outline for the second part,” she said. “Have it finished by the time we get back.” Once the front door clicked shut, the house fell into a deafening silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. I stood there for a long time. Then, I walked into my room. One by one, I packed my passport, my ID, and my study abroad acceptance letter into my suitcase. Before leaving, I laid my house keys quietly on the shoe rack. My phone buzzed. A message from my mother: “Make sure you mop the living room floors.” “And don’t write a lazy script. Don’t ruin your sister’s channel engagement.” I stared at the two lines of text. My thumb hovered over the screen for a few seconds. Then, I powered the phone off. The slap on my cheek still throbbed with a dull heat. But for the very first time in my life, the crushing weight in my chest lifted. I gripped the strap of my new backpack and walked out the door. I didn’t look back.

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I finally pulled the rare chase figure from the blind box series—a one-in-a-hundred grail statue I’d been hunting for months. Electric with excitement, I set it carefully on Craig’s office desk, right beside her laptop. She barely glanced up from her screen. With a flick of her wrist, she swept the box straight into the trash can. “You’re twenty-six, Seth,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. “Isn’t playing with toys getting a bit pathetic?” I swallowed the lump in my throat, retrieved the box from the trash, and listed it on a local secondary marketplace app. Within minutes of going live, a buyer nearby snapped it up at full asking price, asking if I’d mind delivering it in person since he lived just a few blocks away. When I stepped into his townhouse, I froze right at the entryway. Covering an entire wall of his living room was a custom, floor-to-ceiling glass display cabinet, illuminated by warm LED strips. Inside sat dozens of vaulted, hyper-rare vinyl statues—a collection worth a small fortune. The guy offered me a warm, easy smile. “Pretty insane, right? My older girlfriend bought all of these for me.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. “I told her a guy my age looks like he lacks ambition obsessing over collectibles, but she insisted it’s what makes me cool.” Before I could respond, the front door clicked open. A woman walked in holding two iced lattes. She stepped up on her tiptoes, leaning in to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. I shifted slightly to the side to give them space. But as my gaze brushed against her profile, every drop of blood in my body rushed to my head. The devoted girlfriend dropping thousands to curate a dream display wall for this boy—the woman who held him like he was the center of her universe—was the exact same woman who had trashed my chase figure less than twenty-four hours ago. My wife, Craig. … Our eyes met. In an instant, the color drained completely from her face. “Babe, why are you staring at him like that?” Todd pouted, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist before handing me one of the iced lattes. “This is the guy who sold me the chase figure. Seth, meet my girlfriend.” Craig regained her composure with frightening speed, giving me a brisk, formal nod. “Nice to meet you.” Her tone was cool, but when she turned back to Todd, her voice softened into a gentle, honeyed murmur I hadn’t heard in years. “You don’t need to buy secondhand anymore, Todd. Anything you want, I’ll buy it brand-new for you.” Todd swayed her arm like a spoiled child. “Secondhand is fine! Otherwise, I just feel guilty watching you stand in line for hours every time a limited drop releases.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms, but I couldn’t feel the pain. Todd had bragged earlier that his girlfriend hunted down exclusive figures from all over the world for him. One specific statue on that wall now pierced my eyes like a hot needle—a piece released exclusively overseas a year ago that I had pined over for months. Craig had happened to be on a business trip in that exact city at the time. I hadn’t dared to ask her for the figure itself, only quietly begging her to bring back a matching commemorative sticker pack from the pop-up event. I remembered her cold, scowling refusal: “I’m swamped with actual work, Seth. I don’t have time to waste on your childish junk.” She hadn’t been too busy. She just hadn’t cared enough to give me a single ounce of patience. Yet for Todd, she gladly stood in line for an entire day just to secure a rare statue. “Oh, right, Seth—I actually have a duplicate of a figure in the back. Let me grab it for you as a thank-you,” Todd said, turning to jog toward the bedroom. The moment he vanished down the hall, Craig grabbed my wrist and dragged me forcefully into the shadow of the foyer corner. “Go home right now,” she hissed under her breath. “When I get back, I’ll explain everything.” My voice came out raspy, hollow. “Explain what, Craig? Explain how you’ve been keeping another man behind my back? How you’re cheating on me?” A flicker of panic flashed in her eyes. Instead of answering, she shoved me backward with sudden violence. The heavy front door slammed shut right in my face. The skin on my wrist throbbed red where her grip had been, and my eyes stung with unshed tears. Through the thin wood of the door, their muffled conversation drifted out into the quiet hallway. “Wait, where’d Seth go? I didn’t get to give him the statue.” “I sent him away. He’s just a stranger selling secondhand toys—no need to get cozy with him.” Then came the soft, unmistakable sound of wet, intimate kissing. I leaned against the hallway wall, my chest heaving, every instinct screaming at me to kick the door down and confront them. But before I could move, a sharp, excruciating cramp twisted deep in my stomach. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, blinding me with pain. Through the fog in my mind, a distant realization struck me: I hadn’t checked my patient portal for the results of my endoscopy from last week. By the time I stumbled back to our empty apartment, my phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from the clinic. I unlocked the screen, opening the PDF attached to the message. The diagnosis was spelled out in cold, unambiguous black ink: “Stage II Gastric Carcinoma.” Before I could even process the words, the front door unlocked. Craig stepped inside. She caught sight of my ghastly, bloodless face, her brows pulling into a faint frown. “Why do you look so pale? Are you sick?” She reached out, her hand extending toward my forehead, but I flinched back, avoiding her touch entirely. “About earlier… it’s not what you think,” she said, pulling her hand back with a tired sigh. “Todd is my childhood neighbor’s kid. His family practically took me in when my parents were struggling and we couldn’t even afford groceries.” She paused, adjusting her designer handbag. “He has a congenital heart condition. Before his father passed away, he begged me to look after Todd. I only agreed to play the role of his girlfriend so he’d focus on resting and recovering.” “So your idea of ‘taking care of him’ is stepping outside our marriage and building him a fifty-thousand-dollar display wall?” The weight in my chest felt like a boulder crushing my lungs, making every breath a struggle. “Craig, I’m only realizing today that you built an entire secret life behind my back.” I couldn’t control the volume of my voice anymore; it shook violently, along with the rest of my body. “You treated my hobby like a pathetic flaw, but you flew halfway across the world to stock his shelves!” A faint flash of guilt crossed her features, and her tone softened, though her stance remained defensive. “He’s eight years younger than you, Seth. It’s normal for someone his age to like those things.” She stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on her hip. “Look, I’ve always thought those plastic statues were silly anyway. If you really want them that badly, I’ll just start buying them for you from now on. I’ll handle things with Todd—his heart is fragile and he can’t take emotional stress, so don’t you dare go making a scene with him.” I stared quietly at this woman I had loved for six long years, suddenly feeling as though I were looking at a complete stranger. “Craig,” I said softly, “let’s get a divorce.” She assumed I was throwing a childish fit. A faint smirk of disdain tugged at the corner of her lips. “Stop being dramatic. I’m taking care of a sick boy, not falling out of love with you. You’re the one holding the marriage certificate. You’re my actual husband.” She shook her head dismissively. “Besides, you can’t survive without me. Don’t throw the word ‘divorce’ around like a threat ever again.” She checked her luxury watch. “I promised to take Todd to a movie tonight. Stay home and pull yourself together. Stop being so unreasonable.” The apartment door clicked shut behind her. I gripped my phone, my fingers trembling against the glass, my vision blurring into a haze. Six years of devotion. Three years of marriage. I had given her everything I had, poured my youth and health into supporting her ambitions, only for it all to boil down to a firm warning: “Don’t bother him.” Before I could collect myself, a text notification popped up on my screen. It was from Todd. [I’m so sorry, man. My girlfriend has a bit of a temper, so we didn’t host you properly. I saved a rare figure for you—stop by whenever you want to pick it up.] I tapped into Todd’s profile, scrolling down his social media feed. From top to bottom, spanning back years, every single post revolved around Craig. [The entire series was vaulted, but Craig went straight to the manufacturer to custom-order a full set for me!] [Best birthday surprise ever: a massive haul of grails. She literally rescheduled a huge investor meeting just to queue up at the drop for me. I love my girl so much.] [Mentioned offhandedly that I loved the celebrity-edition statue, and she had it delivered to my doorstep the very next morning. Boss babe always comes through!] In every single photo, Craig’s presence was everywhere—the corner of her coat, her distinctive rings, her shadow over the boxes. When she was launching her business, I had drunk myself to the point of alcohol poisoning at corporate dinners just to help her secure client contracts. All I had ever asked for in return was one afternoon where she’d walk through a collectible shop with me. Yet for Todd, she effortlessly cleared her schedule, pulled strings, and spent small fortunes without a second thought. By the time I reached the bottom of his feed, the sharp, agonizing pain in my heart had worn itself out, leaving behind nothing but a deep, hollow numbness. I typed out a brief reply: [No need. I don’t want it anymore.] I didn’t care about the figures anymore. And I didn’t want Craig either. That night, I retained a top family law attorney, packaging every piece of evidence of her infidelity and forwarding it to his office. The tens of thousands of dollars spent on Todd’s collection had been funded entirely by our shared marital assets. When we stood before a judge, I wouldn’t yield a single dime. Late that evening, Craig returned home carrying a massive, shrink-wrapped boxed set of figures. She set it on the bed in front of me. “Look,” she said, her voice laced with forced cheer. “Isn’t this the series you’ve been begging for?” I didn’t even glance at it, continuing to fold my shirts and stack them methodically into a duffel bag. “Take it back. I don’t want it.” The smile on her face faded millimeter by millimeter, replaced by a dark, familiar impatience. “You practically cried over this set last year, Seth. Now that I went out of my way to buy it for you, you’re pulling this passive-aggressive routine? Stop looking for a fight.” “I really don’t want it,” I repeated calmly, setting a folded jacket aside. “What you owe me isn’t a box of plastic toys, Craig.” Her face turned completely cold. “Seth, are you ever going to drop this?!” Before the words fully left her mouth, her phone began to ring loudly. In her haste to grab it, her thumb brushed the speakerphone icon, and Todd’s panicked, whimpering voice echoed through the bedroom: “Babe… my chest hurts so bad… I can’t breathe…” Craig’s expression shifted instantly to pure horror. She turned on her heel to bolt toward the door, her arm swinging back wildly as she moved. Her elbow caught me squarely in the chest, throwing me off balance. I crashed heavily onto the floor, my lower back slamming directly against the sharp corner of the bedside table. A sharp gasp of pain tore from my throat as a wave of excruciating agony rippled through my abdomen. “Craig!” I reached up, grabbing the hem of her sleeve with bloodshot eyes, desperate. “My stomach… it hurts so bad. Please, take me to the hospital first… please…” She yanked her sleeve out of my grip with violent irritation. “Enough! Stop using fake medical emergencies to compete for my attention! His life is actually on the line!” Without a second glance, she sprinted out the door, the heavy slam of the entryway echoing through the flat. A bitter taste flooded my mouth. I curled into a fetal position on the hardwood floor, clutching my stomach as the pain threatened to choke the air from my lungs. Using every ounce of strength left in my body, I reached for my phone and dialed 911. The impact against the nightstand had caused internal bleeding, aggravating the tumor. In the emergency room, the oncologist sat by my bedside, his face grave. “We need to schedule surgery immediately, Mr. Barrett. If we wait any longer, the risk of metastasis increases exponentially.” I lay flat on the sterile hospital mattress, staring blankly at the white ceiling tiles. My eyes were so dry I couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. While the cancer tortured my body in the middle of the night, my phone chimed with a social media notification. Todd had updated his story. The photo showed him curled comfortably against Craig’s shoulder on a plush velvet sofa, a triumphant grin on his face. The caption read: [Babe was terrified out of her mind. Honestly, my heart wasn’t even hurting that bad—I just wanted to trick her into coming over to cuddle with me longer. (Hidden from Craig)] Reading those words, every dam of composure I had built over the years broke at once. I rolled onto my side, buried my face in the hospital pillow, and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. The next morning, another message from Todd popped up on my screen. [Seth, can we talk in person?] [You really need to take this rare figure off my hands, or my conscience is going to bother me forever.] My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before I typed back a single word: [Fine.] It was time to lay everything out in the light anyway. An hour later, as I approached the entrance of the designated coffee shop, Todd burst out through the front doors. Before I could say a word, his fist connected violently with the side of my face. A dull “crack” echoed in the air. “Seth, do you have no shame at all?!” Todd yelled, his eyes wide and red, his body shaking with dramatic fury. “I genuinely looked up to you as an older brother, and you were trying to pull my girlfriend behind my back the whole time!” My head throbbed, my ear ringing loudly. I held my bruised cheek as he thrust his phone screen inches from my face. On the screen was a photo taken a month ago—a candid shot of Craig and me holding hands while taking an evening stroll through the park. “I stumbled across your private album and realized you two have been sneaking around!” Todd screamed, his voice carrying across the outdoor patio. “You selling me that figure, making up excuses to come to my house—it was all a sick game to flaunt it in my face and trigger my condition, wasn’t it?!” His voice cracked into a loud sob. He grabbed his chest with both hands, his knees buckling as he sank toward the pavement. “I’m begging you, Seth! My heart can’t take this strain. I can’t live without her! Take the whole wall of figures—take everything! Just leave us alone!” The surrounding pedestrians instantly gathered around us, pointing fingers and whipping out their smartphones to record. “How disgusting… messing with a sick guy’s relationship?” “To pick on a heart patient like that… some people have no soul.” I took a deep, agonizing breath. I raised my hand and swung it back, landing a resounding slap squarely across Todd’s face. The loud “crack” silenced the crowd instantly. “Your girlfriend?” My voice trembled, but my grip was steady as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out our crimson marriage certificate, holding it high for everyone to see. “Craig and I have been legally married for three years.” I pointed a shaking finger at his face. “And as for that wall of collectibles in your townhome? Every single one was purchased using our joint marital assets. My legal team has already finalized the filings. I am reclaiming every single dollar.” The patio fell dead silent. Whispers began to ripple through the onlookers. “Wait… an actual marriage certificate?” “Is the kid with the heart condition actually the side piece?” Todd’s body swayed as if he were about to faint, his eyes welling with fresh tears. “That’s impossible… Craig swore to me she was completely single…” Before he could finish his sentence, a sudden force shoved me violently backward. “Seth!” Craig pushed her way through the crowd, pulling Todd protectively into her arms. The look she threw at me was laced with pure, unadulterated venom. “Who gave you permission to lay a hand on him?! You know his heart can’t handle physical stress!” Todd leaned heavily against her shoulder, whimpering softly. “Babe… tell me the truth. Are you really married to him? Am I… am I just a homewrecker?” Craig hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, her voice hardened. “No.” She looked up at the crowd, her tone icy and conviction-filled. “He suffers from severe delusional paranoia. That certificate in his hand is a total forgery. He’s just a stalker who’s been harassing me for months.” Those light, dismissive words pinned me to the spot like ice running through my veins. “Craig… have you lost your mind?” I breathed, my voice barely audible. “We are legally—” Her face went completely cold. She grabbed Todd’s wrist. “Todd, hit him back.” I stared at her in utter disbelief. “He just put his hands on you,” she said, her voice terrifyingly steady. “Hit him back as hard as you want. I will never let anyone bully my boyfriend.” Her words acted like an instant shot of adrenaline for Todd. “BOOM!” A heavy, ruthless punch landed on my other cheek. Todd bit his lip, his eyes cold. “That’s what you get for lying and trying to ruin people’s lives!” Then, he looked at Craig, his expression shifting to exaggerated concern. “But… where did he even get such a convincing fake document? Forging government records is a felony, babe. Shouldn’t we call the police on him?” A flicker of hesitation crossed Craig’s eyes. But in the next second, she reached out, snatched the crimson marriage certificate from my hands, and tore it cleanly down the middle. She ripped it again. And again. The torn scraps of red paper floated down to the dirty pavement like drops of dried blood. On the day we had registered our marriage three years ago, she had held that exact booklet in her hands like a fragile treasure, her eyes brimming with happy tears as she whispered: “Seth, you’re finally my husband. My actual husband.” And now, for another man, she was shredding the only proof of our life together with her own hands. “It’s just a fake piece of paper,” she said, her voice hoarse, her posture rigid. “Now let’s see what you use to spread lies.” The crowd around us exploded with righteous indignation. “So he really is a crazy lunatic!” “Let’s teach this stalker a lesson so he stops harassing women!” Craig’s expression shifted slightly, as if she were about to step forward and push the crowd back. But Todd gripped her sleeve gently, his body suddenly going limp. “Babe… my chest… it hurts so bad again…” He closed his eyes and slumped forward into her arms, pretending to lose consciousness. Craig panicked immediately, completely forgetting about me. She helped Todd into her car, casting one hurried, unreadable glance in my direction before slamming her foot on the gas pedal and speeding away. The angry crowd surged forward. Hands grabbed my coat, shoves turned into kicks, and insults rained down on me from every angle. Yet strangely, I felt almost no physical pain. The fists landing on my shoulders felt soft, distant, as if separated from me by a thick layer of fog. My vision slowly faded to black, and I collapsed onto the cold sidewalk. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights. Craig was sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding my hand, deep dark circles beneath her eyes. “You’re awake?” she said, her voice tight. “Don’t move around too much. You have several severe soft tissue contusions. You need rest.” She took a deep breath. “I spoke to the people who attacked you and settled things quietly. Don’t go to the police about this.” I slowly pulled my hand out of her grip, resting my arm flat against the thin white sheet. The corner of my mouth twitched into a hollow smile. “Ms. Holloway,” I asked softly, “what exactly is our relationship?” She froze, her brows drawing together in immediate irritation. “What kind of ridiculous question is that? We’re husband and wife.” My eyes burned, but I squeezed out a low, dry laugh. “Husband and wife? Do we have a marriage certificate to prove that?” A flash of guilt washed over her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by her familiar impatience. “Todd has a fatal heart condition, Seth! I had to say those things in the moment! Why did you have to bring a marriage certificate out in public just to provoke him?” She leaned forward, her tone rising. “Did you want to watch him have a massive heart attack right in front of you? Would that have made you happy?” “It was just a piece of paper,” she added, waving her hand dismissively. “Once things calm down in a few weeks, I’ll take you to the clerk’s office and we’ll just reapply for a new one.” It felt as though a blade had been dragged straight through my chest, letting the freezing winter air pour directly into my lungs. I gripped the hospital bedsheets, the pain so intense I could barely draw breath. “Craig… just let me go,” I whispered. “Sign the divorce papers. I’ll step aside and let you two be together.” Her breath hitched. A sudden, sharp panic flickered across her face, and her voice softened dramatically. “When I had nothing three years ago, you were the one who stayed by my side and helped me build my company. We are bound together for life, Seth.” She reached out to touch my shoulder. “I’m only taking care of Todd out of a sense of duty and gratitude. As my husband, you should be understanding instead of keeping score. Besides, if you hadn’t lost your temper and confronted him, I never would have said those things.” She stood up, smoothing down her coat. “Rest up. I’ll make this up to you properly once everything settles.” She turned and walked out, leaving the private room in heavy, suffocating silence. It was almost laughable. There were a million ways to repay a debt of gratitude, yet she had chosen the one path that systematically ripped my heart to pieces. I let out a soft, bitter laugh, pulled the IV needle cleanly out of the back of my hand, and stood up from the bed. My suit was already packed at home. The signed divorce settlement had been left sitting flat and neat right in the center of her mahogany desk. When I arrived back at the apartment to grab my bag, the sound of a power drill echoed from the living room. A team of interior contractors was hard at work along the main wall. “Oh, you must be Mrs. Holloway’s husband!” the lead contractor greeted me with a warm smile, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Mrs. Holloway hired us specifically to construct a floor-to-ceiling, climate-controlled glass display wall for your figure collection.” He chuckled appreciatively. “She spared no expense—insisted on ultra-clear tempered glass and custom lighting. Your wife really adores you, man.” “Adores me?” A cold, sarcastic smile touched my lips. I pulled out my phone. Todd’s newest social media post sat at the very top of my feed. In the photo, Craig was wearing a massive five-carat diamond ring on her left ring finger. [My poor babe was harassed by a lunatic stalker for months, but luckily this boy didn’t give up on her. She finally explained everything today!] [We’re going to be so happy together. To all irrelevant third parties: please exit gracefully.] The comment section was buzzing with excitement. Someone asked about the wedding date, and Todd had replied with a joyous emoji: [Formal ceremony tomorrow! Every single guest gets a rare collectible figure as a party favor! ~] I looked down at the ring finger of my left hand, at the simple, tarnished silver band resting there. Years ago, when her first business venture collapsed and she was left penniless, we had bought this pair of matching silver bands from a street vendor for twenty dollars. She had held my hands tightly that night, her eyes red as she wept tears of remorse: “Seth, I can’t give you romance now, but every single thing I owe you, I will repay you tenfold in the future.” Now, she was wealthy, powerful, and successful. The money was there, the grand gestures were there—but we had lost each other completely along the way. The custom display wall she had promised me years ago was being built for someone else. The diamond ring she had sworn to place on my finger was sitting on another man’s hand. The front door clicked open, and Craig walked into the foyer. She glanced at the nearly finished display wall with a satisfied nod. “Do you like it?” she asked softly, stepping over to my side. “I had them install it specifically for you.” “Sure,” I said quietly. “By the way,” she paused, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “I’m hosting a formal wedding ceremony for Todd tomorrow.” She looked at me, her expression defensive. “His heart condition has worsened severely. He could go into cardiac arrest at any moment. I just want to perform an act of charity—I don’t want him dying with regrets.” I offered her a faint, polite smile. “I understand.” She blinked, caught off guard. “You’re… not angry?” When I didn’t respond, a look of relief washed over her face. She pulled out her phone and instantly transferred a substantial sum of money directly into my bank account. “Don’t worry, it’s just a pretend wedding for his sake,” she reassured me softly. “As soon as I get back, I’ll take you to re-register our marriage license. While I’m gone for the next few days, take this money and buy whatever collectibles you want to fill up this wall. I’ll check on your progress when I get back.” I tapped my screen and accepted the transfer. “Okay.” Before she could say anything else, her phone rang. Todd’s voice drifted through the line, laced with sulky impatience. “Babe, where are you? Hurry over to help me try on my tuxedo…” “I’m on my way,” Craig said immediately, turning on her heel and hurrying back out the door. The contractor finished wiping down the glass frames and turned to me with a cheerful wave. “All done, Mr. Barrett! What do you think of the final result?” I thanked him softly, paid him his tip, and saw him out the door. Once I was alone, I walked into the utility closet, picked up a heavy steel claw hammer, and walked back to the living room. I raised the hammer high and swung it with all my strength straight into the center of the glass wall. “CRASH!” A deafening, sharp explosion of shattering glass echoed through the empty apartment. Spiderweb cracks spread violently across the surface before the entire structure caved in, raining sharp shards onto the hardwood floor. With a single strike, I smashed six years of unwavering devotion. I smashed every ounce of love I had ever carried for her. I smashed a marriage that had long since rotted to the core. “Craig,” I whispered to the empty room. “We’re done.” I wheeled my suitcase out into the hallway, pulling up my email app one last time to set a scheduled delivery. Attached to the message was a digital copy of my Stage II gastric cancer diagnosis, alongside a high-resolution photo of the shattered glass covering the living room floor. The body of the email contained a single sentence: [I’m returning the display wall to you. Happy wedding.] I tapped send, walked out of the building, and headed straight to the airport.

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