Category: English

Melody’s mother stole my father, and in doing so, she killed my mother. Years later, history decided to repeat itself. The boy I grew up with, the one who had been by my side for eighteen years, lied to my face. Behind my back, he spent his evenings helping Melody with her college applications, even gifting her the limited-edition vintage vinyl I had begged him to find for me. And when Melody hacked into my college portal and withdrew my Ivy League acceptance, replacing it with a local community college, he actually defended her. “Melody didn’t mean any harm, Caroline,” he pleaded. “She was just playing a practical joke on you.” But there was nothing funny about it. 01 Just days before the final college decision deadline, I experienced a violent, inexplicable tear in time. I was hurled ten years into the future. I saw myself. I saw a girl who had scored a 1550 on her SATs now limping on a shattered right leg, her hair unwashed and tied back with a fraying rubber band, busing tables at a greasy diner. Meanwhile, my stepsister Melody had graduated from an elite university, married my childhood sweetheart, Connor, and given birth to a picture-perfect pair of twins. I remember the blood draining from my face. “How did this happen?” My twenty-eight-year-old self offered a hollow, broken laugh. “Melody changed my college portal. By the time I found out, the deadline had passed. It was too late.” “Dad and Connor both took her side. They said she didn’t do it maliciously, that it was just a prank, that I needed to take a joke.” “But I couldn’t swallow the injustice. I confronted her. We fought at the top of the stairs, and she threw herself backward, framing me. Dad… Dad wanted to teach me a lesson. He hired the best prosecutors to press aggravated assault charges and let me rot in a juvenile detention center for six months.” “Connor promised he’d wait for me. But the day I got out, I found them tangled up in his bed.” “I snapped. I grabbed a kitchen knife. I hurt them both.” “That time, Connor hired the most ruthless defense attorney in the state to ensure I got the maximum sentence. Five years.” Her words were like lightning striking the base of my skull. My whole body went rigid. I heard my own voice trembling as I fought back: “No. That’s impossible. Connor and I grew up together. He loves me. He promised he’d protect me for the rest of my life.” “He knows how much I despise Melody and her mother. He would never help them destroy me.” The older version of me stared back, her eyes rimmed with red. She looked down at her ruined, asymmetrical leg. “Why wouldn’t he? People change, Caroline.” “Even this leg… Connor paid off one of the guards in lockup to look the other way while an inmate took a metal pipe to my knee.” She jerked her head up, her gaze fierce and desperate. “Caroline, listen to me. If you don’t want to lose your future, if you don’t want to become a convicted felon scrubbing grease off diner tables, wake the hell up! Stop letting Connor play you for a fool!” The sheer magnitude of the information hit my brain like a physical blow. The world tipped on its axis. The next second, I collapsed onto the hardwood floor. When I opened my eyes, the sterile, chemical scent of hospital bleach flooded my lungs. “Caroline, thank God, you’re awake!” Connor was sitting by the edge of my hospital bed. Both of his hands were wrapped tightly around my left hand, his dark eyes wide with unfeigned panic and concern. “You passed out in your room last night. You scared the life out of me!” 02 I lay there, perfectly still, just looking at him. Unbidden, a memory surfaced. Eighth-grade field trip to the state park. I had wandered off the trail and gotten hopelessly lost. It was Connor who spent three hours searching for me in the dying light. His shins were sliced up by thorny brambles, but he still insisted on carrying me on his back the whole way down the mountain because I was too paralyzed by fear to walk. I thought of my fourteenth birthday. My father had thrown a massive, catered backyard gala for Melody—who happened to share my exact birthdate—and completely forgot about me. I had hidden in the darkness of my closet, clutching a framed photograph of my mother to my chest, crying until I couldn’t breathe. It was Connor who opened the closet door. He was holding a lopsided, home-baked cupcake with a single lit candle, looking at me like a knight who had finally found his charge. “Happy birthday, Caro.” “Don’t be scared. You’re not alone. I’ll be here for every birthday, for the rest of your life.” I thought of all the times Melody had tried to insert herself into his orbit. In the dead of winter, she had spent weeks knitting him a gray scarf. Connor hadn’t even given it a second glance before tossing it into the cafeteria trash can. Melody’s eyes had welled up with those trademark tears, but Connor’s voice was like ice: “Don’t waste your time. I will always stand with Caroline.” “You and your mother destroyed her family. That makes you my enemy, too.” Then, another memory. Melody’s mother, Valerie, ‘accidentally’ knocking my mother’s vintage Cartier watch off my dresser, shattering the delicate glass face. Blinded by grief and rage, I had thrown a glass of ice water right in Valerie’s face. Valerie was a master of the victim act. She instantly collapsed into my father’s arms, weeping. “I was just trying to help Caroline tidy her room. I didn’t mean to bump the dresser. She misunderstood… she thinks I did it on purpose.” “Richard, please, don’t be mad at her.” Her calculated retreat only made my father more protective of her. He turned to me, his eyes devoid of any paternal warmth. “Caroline Ellis, who taught you to act like such a savage? Apologize to your mother, right now!” I tipped my chin up, my throat tight. “I only have one mother. Valerie is just a cheap homewrecker.” The slap echoed through the hallway. My father struck me so hard my ears rang. “I have spoiled you for too long. You have zero respect!” As punishment, he forced me to stand in the freezing mudroom for twelve hours. No dinner. No water. No sitting down. My legs shook. I was lightheaded from hunger. It was Connor who shimmied up the trellis and crawled through the mudroom window, pulling a bag of warm, sugar-dusted apple cider donuts from his jacket. I ate them through my tears, and he wiped my cheeks with his thumbs, his own face twisted in sympathetic agony. “Don’t cry. Once we graduate, we’re going to college in Boston. We’ll get as far away from them as possible.” “I’ll be your family from now on. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.” It never surprised me that my father chose Melody over me. But Connor? Connor, who looked at me like I hung the moon? How could he ever betray me for her? I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe the vision of my twenty-eight-year-old self was just a stress-induced nightmare. I tried to self-soothe. But reality was waiting to deliver its own slap to the face. 03 Before we checked out of the hospital, Connor ran down to the pharmacy on the first floor. I watched him walk back into the room, holding a small paper bag. “Are you getting a cold?” I asked, confused. He froze. A heavy silence stretched between us before he hesitated, shifting his weight. “It’s not for me. It’s for Melody.” “She texted a few minutes ago saying she was running a fever, so she asked me to pick up some meds.” My heart plummeted into my stomach. The terror of my nightmare flooded my veins, making my skin prickle. I couldn’t stop the barrage of questions. “Why are you buying medicine for Melody? Since when do you two text? Since when are you close?” “Do you have feelings for her? When did this start?” Seeing my escalating panic, Connor quickly set the bag down and reached for my shoulders. “Caro, stop overthinking. How could I ever like Melody?” “You’re the only one I care about. But Melody… Melody saved my life. I’m just repaying a debt.” I recoiled. “She saved your life? When? Why don’t I know about this?” Connor finally confessed the secret he had been keeping for months: “Two months ago, I was walking back from a party. I was crossing the street, and a drunk driver blew a red light. I didn’t see it coming.” “If Melody hadn’t shoved me out of the way, I would have been the one with a shattered femur.” I knew Melody had been injured. Of course I did. But I had no idea she had broken her leg saving Connor. Suddenly, everything clicked. It made sense why, despite missing the final two months of senior year and being confined to a hospital bed, Melody had seemed completely unfazed. She was constantly posting bubbly updates on her Instagram stories. Her favorite captions were always: “My favorite private tutor is here again! I’m so spoiled! <3" "Look at the limited-edition vinyl my tutor hunted down for me! Best day ever!" I had never visited her in the hospital, so I had never seen this "tutor." I assumed my dad had hired some grad student to keep her grades up. But looking back, during that exact same period, Connor had stopped walking me home from school. "Caro, my grandma isn't feeling well. I have to go to the estate and check on her. I can't walk you home today." I knew how much Connor loved his grandmother. I never questioned it. I even bought her expensive teas and sent them with him. Was it all a lie? Hot tears welled in my eyes. I looked at the boy I thought I knew better than anyone. "So... the 'tutor' was you. And the person who gave her that vinyl record was you. Wasn't it?" I had wanted that record for a year. It was nearly impossible to find. I had begged Connor to help me track it down. He had tapped his chest confidently and said, "Leave it to me. Have I ever let you down?" Two weeks later, he handed me a generic, newly pressed album. "I'm sorry, Caro. The vintage one is completely sold out. I called every collector I know." But he had found it. He just gave it to Melody instead. 04 Seeing my tears, panic flared in Connor’s eyes. He scrambled to explain himself. "Caro, please don't cry. I swear to you, I'm only nice to her because I owe her my life." "I know how much you hate her. I was terrified that if you found out, it would mess with your head right before finals. That's why I asked everyone to keep it a secret." I fought to keep my voice from shaking. "If you were going to lie to me, why couldn't you just keep lying?" He looked miserable, rubbing the back of his neck. "Melody... she wants to apply to the same colleges in Boston as us." "She’s timid. She’s terrified of being in a new city where she doesn't know anyone and getting bullied. She thinks if I’m there, she’ll have someone to look out for her." "She literally took a car for me, Caro. I couldn't say no..." "Just... do it for me, okay? Can you just try to co-exist peacefully with her from now on?" He couldn't say no to Melody, so his solution was to demand that I compromise. The audacity was suffocating. "Valerie drove my mother to an early grave. And you want me to play nice with the daughter of my mother's replacement? Do you hear how insane you sound?" I was thirteen when my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Valerie couldn't even wait for the body to get cold. She showed up at our front door, dragging Melody behind her. The sickest part? Melody was born on the exact same day, in the exact same year, as me. That was how my dying mother found out my father had been living a double life since the day I was born. The betrayal broke what little spirit she had left. She coughed up blood and passed away less than a month later. Three months after the funeral, my father moved Valerie into the master bedroom. Connor knew all of this. He held my hand through the funeral. And yet, here he was, twisting himself into knots to defend Melody. "You can't choose how you're born, Caroline. The sins of the parents aren't Melody's fault." "She's not like her mother. She's sweet. She's kind." "She has never once tried to hurt you. She’s always bending over backward, trying to get you to like her." "You need to learn to let things go. You can't live in this toxic bubble of hatred forever." As I watched Connor advocate for Melody, the warmth in my chest died out, inch by agonizing inch. The image of my twenty-eight-year-old self—limping, wiping down a greasy table, dead-eyed and broken—flashed behind my eyelids with terrifying clarity. Suddenly, the boy standing in front of me felt like a stranger. A dangerous stranger. I instinctively took a step back. "I need to be alone. Do not follow me." I needed space to think. Of course, Connor didn't listen. He followed me out of the hospital, but perhaps sensing my absolute disgust, he maintained a strict fifteen-foot distance all the way back to my house. 05 I walked through the front door of my house and pushed open the door to my bedroom. There was Melody, sitting in my desk chair, typing away on my laptop. The words from my future self—Melody changed my college portal—screamed in my head. My pulse spiked. I lunged forward and shoved her away from the desk. "Who gave you permission to touch my computer?" Melody stumbled and fell gracefully to the carpet, immediately playing dumb. "Sister, you're misunderstanding. I would never mess with your applications!" "My laptop crashed, and I just needed to look up some research material." She lowered her eyelashes, a perfectly timed tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I forgot how much you despise me. I promise I'll never touch your things again." I didn't have the energy for her Oscar-worthy performance. I slid into the chair, pulled up the Common App portal, and checked my submissions. Thankfully, I had walked in just in time. She hadn't managed to alter anything yet. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. But when I looked up, Connor was standing in the doorway, helping Melody up from the floor. He was glaring at me with open disapproval. "Her leg is barely healed, Caroline. How could you be so aggressive?" "You're out of line. You owe her an apology." I stared at him, incredulous. "She was sneaking onto my laptop without asking. If she falls, she deserves it." Connor’s brow furrowed deeply. "Why are you being so bitter? It's like I don't even know who you are anymore." His reflexive instinct to protect her over me was the final nail in the coffin. It confirmed everything. Last night wasn't a hallucination. It was a premonition. In the not-so-distant future, Connor would absolutely destroy me for Melody’s sake. But I wasn't going to stick around and play the naive victim. I swallowed the sharp, acidic ache rising in my throat and met his gaze. "I am bitter. If you don't like it, then let's break up." His face drained of color. He looked at me like I had lost my mind. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and threatening to break up just because I called you out?" Melody clung to his arm, pretending to be the peacemaker, though she was clearly pouring gasoline on the fire. "Sister, please. Connor loves you so much. He does everything for you." "Every time you two fight, he's always the one who swallows his pride to apologize." "If you shed a single tear, he beats himself up for days." "You might be throwing a tantrum, but you shouldn't use your relationship as a weapon. Aren't you afraid of breaking his heart?" Connor looked at me, a profound disappointment settling over his features. "You're acting like a spoiled brat, Caro." "Just because I usually let you get away with murder doesn't mean I don't have my limits." "Let's just take some space. Don't call me until you've calmed down and realized how ridiculous you're being." With that, he wrapped his arm around Melody’s waist and helped her out of my room. Watching his retreating back, a profound wave of sorrow washed over me. My future self was right. People change. No matter how much Connor used to cherish me, Melody was now the priority. From this day forward, we were on different paths. I blinked back the stinging in my eyes, turned to my computer, and made a calculated, cold decision. I logged in and changed my binding enrollment from Boston to UC Berkeley in California. If he wanted to play house with Melody in Boston, he could have her. I was officially opting out. To ensure she couldn't try anything again, I changed my portal password. I had always used Connor’s birthday—it was entirely possible Melody had guessed it. Finally, I pulled a suitcase from my closet and began packing. I booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. I refused to spend another night under the same roof as Melody. Who knew what kind of sociopathic stunt she’d pull next? This time, I wasn't going to prison. I was escaping the Ellis family. I was starting over. 06 Carrying my suitcase downstairs, I had to walk past Melody’s bedroom. The door was left ajar. Inside, she was sitting on the edge of her mattress, her skirt hiked up to her knees. Connor was kneeling on the floor in front of her, gently massaging her calf muscles. "Is that feeling any better?" he asked softly. Melody’s ears flushed pink. She nodded shyly. "The pain is fading. Thank you." Connor smiled, a soft, indulgent expression I used to think belonged only to me. "You don't have to thank me. You took that hit for me. It's the least I can do." Melody looked down, her expression steeped in manufactured guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault you and my sister fought." "Maybe I should just go to a state school here. I don't want to be the reason your relationship falls apart." "If I get bullied in college, well... that's just my fate. I'll endure it." Connor squeezed her knee comfortingly. "You're not changing your plans. I promised I'd look out for you, and I keep my promises." "None of this is your fault. Caroline is just being irrational." "I guess I spoiled her too much. She thinks the world revolves around her." "Maybe Wyatt was right. I need to leave her out in the cold for a while so she learns how to behave." Wyatt. Connor’s arrogant, old-money best friend. Wyatt had always hated me. If Connor helped me with a project, Wyatt called me lazy. If we went to a diner and I meticulously picked the green onions out of my soup because I loathed the taste, Wyatt called me high-maintenance. If Connor lost track of time playing video games and missed my call, and we argued about it, Wyatt called me a controlling bitch. He was constantly in Connor’s ear, telling him he could do better, urging him to dump me. But back then, Connor would always shove him and shoot back: "Shut the hell up. Caro isn't high-maintenance, she knows what she likes. It's cute." "If she's mad at me, it's because I messed up. It's not her fault." "You're just a miserable single guy who’s jealous of what we have. Stay out of it." That Connor—the fiercely loyal, deeply devoted boy who would fight anyone who spoke ill of me—was dead and gone. The Connor sitting on the floor was Melody’s knight in shining armor. It was impossible not to grieve. We had shared eighteen years of life. Eighteen years of inside jokes, shared trauma, and quiet promises. Detoxing from him was going to hurt like hell. My nose burned. I forced myself to look away, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked out the front door without looking back. 07 I lived in the downtown hotel for two weeks. I didn't hear a word from Connor. But I saw plenty of him on Melody’s Instagram. He took her to the summer carnival, riding the vintage carousel—my favorite ride. He went shopping with her to pick out a dress for graduation. He stood in line for two hours outside Rosenberg's to buy her a fresh, warm box of pastries. He even took her to our spot. The stargazing hill overlooking the valley. Whenever the grief over my mother became too much, Connor would drive me up there, roll out a blanket, and we’d watch old movies on his iPad under the stars. In the photo Melody posted, a romantic comedy was playing on a tablet. Connor was leaning back against the hood of his car, looking relaxed. Melody was leaning into his space, pressing a kiss to his cheek. So this was his version of "repaying a debt." I stared at the photos. I scrolled through them obsessively, almost masochistically, etching the reality of their intimacy into my brain. It was a form of exposure therapy. And it worked. The agonizing, breathless pain in my chest slowly dulled, hardening into a cold, flat indifference. ... Once I felt like I could breathe again, I texted a friend and agreed to meet up at a lounge downtown. I was walking down the dimly lit hallway toward the restrooms when someone bumped roughly into my shoulder. I stumbled, my heels catching on the carpet, and nearly went down. A hand shot out and caught my elbow, steadying me. "Thanks," I muttered, looking up. I froze. Connor was standing there, looking down at me with an amused, patronizing smirk. "See? You still need me to catch you." His tone was incredibly casual, as if the last two weeks of silence and betrayal had never happened. "Admit it, Caro. You can't survive without me." My face remained entirely impassive. I pulled my arm out of his grip. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd be perfectly fine without you." Connor raised an eyebrow. "You're seriously still holding a grudge? Two weeks later?" "Caro, why are you so stubborn? Would it physically kill you to just back down once?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily like a weary parent offering a truce. "Fine. You win. I surrender." "Let's just say I was wrong, okay? Let's make up. Stop giving me the silent treatment." "We've never gone more than a week without seeing each other since we were kids. I actually missed you." He reached out to pinch my cheek, a fond, easy smile spreading across his face. "I don't know why you're fighting this. You look like you've lost weight since I stopped coming around." "When you're done here, I'll drive you to that late-night diner. We'll get pancakes." It was painfully obvious. He hadn't taken my breakup seriously at all. He genuinely believed this was just an extended pout. I slapped his hand away. My voice was glacial. "Do not touch me. We are broken up." "I lost weight because it's ninety degrees outside and I haven't had much of an appetite. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Stop being so narcissistic." Seeing that his charm offensive was failing, Connor’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold edge. "Caroline, enough is enough." "I'm handing you an olive branch. How much longer are you going to drag this out?"

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When Donna first suggested we keep our finances strictly split—going fifty-fifty on everything, including the care of our aging parents—I agreed. I spent the next five years working myself to the bone, quietly building a million-dollar nest egg specifically for my dad’s retirement and medical care. But when the household ledger arrived this month, the charges were a sea of red, all linked to one name: her childhood best friend’s father, Frank. When I confronted her, she didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Tommy’s family is going through a tough time, Lester. I’m just helping where I can. It’s pocket change.” Pocket change. There were thirteen transactions, each hovering around a hundred dollars, all within a single month. Yet when my dad was hospitalized last month and his co-pay came out to three hundred dollars, Donna printed out the itemized statement and left it on the kitchen island, demanding I reimburse her half of the shared debit account immediately. I didn’t want to fight. I threw the papers onto the counter and locked myself in the guest room. Until yesterday, when my dad’s condition suddenly worsened. Panicked, driving like a madman, I rushed to the bank to withdraw the funds for his emergency surgery. But the teller behind the glass gave me a look of cold confusion. “Mr. Crawford, the beneficiary listed on this high-yield trust isn’t your father. Is it possible there’s been a mistake?” My brain went completely numb. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. How could there be a mistake? Every single dollar in that account was paid for in my sweat, my blood, the missed dinners, the eighty-hour workweeks. The teller, growing impatient, turned the monitor toward me. The name of the trust fund stared back at me in bold, unforgiving letters: “The Frank Palmer Care Trust.” Frank Palmer. Tommy’s father. … It felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water directly down my spine. My phone buzzed in my hand, jarring me back to the sterile warmth of the bank lobby. It was a text from my dad. “Don’t worry about me, Lester. The doctor says a couple of painkiller shots will do the trick. Save your money.” I pressed my hand over my mouth, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. Looking at the massive withdrawals over the past few months, I had actually allowed myself to believe my dad was finally spending money on himself, that he was finally enjoying his golden years instead of scrimping to save me a dollar. It had all been a lie. Someone else had been living off my sacrifice. I took a cab straight back to our suburban home, slamming the bank statement onto the marble coffee table. “Why is Frank Palmer’s name on my dad’s trust fund, Donna?” Donna startled, looking up from her tablet. But within seconds, her expression shifted back to that familiar, defensive coldness. “All my liquid capital is tied up in the firm’s new real estate development. You know I can’t touch it right now.” “I just put Frank’s name on it as a temporary measure. He’s sick, Lester. He could need emergency surgery at any moment. I needed a contingency plan. Once the firm’s payout clears next month, I’ll transfer three times that amount back into your account.” It was the same raw, unapologetic favoritism. She had assigned a custom ringtone to Tommy’s father years ago. Even if he called at three in the morning, she would leap out of bed to answer. Meanwhile, my dad’s chronic illness had flared up three times this past year, and she hadn’t so much as sent a text asking how he was doing. My phone buzzed again. It was a frantic alert from the hospital. My dad’s vitals were dropping. They needed to move him to the ICU immediately. “I need the money. Now.” My voice shook, my teeth clicking together. Donna looked at me as if I were a hysterical child, her eyes swimming with deep-seated irritation. Before she could speak, Tommy stepped out from the kitchen, holding a glass of iced tea, looking entirely too comfortable. “I’m afraid that’s not going to work, Lester,” Tommy said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “My dad just booked a luxury European cruise for the three of us. It covers all our expenses, and we had to use the cash on hand. There’s barely anything left in that account.” He smirked, turning his phone screen toward me to show the balance of the linked debit card: $54.82. A million dollars. Five years of working myself to the bone, of turning myself into a ghost at corporate dinners, reduced to fifty-four dollars and eighty-two cents. My throat closed up. I stared at Donna, my vision blurring. “My dad is on an operating table right now. He is dying. And you—” “Oh, stop it,” she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Is it really necessary to make up a lie like that just for money? Fine. I’ll write you a promissory note. I’ll pay you back three million next month.” She grabbed a pen, scribbling a sloppy note on a piece of scrap paper and sliding it across the table, as if a few scratched lines could erase the absolute betrayal of my trust. Just then, the front door opened, and Frank walked in, carrying several high-end shopping bags, loudly boasting about the designer watch he’d just bought. That money was supposed to buy my dad a peaceful retirement. Last month, I had bought my dad a three-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater. He had tucked it away in his closet, refusing to wear it because it was “too nice.” He kept wearing his faded, threadbare flannel shirt. My hands shook as I unlocked my phone, frantically going through my contacts to see who I could borrow money from. Then, a banner notification popped up from the hospital. “Time of death: 4:14 PM.” The world went completely silent. It felt as though a lightning bolt had struck me, splitting me open from the inside out. I stood frozen in the entryway. I slowly crumpled the cold, worthless promissory note in my fist. Looking at the three of them laughing in the living room, a strange, hollow clarity washed over me. I decided right then: I was done. I was never coming back. During the three days of my dad’s wake, I cried until my eyes burned dry. Almost everyone we knew came to pay their respects, to offer a quiet word of comfort. Everyone except Donna. She didn’t even know. She was too busy driving Tommy and his father to their premium executive wellness physicals at the private clinic—a package I had originally suggested she buy for “my” father. Instead, she had forced my dad to go through the receipts, charging him for the co-pay right in front of her. That night, my dad had quietly packed his small bag and walked out into a torrential downpour, catching a bus back to his old house in the country. He developed a severe fever that night, which ultimately triggered his final organ failure. And now, he would never need another doctor. When I finally took an Uber back to the house to pack, I found my dad’s clothes and blankets strewn across the hallway floor. Tommy was standing in the living room, bossily directing two moving men as they unscrewed the framed photographs from the wall. “What the hell are you doing?” I gasped. Tommy crossed his arms, looking down his nose at me. “Oh, Lester. My dad’s heart has been acting up, and Donna said he should move in here so we can keep an eye on him. Obviously, we had to clear out this junk to make room.” When we first bought this house, we agreed on a split layout for our parents. The two guest rooms were meant for her mother and my dad. Later, when her mother moved to France, Donna unilaterally gave that room to Tommy. I hadn’t protested. But now, she was giving my dad’s room to Tommy’s father. Seeing my dad’s meager belongings being stepped on by the movers, a surge of raw fury rushed to my head. “These are my father’s things! What right do you have to throw them around?” “I gave them permission.” The front door opened, and Donna walked in, carrying a bottle of heavy-duty disinfectant. She began spraying the walls of my dad’s old room, her movements casual and unbothered. “Your dad hasn’t been back in three days. He obviously went back to the countryside. I told you he didn’t belong in the suburbs anyway, but you insisted on dragging him here.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The place smells like old dust. It’s disgusting.” My fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being crushed under the tires of a semi-truck. Suddenly, a loud “crack” echoed through the hall. The movers had dropped the only professional portrait my dad had ever taken. The glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces—mirroring the cold, lonely way he had died. In its place, Tommy hung a framed photo of Donna, Tommy, and Frank laughing together at a beach resort. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “You told me you hated photos. We don’t even have a wedding album.” Donna froze, her hand hovering over the spray bottle. She looked away, a brief flash of discomfort crossing her face. “Frank said he was feeling depressed about his heart condition. He wanted to take some family photos to cheer himself up. It’s just a picture, Lester. Don’t be so petty.” Just an hour ago, I had seen Frank down the street, lively and dancing with the neighborhood block club. He didn’t look sick at all. I looked down. A small mason jar filled with loose change rolled out of the pile of my dad’s things, shattering against my boot. My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, the tears finally spilling over. The jar still smelled faintly of the cheap peppermint and sawdust that always clung to my dad. I gathered the broken pieces and his scattered belongings into my arms. Donna sighed, adopting her usual tone of superficial sweetness. “Fine, Lester. Once Frank’s health stabilizes, I’ll take you and your dad to Europe. We can do a whole family trip. Will that make you happy?” In the past, I would have clung to that promise, begging for whatever scrap of affection she was willing to throw to my father. But now, he was gone. And I was simply too tired to care. I pushed past her, hard enough to make her stumble, and walked straight into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Donna stood frozen in the hallway, staring blankly at the closed door. She had no idea that just an hour ago, I had accepted the corporate transfer to our international branch in Tokyo. Before, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind, so I had turned down the offer three separate times. Now, there was nothing left to keep me here. The flight to Tokyo was scheduled for two days later. My director, thrilled by my sudden acceptance, had authorized a three-month advance on my relocation salary. I used every penny of it to buy a beautiful, polished granite headstone for my dad. He had spent his entire life working in the cold, sacrificing everything for me. In death, he deserved a beautiful place to rest. When I got back to the house, I began packing my suitcase. There was very little of my own stuff left in the house anyway; most of it had been slowly crowded out by Tommy and Frank’s belongings over the years. Once I packed away my dad’s things, there was no trace of us left. A few minutes later, Donna walked in, the chill of the autumn air still clinging to her coat. I didn’t stop folding my shirts. She leaned against the doorframe, her brows furrowed in deep irritation. “What is this? Are you moving back to the countryside with your dad?” “Ever since Frank moved in, you’ve been throwing a tantrum. Now you’re running away? How do you think this makes me look to our friends?” I didn’t look up, refusing to absorb her misplaced anger. Sensing my absolute silence, she opened her mouth to snap at me, but a blood-curdling shriek from the guest room cut her off. “Oh my god! Help!” Tommy came rushing out, holding a large snake with a pair of BBQ tongs. “There’s a snake in my dad’s room! He has a heart condition! If anything happens to him, I’ll die!” Frank was cowering in the corner of the hallway, casting a highly calculated, terrified glance in my direction. With just one look from Tommy, Donna’s eyes snapped to me, instantly cold with accusation. “Did you put that snake in his room, Lester?” I met her gaze dead-on, my voice devoid of emotion. “You know I have a phobia of reptiles. Do you really think I would touch that?” My quiet counter-question made her hesitate for a fraction of a second. But Tommy took that moment to squeeze out a few tears, his voice trembling with victimhood. “I know Lester hates me, and I can leave if I’m not wanted. But my dad is old, and his heart can’t take this kind of shock… Lester knew that.” His sobbing voice wiped away whatever lingering doubt Donna had. Ignoring my well-known, paralyzing fear of snakes, she snatched the tongs from Tommy and stepped toward me, bringing the writhing reptile closer to my face. “So you do know how to feel afraid?” she hissed. “Then why did you do this to Frank? Are you trying to embarrass me until there’s nothing left of my reputation?” My pulse skyrocketed. Terror gripped my chest, and my hands began to shake uncontrollably. “Donna, I said it wasn’t me!” Frank whimpered from the corner. “Donna, sweetheart, maybe I should just go. I don’t want to get between you two.” Donna immediately grabbed his arm, her eyes flashing with ice as she glared at me. “I bought this house. If anyone is leaving, it’s him.” I stared at her, completely stunned. When we first bought this fixer-upper, we spent months choosing every tile, every coat of paint together. She had held my hand in the empty living room and promised me this would be our sanctuary. And now, she was throwing me out of it. I didn’t argue. I grabbed my suitcase, walked out, and slammed the door behind me. I spent the night in a cheap motel down the road. The next morning, my phone chimed with an automated alert from my bank: A foreclosure and lien notice on my dad’s old farmhouse in the country. My mind went entirely blank. Before I could process it, the bank representative called. “Mr. Crawford, we’re calling to inform you that Mrs. Crawford has leveraged your father’s property as collateral for a fifty-thousand-dollar personal loan. Since the primary account is flagged, we need to verify the repayment schedule.” A suffocating wave of dizziness hit me. When I finally stumbled my way to my dad’s old house, I found Donna and two loan inspectors standing in the yard, surveying the property. “Donna, what are you doing?” My voice was barely a whisper. She looked at me, completely unbothered. “Because of your little stunt last night, Frank had a severe panic attack. He’s in the hospital right now waiting for a heart stent.” “You made a mistake, Lester. Now you have to pay for it.” I tried to keep my voice from cracking, but the grief and rage were spilling over. “This house is the only thing my dad left me. It’s all I have left of him. You knew that.” Donna blinked, then looked around the empty yard. “Where is your dad anyway? I’d love to ask him face-to-face how he raised a son to be so vindictive.” A wild, breathless laugh escaped my throat, my eyes burning. “He… he’s dead, Donna.” Donna froze, her eyes widening. Beside her, Tommy stumbled slightly, as if trying to play up his own fragility. “Lester, please… don’t make up horrible lies just to escape responsibility. Your dad is a good man, and it’s cruel to curse him like that. I know how painful it is to worry about a father…” Seeing Tommy’s frail, pathetic act, Donna’s expression hardened once more. “Tommy stayed up all night at the hospital, terrified to close his eyes. You should understand that kind of pain, Lester. Do unto others—or did you forget that?” Years ago, when I sat outside my dad’s operating room crying my eyes out, she had told me I was overreacting. She told me it wasn’t a big deal. But now, because Tommy was crying, she suddenly understood what grief was. I walked over and stood in front of the front door, spreading my arms to block them. “Get. Out.” Donna’s face twisted with impatience. “It’s just a temporary mortgage, Lester. We aren’t tearing the place down. Don’t make a scene.” “Frank needs this surgery. Can’t you show a single shred of humanity?” I looked at her self-righteous face, and for a second, I thought I might actually lose my mind. Losing her remaining patience, Donna snatched the clipboard from the inspector and signed her name on the dotted line. She walked up to me, looking down at me with cold pity. “Don’t forget who put down the down payment for this farmhouse in the first place, Lester. I have every legal right to use it.” She pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from her purse and tossed them at my feet, like a master throwing a scrap to a dog. “Take this. Rent a nice apartment for you and your dad for a month. I promise I’ll clear the mortgage and give you the deed back in thirty days.” She turned, wrapping her arm around Tommy to support him as they walked back to her car. My fingers tightened around the dirt-stained bills. I collapsed onto the gravel driveway. In that quiet, dusty yard, the last remaining thread of my marriage finally snapped. For the rest of the day, Tommy’s social media was flooded with updates. Donna was at the hospital, feeding Frank soup, fluffing his pillows, playing the role of the perfect, devoted daughter-in-law. My phone buzzed repeatedly with texts from her: “I know you’re hurt about the money. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you next month, double.” “I found a lovely two-bedroom cottage near the city for you and your dad. I paid the security deposit. Move in there for now, and I’ll explain everything to your dad later.” But Donna… your money, your apologies, and you—I don’t want any of it anymore. That evening, Donna walked into the hospital room carrying takeout. Tommy smiled, leaping up to greet her. “Donna! You should have told me Lester’s dad actually passed away. We wouldn’t have had to go through all that trouble with the mortgage.” The takeout container slipped from her fingers. The plastic cracked against the linoleum, and hot soup splattered across the floor.

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Wayne and I had been fighting our divorce in court for a grueling six months. We had gone from the city’s golden couple—young, ambitious, and deeply in love—to a cautionary tale of bitter resentment. Thirty minutes before our third hearing was scheduled to begin, Wayne asked to meet. He was rubbing his temples, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “It’s time to end this circus, Gwen. Cheryl can’t wait any longer.” “Name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll sign.” Before I could even open my mouth, his phone began to ring, shrill and demanding. He answered it, and a softness crept into his face—a gentle warmth he probably didn’t even realize was there. “Don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s just a matter of writing a bigger check.” “I’ll wrap this up soon. Wait for me at home, sweetheart.” I stared at the face that was once my home, now so utterly foreign. In that single, quiet moment, all the fight drained out of me. “Don’t worry about it.” “We’re done, Wayne. No more lawyers. I’ll sign the papers.” 1. The six-month legal battle ended not with a bang, but with a quiet surrender. The sudden settlement shocked everyone. After all, Wayne and I had been married for seven years. Fighting in court for half a year made people think we were just two stubborn souls who couldn’t let go, weaponizing the law because we couldn’t stop caring. The press had a field day. Wayne issued a perfectly polished, PR-approved statement: “I apologize for the distraction our personal matters have caused. While Gwen and I have officially finalized our divorce, we remain friends. I wish her nothing but the best in her next chapter.” My eyes lingered on the word “friends” for a long time. I let out a soft, hollow laugh. For Cheryl’s sake, Wayne had torn me to shreds more times than I could count. We could never be friends. We hadn’t even managed to salvage our dignity. Today was the kindest he had been in six months. After I gave him my answer, he sat on the plush leather sofa of the courthouse conference room for a long time, slowly stacking the negotiation folders he had prepared to use against me. “Since we’re settled, I’ll have my team draw up the final agreement,” he said. “I’ll leave you with twenty percent of the company’s shares as a settlement. And the penthouse downtown is yours.” He paused, running through a mental checklist to see if he had missed anything. Then, he stood up. Perhaps even he felt the negotiation had been jarringly fast. When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back. “Take care of yourself, Gwen.” I closed my eyes, offering him nothing but silence. Later that afternoon, my lawyer emailed over the settlement papers. A brief text followed the files: “The opposing counsel cited ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the grounds. A mutual, uncontested split. Under the terms, aside from the assets he personally transferred, the remaining marital property will be divided down the middle.” “Irreconcilable differences.” What a beautiful, sanitized way to package betrayal. I had still underestimated Wayne’s talent for keeping up appearances. My phone buzzed. A photo and a voice note appeared, sent from Wayne’s number. The photo showed my old desk at the office, all my personal belongings swept onto the floor. The voice note, however, belonged to a woman. “Hey, Gwen. I heard you’re finally leaving. Just thought I’d help you clear out some of this trash.” Cheryl. Her voice was sweet and melodic, with a lingering, childish lilt. It was the kind of voice men found impossible to resist. I tapped the microphone icon and replied, my voice deadpan and steady: “I may be resigning from my position, Cheryl, but I am still the largest individual shareholder of this firm. If I want to, I can have you thrown out on the street along with that trash.” The chat remained quiet for several minutes. When the next message popped up, it was Wayne’s voice, with Cheryl’s soft whimpering audible in the background. “Gwen, she didn’t mean any harm. Stop attacking her.” I didn’t bother to reply. I gathered my files, stood up, and walked out of the courthouse. As I got into my car, two more messages from Wayne flashed on my screen. Attached was a photo of a silver frame resting back on my desk. “The other stuff was old anyway, but I put this back. You should keep it.” Inside the frame was a photograph of the Northern Lights dancing over an arctic landscape. Years ago, during our first grueling year of building the business, he had printed it out and promised me: “The second we make it, Gwen, I’m taking you to the Arctic. We’ll take a photo just like this together.” Seven years had passed. Wayne had risen from a broke, struggling designer to the CEO of one of the city’s most talked-about public companies. Wealth and power were at his fingertips. But the trip to the Arctic was a promise he had buried long ago. Wayne was right about one thing, though. Old things belonged in the trash. Instead of replying, I tapped his profile and blocked his number. 2. I went to the office to finalize my exit paperwork with HR. As I reached for the brass handle of the office door, the voices of colleagues passing by stopped me cold. “Seven years of marriage, and she just walks away? What is Gwen acting so high and mighty about?” “Weren’t there rumors that someone cheated? Maybe it was her.” “Definitely. She probably got caught doing something behind Wayne’s back, which is why she settled so fast today.” “I heard Wayne even let her keep a chunk of shares. Honestly, he’s too good to her…” I stared down at my shoes, motionless. The HR director gave me an awkward, pained look. “Gwen… ignore them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” I knew exactly what they were talking about. And I knew exactly who had planted those seeds. To pave a clean path for Cheryl’s arrival, to shield his precious little girl from public scrutiny, Wayne had thrown me to the wolves. He had made me the villain in his narrative. Sensing my silence, the HR director tried to soften the blow. “Everyone knows how much you loved Wayne. You built this company with him from the ground up when you guys had nothing. We all used to talk about how perfect you two were. They’re just gossiping. I’ll make sure their manager has a word with them.” I fell into a deeper silence. I had been willing to endure the lean, exhausting years with Wayne because he used to love me fiercely. Back then, he would insist on buying me the finest winter coat while refusing to replace his own tattered jacket. He remembered every milestone—our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, even the small, silly monthly anniversaries—while consistently forgetting his own birthday. Our wedding had been a modest affair in our small hometown, but he had spent every penny he had to make it beautiful. He always gave me the absolute best of whatever he had to offer. That was why, on our last anniversary, under the dim, romantic restaurant lights, as he stared at the little sugar figurines kissing on top of the cake and asked, “Gwen, do you honestly think this life we’re living is still worth it?”—the blow had been so crippling. I had refused to let go. I had wagered our entire history on the belief that he still loved me. I played that losing hand until we dragged each other down, turning into bitter strangers who couldn’t stand the sight of one another. I held on until he started trying to buy my exit with checks and stock options. Only then did I let myself face the truth. Pulling myself out of the memory, I shook my head at the HR director and threw open the door. The whispering employees xinstantly froze, lowering their heads in a rush of panic. But their terror wasn’t directed at me. They were looking past my shoulder, down the long corridor, where Wayne and Cheryl were walking side by side. 3. Cheryl walked a half-step behind Wayne, a brand-new ID badge pinned to her chest: “Creative Director.” The very title I had resigned from only an hour ago. She held a thick portfolio, flipping through the pages with obvious awkwardness. Wayne leaned in occasionally, patiently explaining the terms of the project to her. Oliver, Wayne’s executive assistant, walked behind them. Though he maintained a polite smile for Cheryl, the sheer exhaustion and irritation in his eyes were barely concealed. When he saw me, he froze. “Gwen.” At the sound of my name, Wayne stopped and looked up, the words dying on his lips. Cheryl immediately shrank back, her eyes welling with tears as if on cue. “Oliver, I know you don’t like me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But Gwen has officially resigned. It’s really not appropriate to address her that way anymore, is it? Besides, wasn’t her departure due to her own personal choices? Taking your frustration out on me is really unfair…” She emphasized “personal choices” with delicate spite. The gossiping employees exchanged knowing looks, their suspicions instantly validated. Oliver stood there, open-mouthed, utterly speechless. I folded my resignation slip and slipped it into my pocket, my tone perfectly conversational. “Oliver was just being polite, Cheryl. Why the dramatic reaction? And for the record, I never stated my reasons for resigning. Your creative little rumors are actually quite bothersome to me.” Cheryl’s face paled, and she opened her mouth to shoot back, but Wayne stepped in front of her, gently but firmly cutting her off. He looked at me, his eyes scanning my face. “It’s my fault,” he said quietly. “Let me know when you’re free. I’d like to host a proper farewell dinner for you. You’ve given years of your life to this place. Your contribution matters.” I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Don’t bother. If I’d known anyone off the street could do this job, I wouldn’t have worked myself to the bone for seven years.” Wayne’s expression tightened. I didn’t care to watch the regret settle on his face, so I turned and walked away. Outside, a light drizzle was falling. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, a sudden wave of memory washing over me. It had been on a rainy afternoon just like this one that the last threads of our marriage had finally snapped. I had been working at my desk until 1:00 AM, my blood sugar crashing so hard I was shaking. I called Wayne, hoping he could bring me a sandwich. But when the call connected, a woman’s voice answered. That was the first time I tore down the polite facade I had fought so hard to maintain. I screamed into the phone, my voice cracking. “Why is she answering your phone? How dare you let some girl humiliate me like this? Wayne, what is wrong with you?” A long, agonizing silence stretched across the line before his voice finally came through—not with an apology, but with a heavy, exhausted sigh. That sigh froze the blood in my veins. “I’ll have Oliver drop off some food,” he said, sounding infinitely tired. “Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, we need to talk about a divorce.” I sat in the darkened, empty office, shivering from the cold and the shock. “On what grounds, Wayne? Don’t you dare forget that we built this firm together. You don’t get to—” He cut me off with quiet, brutal efficiency. “Gwen. If it weren’t for me, no agency in this city would have ever hired a designer with a black mark on her record.” The breath left my lungs. Every word died in my throat. Years ago, a prominent industry figure had accused me of copying his work after our concepts overlapped. My agency at the time fired me to save face, cementing my reputation as a plagiarist. I was blacklisted overnight. With nowhere to go, Wayne—who was actively pursuing me back then—stepped in. He told me he believed in me, that genius shouldn’t be stifled by industry politics. I had fallen for him completely, naive and desperate enough to believe he would always be my savior. Over the six months of our divorce proceedings, my authority at Vanguard was systematically stripped away. The designers I had mentored and trained were reassigned. The Creative Director position wasn’t just handed to Cheryl; Wayne had to clear-cut my entire department to build a path for her. My resignation hadn’t been a choice; it was an eviction. “Gwen!” Oliver’s voice broke my thoughts. He had run out after me, holding an umbrella. He offered it gently. “Wayne wanted you to have this. The steps are slick. Get home safe.” I smiled at him, but shook my head, stepping past the umbrella and directly into the cold, gray rain. I had survived hurricanes with Wayne. A little drizzle wasn’t going to break me. 4. To my surprise, a video of our hallway confrontation leaked online that very evening. Within hours, threads dissecting the tension between Cheryl and me began trending on social media. Initially, the speculation leaned toward Cheryl being the homewrecker who ruined my marriage. But by midnight, a highly polished “analysis” video alleging my own infidelity went viral. It laid out a terrifyingly detailed timeline of my daily movements, social circles, and meetings over the past six months. The level of detail was intimate and precise. Instantly, the public narrative flipped, and a tidal wave of vitriol crashed over me. I watched the video from start to finish. The timestamps and locations were accurate, but the commentary was pure, malicious fiction. There was only one person in the world who had access to my schedule with that kind of terrifying accuracy. I dialed Wayne’s personal cell, but it wasn’t his voice that answered. “Still calling your ex after the papers are signed? You really have no shame, do you, Gwen?” Cheryl spat, dropping her sweet act entirely. “Is the internet not dragging you hard enough? Do you need me to spell it out for you?” Her venomous tone was a far cry from the fragile girl she played in front of Wayne. “I’m recording this call, Cheryl,” I replied, my voice completely flat. “And since you’re so fond of public fabrication, look out for a defamation suit.” “You—” I hung up before she could finish. I checked the forums again. The frenzy was building. I clicked on the profile of the anonymous account that had posted the analysis video, and sure enough, thirty minutes after my call with Cheryl, they posted an update. This time, they painted me as a pathological liar and a serial cheater. They dredged up the decade-old plagiarism scandal, exposing the black mark on my career to the entire internet. The comment section became a feeding frenzy. “Oh, she’s that plagiarist from back in the day. Once a thief, always a thief. First she steals art, now she’s sneaking around behind her husband’s back.” “She owes her entire career to Wayne, and this is how she repays him? Talk about ungrateful.” “You can see it in her face. If she’s dishonest enough to steal work, she’s dishonest enough to cheat.” Reading the comments, I felt a familiar, cold dread, dragging me back to the helpless girl I had been ten years ago. With shaking fingers, I opened my messaging app, found the pending contact request Wayne had sent two days ago, and accepted it. I typed: “Did you leak my schedule to that account, Wayne?” His reply came almost instantly. “Gwen, you’re the largest shareholder of Vanguard now. You have more than enough money to disappear and live comfortably. Cheryl is just starting out here. I cannot let her reputation be ruined before she even begins.” I took a ragged, trembling breath. “You know damn well I never plagiarized that work.” The blinking dots appeared and disappeared for a long minute. Finally: “Nobody cares about the details of a ten-year-old rumor, Gwen. Let it blow over. Stop being so bitter about it.” Ten years ago, Wayne had held me in his arms and whispered, “Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I will always believe in you.” Today, he told me the truth didn’t matter. Staring at his words on the screen, the final, pathetic shred of hope I had been harboring withered away. Right then, my doorbell rang, sharp and relentless. Looking through the peephole, I saw a crowd of reporters packing the hallway, cameras aimed squarely at my door. Their voices muffled through the wood: “Gwen! Wayne just released a statement denying any involvement with Cheryl. Do you have a comment?” “Are the cheating allegations against you true?” “Gwen, can you address the rumors regarding your past plagiarism scandal?” A notification banner popped up on my phone—a massive wire transfer from Wayne’s personal account, captioned simply: “Settlement.” I took a long, deep breath and locked my phone. I reached for the door handle and pulled it open. The hallway erupted into a blinding storm of camera flashes. I stepped right into the glare, forcing a calm, polite smile onto my face. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Gwen.”

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Ever since we were children, my fiancé, Burke, wore a tiny silver bell on a chain around his neck. Whenever I rang my matching silver chime, he would appear before me, no matter what. I always thought he was my superhero. But his mother, Mrs. Chapman, disabused me of that fairy tale with a cold smile. “Isla, darling, it’s a leash. A dog collar.” “If he hadn’t been so reckless as a boy and knocked your pregnant mother down the stairs, you wouldn’t have been born premature. You wouldn’t have this failing heart.” I didn’t understand what a leash meant back then. I only knew that whenever I needed Burke, he was there to fix things. Until our engagement party. Mrs. Chapman brought a frail, pale girl before me. “Isla, this is your wedding gift. She has volunteered to be your heart donor.” “After the transplant, you and Burke can be together forever.” Before I could even process her words, the girl dropped to her knees, though her spine remained rigidly straight. “I will give you my heart,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “On one condition. Let Burke go. Free him.” The room erupted into whispers. But the most shocking thing was Burke. His eyes, usually so stoic, welled with tears. He reached up, ripped the silver bell from his neck, and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into useless, glittering shards. “Isla,” he hissed, his voice laced with a venom I’d never heard before. “I have spent my entire life paying for my mistake. I mortgaged my future to you to atone. Why do you still have to hurt Melanie?” The sheer hatred in his eyes pinned me to the spot. I could only watch, paralyzed, as he grabbed her hand and stormed out of the ballroom. But what Burke didn’t know was that my “forever” was already running out. I only had seven days left. … The laughter of the high-society crowd echoed around the ballroom, swelling in waves. Every eye was pinned on me. “Burke finally snapped. Can you blame him? Carrying that dead weight around for years.” “She actually thought she could keep him chained to her forever like a dog. Look at her now.” I stood frozen in the center of the room. The humiliation was physical, like being stripped bare under the harsh chandeliers. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. Mrs. Chapman’s face twisted in fury. She snapped at the security guards standing nearby. “What are you waiting for? Drag that boy back here! He’s lost his mind.” Then, she stepped toward me, wrapping her cold hands around mine, trying to offer comfort. “Isla, sweetheart, I will make this right. I promise you.” “Once we get Burke back, you can punish him however you like. I won’t stop you.” All my life, I had been the “fragile burden,” the tragic girl everyone pitied. Only Burke had ever protected me, pampered me. But now I knew. His kindness was never love. It was just penance. And now that he had decided his sentence was served, it was time for me to wake up from my beautiful, fragile dream. I looked down, slipped the heavy diamond ring off my finger, and placed it gently into Mrs. Chapman’s palm. “It’s fine, Mrs. Chapman. Let’s just call off the wedding.” I didn’t wait to see her reaction. I gathered the heavy tulle of my gown, turned, and walked out. When I got back to the empty family estate, the silence was deafening. Looking around my room, packed with the plush stuffed animals Burke had bought me over the years, I did something I hadn’t done in months. I called my mother, who lived thousands of miles away in Europe. “Isla! Darling, today is your engagement day, isn’t it? Oh, my beautiful girl must look like an absolute angel.” A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. A wave of childish, pathetic longing washed over me. My throat tightened, and a sob slipped out. “Mom… the wedding is off.” “I miss you so much. Can I… can I come stay with you guys?” “No, sweetie.” The warmth in her voice vanished, replaced by a tense, practiced cheerfulness. “Your father and I are in the middle of a massive expansion here to pay for your medical bills. You need to be good and stay with Mrs. Chapman, okay? Burke has sacrificed so much to care for you all these years. Don’t be selfish, Isla.” She kept rambling, her voice a background hum of excuses, but I stopped listening. In the background of the video call, a tiny, high-pitched voice had cut through her words. “Mommy.” A toddler’s voice. But I was an only child. “Mom,” I whispered, my heart freezing. “Who was that?” Her face stiffened. The lie died on her lips, and she let out a long, weary sigh. “Isla… it’s your little brother.” “He’s still so small. I can’t leave him right now. You understand, don’t you, baby? You aren’t mad at Mommy, are you?” My mind went completely blank. A brother. The line went dead before I could even reply. That familiar, crushing pain flared up in my chest. Instinctively, my hand reached down to shake the silver bell I always kept on my nightstand. But my fingers met empty air. Burke had smashed it. My parents had abandoned me. And Burke, the boy who had spent a lifetime holding me when I cried, had walked away too. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had already been carved out, leaving nothing but a ragged, painful void. The sudden ring of my phone shattered the silence. It was Burke. I answered it instantly, my heart leaping with a pathetic spark of hope. But his voice on the other end was like ice. “Isla, did you seriously run to your mother to complain again?” “Hasn’t my family played your personal servants long enough? Why do you have to drag Melanie into your sick little games?” I listened to his trembling, furious voice, feeling strangely detached. “I didn’t complain, Burke. The wedding is canceled.” “I rejected the transplant. You can come back now. Don’t fight with your mother because of me.” There was a rare, heavy silence on the line. He seemed to catch his breath. I took a slow, painful breath and continued. “Burke… thank you for taking care of me all these years. The doctors say I only have seven days left. Can you… would you please spend these last seven days with me?” I held my breath, waiting, hoping for just a sliver of the boy I used to know. But before he could speak, Melanie’s voice drifted through the receiver, dripping with mocking pity. “Burke, don’t let her play you. His mother has guards looking for us everywhere. They’re downstairs right now.” Burke’s tone turned instantly frigid. “Isla, does torturing me make you feel powerful?” The line went dead with a sharp click. I slowly lowered the phone, my fingers stiff and cold. The tiny spark of light inside me flickered once, and went entirely dark. The next morning, I went to the hospital for my routine check-up. After the examination, the doctor’s face was incredibly grim. “Miss Brandt, your heart has reached its absolute limit. You need surgery immediately.” “I heard Mr. Chapman purchased an artificial heart for you. You need to contact him to have it delivered right away.” My heart trembled. I gripped my phone, hesitated for a long time, and finally dialed Burke’s number. Before the line could even ring, a hand snatched the phone from my grip and slammed it onto the tile floor. It shattered into pieces. I turned. Burke stood there, his eyes bloodshot, glaring at me with raw hatred. He grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging in with bruising force. “Isla, when the hell are you going to let me go?” “Are you really this pathetic? We’ve been apart for less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already stalking me to the hospital?” His grip was so tight I couldn’t speak. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over. “I… didn’t…” He let go of me as if I were toxic, pulling out a wet wipe and scrubbing his hands with deep disgust. “I came for my regular check-up. I wasn’t following you,” I whispered, trying to catch my breath. But my explanation only seemed to feed his rage. He swung his hand and slapped me across the face. Hard. “Still lying!” “If you weren’t stalking me, how did Melanie get clipped by a car in the parking lot? She saw you, Isla. She said she saw you.” The force of the blow knocked me to the floor. My vision spun. My chest tightened, a crushing weight cutting off my oxygen. I gasped for air, reaching a trembling hand toward his blurred figure. “I didn’t… my chest… it hurts…” A flicker of panic crossed Burke’s face. He took a half-step forward, as if to check on me. But then his phone rang. Melanie’s whimpering voice echoed from the speaker. “Burke… the doctor says my leg is broken. I have to get a cast. It hurts so bad…” Thinking of Melanie’s supposedly bloody injury, the panic in Burke’s eyes instantly crystallized into cold indifference. He turned away, leaving me on the floor without a single backward glance. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital ceiling blinded me. The doctor looked down at me with deep pity. “Miss Brandt, your heart is failing. We need to perform the transplant now, or else…” Or else I would die. A bitter smile touched my lips. My phone was smashed, and even if it weren’t, Burke had made it clear he never wanted to see me again. I slowly shook my head and closed my eyes. Suddenly, the door to the patient room was kicked open. Burke strode in, his expression cold as stone. Two burly security guards grabbed my arms, hauling me out of bed and forcing me onto my knees on the cold floor. “You’re getting bolder, aren’t you? First you try to ruin Melanie, and now you’re going after her family.” “Isla, did I not warn you to leave them alone?” He forced my head down, his frigid gaze boring into mine. I didn’t struggle. I just looked at him, my voice flat and hollow. “I didn’t do anything. I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.” A flash of irritation crossed his eyes, followed by a harsh sneer. “Still playing innocent? Let’s see how long you can keep it up.” He pulled out his phone and pressed play on an audio recording. “Melanie thinks she can do whatever she wants just because Burke is protecting her? Let’s ruin her. Ruin her entire family. Let’s see how smug she is then. Just do it, I’ll cover the fallout. I’ll transfer the five hundred thousand dollars once it’s done.” The voice on the recording was unmistakably mine. My eyes widened in horror. I shook my head frantically. “That’s not me… that isn’t…” Burke didn’t listen. He turned to his guards. “Since she has so much free time to scheme, she doesn’t need to stay in this hospital. Take her.” I was dragged out of the hospital and locked inside the empty Chapman manor. Guarded by heavy security, I couldn’t leave. Burke walked up to me, looking down at me as if I were a piece of trash. “Isla, you will stay here until Melanie’s surgery is complete.” “If you try another stunt, you can kiss that artificial heart goodbye.” He turned to the guards. “Watch her. Don’t let anyone in.” I lay on the cold hardwood floor, silent, watching the heavy oak doors slam shut. The suffocation was worse now. My heart was giving out. I crawled across the floor, searching for my emergency medication, but Burke had left it behind at the hospital. Exhausted, I let my eyes close, letting the darkness take me. At midnight, a guard shook me awake. “Miss Brandt, Mr. Chapman ordered me to give you this.” I forced my eyes open. It was a small, beautifully decorated cake. Every year on my birthday, Burke would bake me a cake. He never missed a year, each one unique. I had assumed this year would be different. Looking at the little icing figure in a ballgown, memories of our childhood flooded my mind. For a brief, foolish second, I thought the sweet, protective Burke had come back. My heart gave a painful flutter. I dragged myself to the landline on the wall and dialed the number I knew by heart. After several agonizing rings, the call connected. “Burke? It’s my birthday. I was wondering if you…” A young, breathless, purring female voice interrupted me. “Who is this? Stop ruining our night.” I heard Burke chuckle, a low, husky sound, before he leaned in to kiss her. The wet, intimate sounds of their kissing filled the receiver. After what felt like an eternity, his voice drifted over, lazy and uncaring. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just a wrong number. Hang up.” I swallowed the rest of my words. I opened the cake and forced a few bites down my throat. My tears dripped onto the frosting, making it taste bitter and salty. The next morning, a bucket of freezing water was dumped over my head. I sat shivering, gasping from the shock. Melanie stood over me, tilting her head to show off the dark purple bruises on her neck. She smiled triumphantly. “You called last night, didn’t you, Isla?” “Too bad Burke didn’t have time for you. He was a little occupied taking care of me.” The sight of those marks made my eyes burn, but I forced myself to look straight at her. “I did. So what?” Melanie let out a soft laugh and leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I’m going to make sure Burke never pities you again. And I’m going to make sure you never get that heart transplant.” Before I could react, she grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her chest, throwing herself backward with a dramatic scream. She fell hard against the marble edge of the console table. Blood began to pool beneath her dress. Melanie turned deathly pale, clutching her stomach and crying out in agony. Suddenly, a massive force threw me aside. Burke rushed into the room, scooping Melanie into his arms, his eyes blazing with pure hatred as he looked at me. “Isla, how can you be so evil? Melanie’s baby was her only chance to harvest the stem cells for her leukemia treatment!” “Since you killed her child, you will pay her back with your own bone marrow.” My vision went black, and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. My silence only fueled his rage. He ordered the guards to hoist me up and drag me out to a private medical facility. It was only when they strapped me down onto the cold operating table that my mind cleared. “Burke, what are you doing?” “I told you, Isla. You killed Melanie’s baby. You owe her your marrow.” I stared at him in utter disbelief as the heavy, cold needle pierced my spine. As the paralysis crept through my limbs, I felt the sickening slice of the scalpel, felt them extracting the marrow from my bones. The agony was a white-hot iron, keeping me painfully conscious even as my body tried to shut down. Am I dying? Panic rose like a tidal wave. With the last of my strength, my fingers found the small silver bell on my wrist and shook it. “Chime.” Burke glanced at me. But he looked away immediately, turning his back on me to comfort Melanie. The bell slipped from my limp fingers, shattering on the tile floor, just like the love I had carried for him my entire life. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness pull me under. In the fading light of my consciousness, I heard the doctor’s terrified voice. “Mr. Chapman… her heart has stopped.” I felt my spirit detach from my broken shell, hovering in the cold, sterile air of the operating room. I watched my own heart stop on the monitor, a flat, green line accompanied by a long, continuous beep. I saw the doctor panic, saw Burke’s shoulders stiffen. A sudden, sharp dread flickered in his eyes. “What do you mean, stopped?” he muttered. Before the doctor could answer, Melanie grabbed his sleeve, her voice dripping with irritation. “She’s probably faking it again, Burke. I saw her yesterday, perfectly fine, and she pushed me so hard. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have lost the baby and had to undergo this emergency procedure anyway. If you feel bad, what will your mother say?” Hearing Melanie’s whimpering complaints, the brief panic in Burke’s eyes dissolved into cold skepticism. He turned away from my lifeless body, barking into his phone. “Tell Isla to stop playing these cheap games. Once she’s done throwing her tantrum, tell her to prepare for the wedding.” Then he turned to his assistant. “Get the artificial heart delivered to her room. I believe her scheduled surgery is in a couple of days.” I watched him carry Melanie out to his car, cradling her gently. They drove back to his villa, but before they could even step inside, his phone rang again. It was the courier delivering the artificial heart. The assistant answered, and his face drained of all color. He handed the phone to Burke with a trembling hand. “Sir… the courier says… Miss Brandt is dead.” “That’s impossible!” Burke roared, knocking a vase off the entryway table. It shattered into pieces. Melanie hid a small, triumphant smile, whispering softly, “Burke, calm down. The delivery guy is Walter, right? He’s been loyal to the Brandt family for decades. He and Isla are probably just trying to trick you.” But Melanie’s words couldn’t quiet the roaring in Burke’s ears. The dark premonition in his chest grew until it was suffocating. Before he could even make a move to leave, the front doors of the villa were slammed open. Mrs. Chapman burst in, flanked by security. She strode up to her son and delivered a stinging slap to his face. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Isla is dead!”

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Before the sterile lights of the operating room flared to life, I tucked my final letter under Cheryl’s pillow. “Cheryl,” “I wanted so badly to stay by your side forever.” “But Mom and Dad work so hard for every dollar. I couldn’t bear to watch them drain their life savings just to keep me on treatment.” “And the chemo hurts so much. My hair is entirely gone, and I don’t even recognize the hollow boy looking back at me in the mirror anymore.” “I saved up some money from my allowance—it’s under your mattress. Please use it to buy that heated massage chair for Mom and Dad. Their backs always ache after a long day.” “Keep whatever is left for yourself. Thank you for taking such good care of me, Cheryl. It’s your turn to look after them for me now.” Two years. More than six hundred days and nights of pure agony. I had made peace with letting go a long time ago. As I lay there, quietly waiting for the poison I had swallowed to take effect, I heard Cheryl’s hushed, urgent whisper from just outside the curtain: “Double the dosage of the injections. Once Toby’s Stanford nomination is officially transferred to Zach, I’ll find him the absolute best specialists in the country. We will cure him, I promise.” My mother’s choked sob was followed by a sharp slap. “You’re going to destroy him! Look at him—he’s been suffering for a year, Cheryl! He’s nothing but skin and bones!” Cheryl’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Mom, Zach doesn’t have Toby’s natural talent. If we don’t hold Toby back for these two years, Zach will never have a real chance to stand out.” “I’ll hire the finest physical therapists for Toby’s recovery. If anything goes wrong with his health, I’ll give him my own blood, my own organs. We’ll sign over the two lakefront properties in Lake Tahoe to him. Everything will be his.” So, Mom and Dad were actually wealthy. So, I never had leukemia. I was never truly paralyzed. But Cheryl… I’ve already swallowed the poison. There is no saving me now. … I lay silently on the freezing operating table. The anesthesiologist had already slipped the sharp needle into my vein, murmuring reassuringly, “Don’t worry, buddy. Just close your eyes. You’ll be asleep in no time.” I nodded. I wasn’t afraid at all. If anything, I felt a profound sense of relief. Because right before they wheeled me in, I had swallowed an entire bottle of pesticide. I had no intention of waking up. My parents didn’t know. They had stroked my face with trembling hands, trying to bolster my courage. “Don’t be scared, Toby. Mom and Dad will be right outside waiting for you.” Cheryl didn’t know either. She had gently squeezed my skeletal arm, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Our little prince is the bravest boy in the world. When you get out, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” I blinked back my own tears, forcing a weak smile. “Okay,” I whispered. But in my heart, I was screaming apologies. “Mom, Dad, Cheryl. I’m sorry. I’m not that strong. And I can’t let myself be a burden to this family anymore.” I lingered on their faces—the three people I loved most in the world—tracing every line and feature. I wanted to etch them into my mind for the final moments. I had always believed that my family loved me more than life itself. We lived modestly, or so I thought, but whenever I wanted something, my parents never hesitated. They wore threadbare clothes themselves, yet they always bought me the best jackets and the newest art supplies without ever looking at the price tag. When I first fell in love with painting, I tried to keep it to myself, knowing how expensive private art instruction was. But my parents refused to let my dream die. They scraped together enough to send me to the most prestigious private tutor in the city. That summer, Dad worked construction shifts until his back was practically ruined. Mom ran her seafood stall at the wet market all day and woke up at four in the morning to prep breakfast boxes, her eyes permanently bloodshot with exhaustion. When I cried and lied to them, saying I hated painting and wanted to quit, Mom had simply held me close, her voice a soothing balm. “Our little prince deserves the world, Toby. Helping you fly is our greatest joy. It’s never a burden, baby.” Cheryl had spoiled me just as much. She always saved the best treats for me. When my legs grew tired on the long walk home from school, she’d hoist me onto her back and carry me the rest of the way. To her, it was simple: “You’re my little brother. Of course I’m going to take care of you.” As we got older, she stayed up past midnight tailoring study guides to help me with my academic classes. She took on extra shifts to buy me a high-end drawing tablet for my birthday—something she would never have bought for herself. So when I finally overheard the truth, my world fractured. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. They weren’t poor at all. They were incredibly wealthy, hiding it behind a carefully constructed facade. Their grueling sacrifices to “support my dreams” had been nothing but an elaborate, staged performance. The expensive, “hard-won” injections they administered to me daily weren’t medicine to cure me. They were the very chemical cocktails keeping me sick, systematically destroying my body to clear the path for Zach’s guaranteed Stanford nomination. It started two years ago when I began having mysterious spells of fatigue and nausea. Dad had carried me on his back to the community clinic. When the doctor handed down the “leukemia” diagnosis, I had wept in utter terror. My parents cried with me, holding me tight. “It’s going to be okay, Toby,” they sobbed into my hair. “We will cure you. No matter how much it costs, we will never give up on you.” Cheryl’s hand had trembled violently as she held mine, though her voice remained steady, artificially bright. “It’s fine, Toby. You have us. We won’t let anything happen to you.” Looking back, of course I wouldn’t die from the “disease.” Because I never had leukemia in the first place. But the “treatment” they put me through was very real. Month after month, cold metal needles pierced my flesh, leaving my once-smooth arms bruised, battered, and covered in a map of tiny dark puncture wounds. I swallowed handfuls of bitter pills that coated my throat in a medicinal film, keeping my stomach in a perpetual state of low-grade nausea. I had always been terrified of pain and hated taking medicine. But to spare my family any extra grief, I never made a sound when the needles went in. I swallowed the pills without a single complaint. Whenever I saw the pain in their eyes, I’d force a brave smile. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m strong. This won’t beat me.” Every month, they took me for simulated “chemo” sessions. The chemical cocktails they pumped into my system made me violently sick. I couldn’t keep anything down. Whenever I managed to swallow a few bites of food, I’d end up huddled over the toilet, throwing up bile, half-digested broth, and eventually, streaks of dark red blood. My hair began to fall out in thick, horrifying clumps. Soon, my once-thick curls were entirely gone, and I had to wear a beanie to hide my bald, sickly scalp. The pain was a living, breathing thing that kept me awake through the endless dark hours of the night. But I refused to let my parents or Cheryl hear me suffer. On the nights when the agony was too sharp to bear, I would bite down hard on the edge of my comforter, muffling my dry, desperate sobs into the fabric. I convinced myself that they were already carrying too heavy a burden. I couldn’t bear to be the source of their sadness. And yet, despite how perfectly I followed every medical order, living on a diet of tasteless broths and plain rice porridge, my body withered away day by day. I used to be a boy who laughed easily, a boy whose fingers were always stained with acrylics and charcoal. Now, I didn’t even have the strength to lift a paintbrush. My legs would buckle if I tried to stand, leaving me entirely bedridden. My schoolwork, which I used to master with ease, became an impossible fog. The words on the pages swam and distorted, turning into blinding, painful blurs that made my head throb. I lost my health. I lost my hair. At first, my high school friends would drop by to visit. But as the months stretched on and I remained confined to my room, the visits dwindled to texts, then to nothing at all. I lost my friends, too. My entire world shrank to the dimensions of my mattress, my family, and the relentless cycle of medication and simulated hospital visits. One afternoon, after throwing up until my throat burned with dry heaves, I broke down. “Mom, Dad,” I wept, gripping their hands. “Am I ever going to get better? I don’t want to do this anymore.” I had started this journey with so much hope, but as my body deteriorated, those hopes turned into a dark, suffocating despair. I couldn’t stand the thought of dragging my supposedly low-income family into financial ruin. Mom pulled me into her arms, sobbing against my neck, repeating the same empty refrain over and over. “Oh, my sweet boy. You’re going to get better. Of course you are. Don’t talk like that.” Dad’s eyes brimmed with tears. He turned his face away, unable to meet my gaze, his deep voice cracking. “We’re going to cure you, Toby. We will never give up on you.” Cheryl bought me sketchbooks and model kits to cheer me up. She tried to slide a premium set of drawing pencils into my hand, but my fingers were too weak to hold them. The set slipped and clattered to the floor. With a trembling hand, she quietly set the sketchbook on my nightstand. She stroked my gaunt cheek, her voice thick with emotion. “I know it hurts, Toby. But you’re the strongest boy I know. Just keep fighting. We’ll get through this.” They took turns sitting by my bedside, cooking delicate meals, wiping my feverish forehead, and whispering words of encouragement. In just a few months, they all lost a significant amount of weight. Watching their hollowed-out eyes and exhausted faces, a quiet resolution bloomed in my mind: I wanted to die. It wasn’t just the physical agony anymore—it was the crushing weight of guilt. I was destroying my family. More than once, I buried my face in my mother’s lap, my tears soaking her skirt. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Cheryl. Just let me go. It’s my fault… I must have been a bad kid, not eating my vegetables, being stubborn. I’m so sorry I’m making you suffer like this.” Mom’s tears flowed uncontrollably, her chest heaving with violent sobs. “No, sweetie, no. If anyone should apologize, it’s us. We did this to you… we let you get sick…” Cheryl choked back a sob, her voice raw. “Toby, you are the best brother in the world. Don’t ever say such foolish things.” We held each other and wept in the sterile hospital room for what felt like hours. Back then, I thought they were crying out of sheer love and heartbreak. Only now did I realize those tears were born of guilt—a desperate, pathetic attempt to ask for forgiveness for what they were actively doing to me. I never doubted their love. But knowing the truth now, that love felt like a mouthful of ash. Yesterday, I had shattered my old ceramic piggy bank. Twenties, tens, fives, and a mountain of quarters and dimes spilled across my bed. I had saved every cent over the years—academic achievement stipends, birthday cash from relatives, and the lunch money I frequently skipped to save a little extra. It came out to exactly one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty cents. My nose had started bleeding halfway through, but I wiped the blood away and kept counting, eventually packing the cash into a thick envelope and hiding it beneath Cheryl’s pillow. I wanted them to use that money to buy a high-end massage chair. Mom stood at that cold fish stall from dawn to dusk, her lower back constantly locked in pain. Dad supposedly hauled heavy drywall and bricks on construction sites, his shoulders permanently plastered with pain-relief patches. I wanted Cheryl to buy herself that designer dress she’d stared at online for months. Or they could use it for whatever they needed. As for me… I figured I’d watch over them from somewhere far above the clouds. After sealing the letter, I swallowed the entire bottle of pesticide. I remembered seeing Dad use it years ago on our small backyard garden. He would dilute the thick chemical with water and spray it on the weeds. Within hours, the stubborn weeds would shrivel up and die. As a curious child, I had asked him what was in the spray bottle. I vividly remember him holding the canister, carrying me piggyback, and speaking in a rare, stern tone. “Toby, this is poison. You must never, ever touch it. If you swallow even a drop, you’ll go to sleep and never see Mom, Dad, or Cheryl again.” My young self had shuddered and clung to his broad shoulders, nodding vigorously. “I promise, Dad. I’ll never touch it.” Years later, in chemistry class, I learned the science behind it. Organophosphates. They trigger rapid, irreversible multi-organ failure. Your lungs fill with fluid, your respiratory system shuts down, and the death is excruciatingly painful. With a lethal dose, there is no antidote. I went to the back cupboard, found the bottle I had feared my entire childhood, and drank it all. I wanted to make absolutely sure there was no coming back. Finding out that my agonizing illness was self-inflicted by the people I trusted most was devastating. But surprisingly, I didn’t hate them. I knew the love they had given me over the last thirteen years was real. They had taken me out of a cold municipal orphanage when I was five, named me Toby, and raised me as their own. They supported my schooling, bought my expensive canvases, and showered me with affection. You can’t fake a lifetime of tenderness. Even if they kept their true wealth a secret from me. Even if I now knew their love for me was merely a proxy for another boy. Years before they adopted me, they had lost their biological son. They had taken him to an amusement park, and in the overwhelming summer crowds, he slipped away. They put up missing flyers, appeared on national search programs, and spent a fortune trying to track him down. For years, there was only silence. When they adopted me, it was because I shared a striking resemblance to that lost boy, and we were the exact same age. In a way, all the love they poured into me was a desperate attempt to patch the bleeding wound of their guilt. I just never expected the world to be this small. The son they had spent a decade searching for ended up sitting next to me in my sophomore homeroom. I knew the crushing guilt they harbored. They wanted so desperately to make it up to him. So when the school announced there was only one early-admission nomination for Stanford, they resorted to this horrific plan to secure Zach’s future. I chose to believe they didn’t want to permanently break me. Under the weight of their immense guilt, Zach simply became their priority, and they figured they would make it up to me later. What they didn’t account for, however, was that I would die on this table. They would never get their chance. As they wheeled me toward the double doors, Mom’s face was wet with tears. “Toby, don’t be scared. Mom is going to be right outside the whole time.” Dad jogged alongside the gurney, his breathing heavy. “Don’t worry, son. Just a quick nap. When you wake up, we’ll get you whatever you want. Those new clothes you liked, remember? And that trip to New Orleans for real gumbo you’ve been begging for? We’ll pack the car the second you’re discharged.” My father, usually a man of few words, kept talking and talking, desperately trying to fill the silence. Cheryl’s eyes were raw. “Toby, we’re right here.” My heart swelled with a painful mix of grief and gratitude. I could only nod through my tears. “I know. Mom, Dad, Cheryl… I love you guys. Always.” “Toby… we love you too.” Their tears fell faster. But the moment the heavy doors swung shut behind me, the poison finally tore through my defenses, and I retched, coughing up a mouthful of dark, metallic blood. The chemical was in my bloodstream now. A white-hot agony bloomed in my chest and radiated outward, claiming every nerve ending. My lungs hardened, refusing to expand. I gasped, clawing at the air, but nothing came. My eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The blinding, clinical glare of the surgical lamp began to fracture into shimmering halos of light. Then, the pain faded, replaced by a strange weightlessness, as if I were drifting upward, leaving my broken body behind. I felt like I was back in the sun-drenched days before the sickness. Fragments of old memories drifted through my mind like dust motes. Dad hoisting me onto his broad shoulders, my childish laughter echoing through the park. Mom gently running a comb through my thick curls, dressing me in smart little outfits, kissing my forehead and whispering that I was her handsome little man. Cheryl teasing me, chasing me down gravel paths until we were breathless. She always let me win, eventually carrying me home on her back when my energy finally fizzled out. I could still smell the sweet scent of cut grass and warm asphalt on those summer breezes. I remembered the oil painting I did of the four of us standing by the lake—the one that won first place in the county exhibition. Slowly, the edges of my consciousness dissolved. The last thing I heard was the frantic, distorted shout of the lead surgeon. “Wait, something’s wrong! He’s in respiratory distress! His heart rate and blood pressure are plummeting!”

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My cousin’s fiancée was a self-styled fairy princess, and she had made it clear she wanted an exclusive, magical snowfall for her midsummer engagement party. To save money while maximizing the aesthetic for her Instagram feed, my cousin had hauled in a truckload of cottonwood fluff, scattering it across the entire living room of my villa. In my past life, I had tried to warn them that cottonwood fluff was highly flammable. But my aunt had pointed her finger at my face, screaming that I was just a bitter, single spinster jealous of another woman’s romance. Tyler had accused me of ruining the mood, shoving me into the cluttered basement and locking the door from the outside. When the fire erupted, they thought only of saving their own skins, leaving me behind to be burned alive into a charred corpse. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day Tyler was spreading the fluff across the floor. I swallowed the burning hatred in my chest. This time, I didn’t stop them. I even went out and bought two boxes of indoor cold sparklers with my own money. “Tyler, what’s a snowfall without a little magic? A proposal needs sparklers!” “I even disabled the smoke detectors for you. We wouldn’t want the HOA ruining the fun.” Tyler’s eyes lit up, praising me for finally coming to my senses. My aunt scoffed triumphantly. “At least you know your place. If you did anything to ruin my future daughter-in-law’s special night, I would have made you pay.” That evening, Tyler led his blindfolded fiancée into the center of the room, stepping through ankle-deep fluff. I applauded softly, quietly stepping out the front door. Since they loved romance so much, they could keep the doors closed and enjoy their private winter wonderland to their hearts’ content. Even if it cost them their lives. … Three day-laborers carried heavy woven sacks into the living room, unzipping the tops to dump out massive drifts of white cottonwood fluff. The industrial fan in the corner hummed loudly, sending the fluff swirling through the spacious room, settling over the sofa, the coffee table, and the hardwood floors. Tyler had his arm wrapped around Tiffany at the entryway. Tiffany pinched her nose, waving her hand in front of her face. “It’s not thick enough,” she complained. “It doesn’t have that deep, sinking-in feeling when you step on it.” Tyler turned to the workers. “Go get two more truckloads. I want it ankle-deep.” One of the workers wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking uneasy. “Man, this stuff is incredibly light. To get it ankle-deep, you’re talking dozens of sacks. It’s probably going to clog up your HVAC vents.” Tyler pulled a crisp five-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, slapping it onto the entryway console. He looked thoroughly annoyed. “Cut the crap. Here’s extra. Just go get it.” The worker grabbed the cash and hurried out the door. I walked in carrying the groceries I’d just bought, my shoes sinking into the white, feathery layer covering my hardwood floor. Tyler frowned the second he saw me, his expression twisting into disgust. “Erica, your shoes are covered in dirt. Don’t ruin the snow I set up for Tiffany.” My aunt, Sharon, emerged from the kitchen holding a platter of sliced fruit, placing it on the edge of the dining table where the fluff hadn’t yet reached. She rolled her eyes and pointed at me. “Are you blind? Can’t you see Tyler is busy setting up his proposal?” I set the grocery bags down on the floor, the horrific memories of my past life flashing before my eyes. In my previous life, seeing the house filled with cottonwood fluff had terrified me. I had immediately shut off the fan and warned them that this fluff was basically kindling—highly volatile and prone to explosive ignition at the slightest spark. But Aunt Sharon had sneered, calling me a bitter, unmarried prude who couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy. Tyler had lost his temper, shouting that I was ruining the magic, before violently shoving me into the basement storage room filled with old furniture and locking me in. That night, during the proposal, a stray spark from the cold sparklers ignited the fluff. The fire spread in seconds, and the three of them ran for their lives, leaving me trapped in the basement to burn to death. Now, back on this exact day, I stared down at the white fuzz clinging to the tips of my shoes and slowly stepped back onto the doormat. “Sorry,” I said quietly. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Tiffany pouted, leaning heavily into Tyler’s chest with a pathetic whine. “Tyler, look at her. She looks so miserable. I bet she doesn’t even want to lend us her villa for our engagement.” Tyler patted her shoulder, whispering sweet nothings. “She wouldn’t dare. The deed might have her name on it, but Mom gave her twenty grand when she bought this place. Half of this house belongs to us.” Aunt Sharon walked over, nudging my grocery bag with the toe of her shoe, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Tiffany’s right. Erica, are you just bitter because Tyler found someone so beautiful and successful, while you’re still entirely alone?” I forced a smile, looking up at them. “Of course not. Tyler getting engaged is a huge milestone. I’m thrilled for him.” I turned around, walked out to my car, and pulled two heavy cardboard boxes from the trunk. I carried them into the foyer and set them down on the floor. When I tore open the packaging, dozens of bundled, cylindrical indoor cold sparklers were revealed. “Tyler, what’s a snowfall without a little magic? A proposal needs sparklers.” Tyler’s eyes lit up as he picked one up, inspecting it. “These are perfect. The photos are going to look insane.” Tiffany squealed, grabbing a bundle and hugging it to her chest, her face splitting into a massive grin. “Oh, Erica, you really outdid yourself! This is going to feel exactly like “Frozen”.” I pointed up at the white plastic disc on the ceiling, claiming my credit. “I even disabled the smoke detectors for you. We wouldn’t want the HOA or the fire department ruining the fun.” Tyler nodded eagerly, thoroughly pleased. “Wow, Erica. You actually did something useful for once.” Aunt Sharon lifted her chin, scoffing. “At least you have some common sense. If you did anything to ruin my future daughter-in-law’s special night, I would have made you pay.” I took a step back, giving them space. “You guys keep decorating. I’m going upstairs to pack a few things. I won’t get in your way.” I walked up to the second floor, entered the master bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I dragged my suitcase out from under the bed. I packed my property deed, my passport, my jewelry, and a few luxury watches, tucking them safely into the inner lining of the suitcase. Then I opened my laptop, logged into my smart home dashboard, and adjusted the five security cameras on the first floor to their optimal angles. I enabled the automatic cloud backup feature. Downstairs, I could hear the workers shouting as another dozen sacks of cottonwood fluff were dumped into the center of the living room. I closed my laptop and slid it into my backpack. “Since you love romance so much, enjoy your private winter wonderland to your hearts’ content. Even if it costs you your lives.” I dragged my suitcase downstairs. The fluff in the living room was incredibly thick now. With every step, the soft white fuzz swallowed more than half of my shoes. Tyler was busy directing two workers on ladders. “Seal up every single window seam,” Tyler instructed. “Use the heavy-duty tape. I don’t want a single draft coming through.” One worker was wrapping wide black duct tape tightly along the edges of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tiffany was spinning around the room, holding her selfie stick high. “Hey guys! Look at the midsummer snowfall my fiancé set up for me! Isn’t it incredibly romantic?” She pouted at the camera. “The proposal livestream starts at eight tonight. Make sure to tune in to catch some of this magic!” Aunt Sharon, who was wiping down the sofa armrests with a rag, frowned the moment she saw my suitcase. “Where do you think you’re going with that?” I stood the suitcase up by the door. “Work emergency. I have to go out of town for a business trip for a few days.” Aunt Sharon clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Of all the days to leave. You really are a dark cloud over this family.” Tyler walked over from the ladder to chime in. “Let her go, Mom. It’s better she’s not here to ruin the shot tonight. Tiffany has over a hundred thousand followers tuning in.” Tiffany lowered her selfie stick and wrapped her arm around Tyler’s. “Exactly. And my bridesmaids are coming soon. They’ve been dying to see this place.” She eyed my canvas sneakers with disgust. “Erica, watch where you step. My wedding dress is a rental, and if it gets dirty, the deposit is gone.” I nodded, keeping my feet firmly on the doormat. “Don’t worry. I’m not coming in.” The worker climbed down the ladder. “All the windows are sealed, boss. Not even a fly is getting through.” Tyler clapped his hands, satisfied. “Great. Go seal the back door and the basement door too. Wrap it thick.” I pointed toward the hallway under the stairs. “Tyler, the back door gets a lot of wind. Tape alone might not hold it.” Tyler looked worried. “What should we do? If the wind leaks in, it’ll ruin the snow effect.” I gestured to a pile of empty cardboard appliance boxes in the corner. “Just stack those empty boxes against the door to block the draft.” Tyler waved his hand at the workers. “Did you hear her? Do what she said. Block the door.” The two workers pushed the large, heavy cardboard boxes over to the back door, stacking them high against the handle. Aunt Sharon walked over to the smart control panel on the wall, grumbling. “Why are the HVAC and central air still running? Do you think electricity grows on trees?” Tyler rushed over to stop her. “Mom, if we turn off the AC, we’re going to suffocate in here with all these people.” Aunt Sharon glared at him. “Once the main lights are off, we’ll just have the ambient lighting. It won’t get that hot.” She reached out and flipped the main breaker switch on the panel. The hum of the house died instantly, and the air grew completely still. Tiffany smiled, agreeing with her. “Sharon’s right, Tyler. Too much air current will blow the snow around. It looks much prettier when it falls quietly.” Tyler rubbed his neck, giving in. “Fine, turn it off. And lock the front door too. We don’t want any nosey HOA security guards wandering in.” I adjusted my backpack and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll take off then. Good luck tonight.” With that, I pushed open the front door and walked down the steps. As soon as I got outside, my phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. Aunt Sharon had posted a video. The clip showed the living room covered in cottonwood fluff, with the cold sparklers piled high on the coffee table. Aunt Sharon: [Tyler is proposing tonight! Everyone make sure to tune into Tiffany’s stream to support them!] Uncle Richard replied first: [Wow, that looks incredible. Tyler’s really moving up in the world.] Aunt Peggy followed: [What a gorgeous place. Tiffany is a lucky girl.] Aunt Sharon immediately sent a bragging voice note: “Of course she is. We bought this place in cash. Unlike some people who are in their thirties, completely single, and slinking off on ‘business trips’ today.” The chat went quiet for a few seconds before Aunt Peggy replied: [What’s the point of a girl getting so much education if she can’t even find a husband?] I stared at the messages but didn’t reply. I slid my phone into my pocket, walked over to my car, and loaded my suitcase into the trunk. I climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door to shut out the summer heat. I rolled the window down just a crack, keeping my eyes fixed on the villa. The heavy front door was shut tight. With the blackout film on the second-floor windows and the thick tape sealing the first-floor glass, the entire house was now an airtight vault. As dusk fell, the streetlights began to flicker on. I opened the security app on my phone. The screen split into five crystal-clear feeds of the villa’s first floor. The main chandelier was off, leaving only the wall sconces casting a dim, warm glow. The cottonwood fluff on the floor gleamed white in the dim light, burying their ankles. Tiffany’s four bridesmaids, dressed in matching dresses, were sitting on the couch touching up their makeup, while Tyler adjusted his bow tie in his white tuxedo. Aunt Sharon, wearing a tight, crimson silk sheath dress and a pearl necklace, was fluttering around the room. She walked to the entryway, turned the deadbolt to lock the front door, and then twisted the extra security latch. “There, locked tight. Let’s see if anyone tries to interrupt our Tiffany’s livestream now.” Tyler watched her, complaining slightly. “Mom, why did you lock it so tight? We still have to go out for celebratory drinks after this.” Aunt Sharon slapped his hand away. “What do you know? The HOA sent an alert saying there’s too much cottonwood fluff in the neighborhood and they’re sending inspectors. If they barge in and see this, they’ll fine us a fortune.” Tyler shrugged. “Let them. Tonight’s worth it.” Tiffany floated down the stairs in a white gown with a massive tulle train that dragged behind her through the fluff. She wore a rhinestone tiara and held her selfie stick high. Her bridesmaids immediately squealed in jealousy. “Oh my god, Tiffany, you look stunning!” “That dress must have cost thousands! Tyler is treating you like a queen.” Tiffany smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. “Of course. And this entire villa is his engagement gift to me.” She walked to the center of the living room and mounted her phone onto a tripod. “Alright guys, I’m going live!” I switched over to her social media app. The very first recommended live stream was Tiffany’s. The title read: “Exclusive Snowfall in a Multi-Million Dollar Mansion: Witnessing True Love.” I tapped into the stream. Tiffany was standing in the middle of the drifting fluff, the industrial fan on its lowest setting gently blowing the white fibers around her. The viewer count surged quickly, jumping from five thousand to thirty thousand. The comment section was scrolling at warp speed: [Oh my god, is this actually inside a house? That is so romantic!] [How much did this cost? I am too poor for this world.] [He’s so handsome, she’s so gorgeous. Absolute couple goals!] Tiffany blew a kiss to the camera, blushing. “Thank you all so much. My fiancé bought this place in cash, and he set up this entire winter wonderland just to surprise me.” Aunt Sharon squeezed her way into the frame, grinning ear to ear. “Make sure to hit that follow button, everyone! My Tyler is quite the catch.” Meanwhile, the family group chat was blowing up again. Uncle Richard: [Look at Sharon on camera! That dress is so elegant.] Aunt Peggy: [With this many followers, Tiffany’s going to make a fortune doing brand deals.] Aunt Sharon, feeling generous, dropped a digital gift card link into the group chat: [A little celebration for everyone!] I tapped the link and claimed my fifty cents. On the camera feed, Tyler walked over to the corner, picked up the box of cold sparklers from the coffee table, and ripped it open. “Girls, come here. Take two each. The moment I get down on one knee, light them up.” The four bridesmaids scrambled over to grab their sparklers, while Tyler stuffed the largest bundle into his jacket pocket. He checked his watch. “It’s time.” He walked up to Tiffany, pulling a black silk ribbon from his pocket. “Close your eyes, babe. I have a surprise for you.” Tiffany giggled and closed her eyes as Tyler tied the ribbon snugly behind her head. He took her hand, leading her slowly to the exact center of the room. Her train carved a deep path through the thick fluff. I leaned back in my car seat, turning up the volume on my phone. The viewer count on the live stream cracked a hundred thousand. Tyler stopped Tiffany in the center of the room. The fluff beneath their feet was packed tight, but the surrounding piles remained massive. Aunt Sharon stood by the couch, filming with her own phone, while the bridesmaids took their positions at the four corners, holding the sparklers. The comments were a blur of excitement: [This is like a movie!] [Is that a ring box in his pocket?] [One hundred thousand people watching. I’m crying!] Tyler took a deep breath, let go of Tiffany’s hand, took a half-step back, and sank to one knee into the drift. The white fluff swallowed his shin. He pulled out the red velvet box and popped it open, the diamond ring catching the dim ambient light. “Babe, you can take off the blindfold.” Tiffany reached up and pulled the ribbon away. Seeing Tyler on one knee, she gasped, wrapping her hands over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. “Tyler…” Tyler looked up, his voice thick with rehearsed emotion. “Tiffany, from the moment I met you, I promised to give you the world. This mansion, this snowfall—it’s all my promise to you. Will you marry me?” Tiffany nodded frantically, sobbing. “Yes! Yes, a million times yes!” Tyler stood up, slid the ring onto her finger, and pulled her into a tight embrace. Aunt Sharon clapped loudly, cheering. “Yes! Beautiful! A perfect match!” The bridesmaids screamed in delight, and virtual gifts—sports cars, yachts—flooded the live stream screen. Tyler let go of Tiffany and turned to the camera, shouting, “Thank you to all hundred thousand of you witnessing this!” He pulled the giant bundle of cold sparklers from his pocket. “But babe, the romance isn’t over yet.” He nodded to the bridesmaids in the corners. “Get ready.” The bridesmaids raised the sparklers high, forming a circle around the couple. Tiffany held her dress, her face full of anticipation. The chat was in a frenzy: [Here comes the magic!] [Light them up! Light them up!] [Real-life Disney princess!] Tyler reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, windproof metal lighter. He flicked the cover open, spinning the wheel to produce a bright, steady flame. He held the sparkler fuses right over it. He looked up at Tiffany, giving her a smug, confident grin. And then, he pressed the ignition.

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After my daughter fell ill, my mother brought over a small muslin bag filled with wild Appalachian herbal. She had foraged it herself up in the Vermont woods, nearly fracturing her ankle on a steep ridge in the process. I felt incredibly guilty and deeply touched. I carefully tucked the bag away in the pantry and repeatedly warned Garrett not to touch it. But when I came home from work, the pantry shelf was bare. Garrett had given the precious roots to his client’s young secretary. When I confronted him, Garrett didn’t even look up from his phone. His voice was entirely dismissive. “Oh, that little red bag?” he said. “Chelsea liked it, so I let her take it. I have so much on my plate at work, Hannah. I can’t be expected to remember every single little thing you say. Besides, it’s just some dried roots. If you want them so badly, I’ll buy you another bag online.” He was always like this. My words never seemed to register, always drifting right past him. In the past, I would have made excuses for him. I would have told myself he was under immense pressure, that he was working late nights to provide for our family. After a decade together, we owed each other grace, didn’t we? But tonight, something inside me shifted. Looking at that empty shelf, I felt a sudden, hollow ache. It was as if my heart had been emptied out along with it. … That herbal wasn’t just a wellness trend. It was a piece of my mother’s devotion. Desperate, I began rummaging through the cabinets, hoping he had just misplaced it. As I shoved boxes aside, a small pink journal slid off the top shelf and clattered to the floor. Garrett, lost in his gaming headset, didn’t even blink. He was completely dialed into his screen, muttering lazily: “It’s just a bag of weeds, Hannah. Why do you have to turn everything into a federal case? It’s embarrassing. You’re acting like a pauper who’s never seen a dollar bill.” They weren’t weeds. They were wild-harvested roots my mother had spent months searching for, specifically for her granddaughter. Just as I opened my mouth to snap back, Maisie emerged from her bedroom, her face pale and slick with sweat. “Mommy,” she whimpered, clutching her stomach. “My tummy hurts so bad…” Her gastritis was flaring up again. Panic spiked through my anger. I rushed to the medicine cabinet, my hands shaking. “Garrett! I told you Maisie has a delicate stomach. She can’t eat that greasy junk food! Why can’t you remember anything I tell you?” He finally pulled off his headset, his face twisted in annoyance. “Will you stop screaming? Why is everything a crisis with you? I’m in the middle of a Discord call with a major client. Can you please stop bothering me with these trivial things?” Trivial. Last month, leaving Maisie behind at the after-school program in the pouring rain, causing her to run a fever for three days—that was trivial. Yesterday, completely forgetting my severe shellfish allergy and ordering seafood takeout, sending me to the ER in the middle of the night—that was trivial. And now, giving our eight-year-old daughter greasy fast food that triggered an acute gastric spasm—that was trivial, too. It seemed that anything involving me or our child was a minor inconvenience to be brushed aside. The bright red takeout bag on the floor felt like a slap in the face. But looking at my daughter trembling in pain, I couldn’t waste time arguing. I scooped her up and drove straight to the hospital. Maisie was diagnosed with acute gastric spasms. The doctor said she had been in agonizing pain for five or six hours. Any longer, and she could have faced severe complications. I felt a sickening mixture of rage and guilt. Then Maisie looked up at me from the sterile hospital bed. “Mommy, I told Daddy my stomach hurt,” she whispered. “But he said he was too busy with work and told me to go to my room. Mommy… is Daddy really that busy, or does he just not like being around me?” Her small, innocent voice felt like a sledgehammer striking my chest, shattering the last of my fragile illusions. For the past year, Garrett’s life had revolved around an endless cycle of “work.” Late nights, business trips, weekend errands, gaming sessions. As long as he played the “provider” card, he was exempt from every domestic responsibility. I wanted to defend him, to spin the same tired lies I always did to protect her heart. But looking into her pure, searching eyes, the words died in my throat. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Once. Twice. He declined. I kept dialing, desperate and relentless. On the twelfth call, he finally picked up. “What now?” he groaned. “I told you I’m buried in work. What is so urgent that you have to harass me during office hours?” “Maisie is in the emergency room, Garrett. Because of that takeout you fed her.” There was a brief silence on the other end. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, though only slightly. “The takeout? Come on, that’s impossible. Her stomach can’t be that weak. Fine. Text me the location. I’ll head over.” The line went dead. But right before he hung up, the audio of his video game flared up, followed by his muffled voice speaking to someone else in the room: “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Married women are just exhausting. She loves making a mountain out of a molehill.” If I heard it, Maisie did too. She stared at me, her expression eerily calm. It was a kind of numbness no eight-year-old should ever possess. No tears, no expectations. Just flat acceptance. “Daddy isn’t coming, is he?” We both knew the answer. I swallowed the lump in my throat, leaning down to pull her fragile body against mine. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy is here. Even if it’s just the two of us, we’re going to be just fine.” Maisie didn’t ask any more questions. Exhausted by the pain and her father’s cold indifference, she drifted off to sleep a few minutes later. Three hours passed. Garrett was still a no-show. Unable to look at my phone without feeling sick, I reached into my purse to find a hair tie and pulled out the small pink journal I had scooped off the floor earlier. I opened the cover, and the name “Chelsea Ward” leapt off the page. I knew Chelsea. She was the young account coordinator at the client firm, the one handling Garrett’s accounts. What I hadn’t known was the level of devotion Garrett had poured into her. The pages were filled with her details in Garrett’s neat handwriting. Her career goals, her favorite coffee orders, her menstrual cycle, even random, passing comments she had made, preserved like sacred text. No wonder Garrett never remembered a word I said. He had given all his mental capacity—and his heart—to another woman. It felt like a slow-acting poison dripping into my veins. I sat in the dim hospital light, reading every single page. By the time I closed the book, the clock read 2:00 AM. Garrett finally strolled in, carrying a grease-stained paper bag. “Sorry, got caught up with some urgent things at the office,” he said, his voice casual. “You and Maisie probably haven’t eaten. I grabbed some of those Szechuan crawfish from that spot downtown. Let’s eat.” Maisie had a severe gastric condition; she couldn’t touch spicy food. And I was violently allergic to shellfish. Garrett had completely forgotten both facts. He expertly peeled a crawfish and held it up to my mouth. “Try it. I specifically told the chef no cilantro, extra chili oil, just the way you like it.” No cilantro. Extra chili. Those were Chelsea’s preferences. The pink journal had an entire entry dedicated to it: “Chelsea loves spicy Szechuan, hates cilantro. Chelsea hates peeling shellfish because she doesn’t want to ruin her manicures. Her acrylics cost $150 a set; Venmo her $1,000 for ‘office expenses’ to cover her spa days.” Garrett wasn’t incapable of care. He was just incapable of caring about “me”. A profound, crushing exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t want to hear his practiced excuses. I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I found the pink journal in the pantry, Garrett.” His hand froze mid-air, the peeled crawfish dangling from his fingers. He stared at me, his eyes widening. Then, as if on cue, his guilt manifested as defensive anger. “You went through my things?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Hannah, how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my work files? Everything I do with Chelsea is to secure this contract—for us! To give you and our daughter a better life!” Secure a contract by Venmoing her thousands of dollars? Secure a contract by booking boutique hotels and buying strawberry-flavored condoms? He had even documented her favorite positions in bed. The depth of his betrayal was beyond anything I had ever feared. In her sleep, Maisie whimpered. I gently pressed my hands over her ears to block out his voice. Seeing our daughter, Garrett let out a long sigh. He opened and closed his mouth, searching for a lie that would hold water. Finding none, he muttered something about needing to wash his hands and walked out of the room. A minute later, my phone buzzed. He had sent me a screenshot. “I’m sorry about earlier. I bought the organic herbal supplements online. Duty calls at the office, so I can’t stay.” The subtext was clear: “I apologized. Now get over it.” I opened the screenshot. Below a receipt for a $19.99 jar of generic herbal powder was an order confirmation for a $900 La Mer skincare set addressed to Chelsea’s apartment. He didn’t even have the decency to crop out his mistress’s gift. He was so secure in my silent endurance that he didn’t think he needed to hide it anymore. He assumed that as long as we had a child, I would never leave. I would always bow my head and accept his scraps. But he was wrong. I could tolerate his disdain for me, but I would never forgive what he had done to our daughter. My heart hardened into stone. I blocked Garrett’s number on my phone, pulled up my email, and sent a message to my family lawyer. “How quickly can we draft divorce papers and a custody agreement?” The reply came back almost instantly. “Three days.” Three days. Ten years of building a life together, reduced to a three-day filing process. But some things are meant to be broken quickly. The next afternoon, Garrett still hadn’t shown his face. He hadn’t even realized I blocked him. Instead, Chelsea Ward walked into the pediatric ward, carrying two gift bags of high-end organic fruit. She was wearing a tailored designer blazer, her manicured fingers sparkling. Her face bore a smug, triumphant smile. “Mrs. Mercer, I am so incredibly sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I had no idea your daughter was so fragile that a simple takeout meal would put her in the hospital.” Then, her smile turned cold. She reached down and tapped Maisie’s forehead with a sharp, painted fingernail. “But honestly, you can’t blame me. The world is highly competitive. Weak, useless children like her… well, sometimes they’re just a drain on a family. On Garrett.” Maisie’s face went white. My heart shattered. I grabbed Chelsea’s wrist and yanked her away from the bed, pushing her out into the hallway. Chelsea scoffed, brushing off her sleeve as if I had contaminated her. “Am I wrong?” she raised her voice. “Little Maisie didn’t inherit any of Garrett’s drive. She’s sickly, timid, and completely unremarkable. How is a child like that supposed to inherit what Garrett built?” “My child will be different,” Chelsea continued, placing a hand over her flat stomach. “Garrett has already lined up the best private preschools. From the moment he’s born, he will have the best education—and Garrett’s undivided love.” Chelsea was pregnant. She was carrying Garrett’s child. A horrifying realization struck me. My voice trembled. “That takeout… you did that on purpose, didn’t you? Maisie has a sensitive stomach, but chili extract alone wouldn’t do this. What did you put in her food?” Chelsea shrugged, her eyes shining behind her designer sunglasses. “Why don’t you ask Garrett? After all, he knew exactly what was in that box. He doesn’t love you, Hannah. Why would he care about your little defective prototype?” My chest burned, the pain so intense I could barely breathe. The cruelest part was that I couldn’t even refute her words. Garrett’s neglect had been staring me in the face for years. When Maisie was three, I was in a terrible car accident. Terrified that a nanny wouldn’t care for her properly, I wrote out a detailed, hour-by-hour schedule and begged Garrett to watch her. But he claimed he was too busy with work and fed her nothing but instant ramen for weeks. By the time I was discharged, Maisie was skeletal and had developed chronic gastritis. I had screamed at him, demanded a divorce. But he begged on his knees, crying that our daughter needed a father, that he would change. For the sake of a complete family, I forgave him. But that fragile peace lasted only five years. Now, he had allowed another woman to poison our daughter just to please her. I leaned against the hospital corridor wall, gasping for air. Chelsea smiled, satisfied with her performance. She adjusted her sunglasses. “I’ll be honest with you,” she whispered. “Garrett and I have been together much longer than you think. We were going to keep it quiet, but you’re just so incredibly dense. Just like your daughter. Instead of fighting me, maybe you should ask yourself when your husband actually stopped coming home to you.” When? I couldn’t remember. The memories were too tangled, the betrayal too deep. I sank onto the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room, my body entirely numb. Then, a tiny, warm hand slipped into mine. Maisie was standing beside me, reaching up to wipe the tears from my cheeks. Her voice was quiet but steady. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’m here. I’ll always be here with you.” Her small, fragile frame radiated warmth. Looking at my daughter, I finally let go. I pulled her into my arms and sobbed. For Maisie’s sake, I pulled myself together. I drove straight to Garrett’s office. He was in the middle of a team meeting, and his face darkened the moment he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, stepping out of the conference room. “I’m in the middle of something. Go home. We’ll talk later.” I marched past him, slammed his leather-bound portfolio shut, and looked him dead in the eyes. “When did you and Chelsea start? And what did you put in Maisie’s food?” A flicker of panic crossed his face, but he quickly masked it with cold indifference. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re having a mental breakdown, go to a clinic. Don’t embarrass me at my workplace!” I nodded slowly. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll call the police right now and report an attempted poisoning. Let’s see how well your little mistress handles a criminal investigation.” The mention of the police—and Chelsea’s potential ruin—shattered his composure. He quickly ushered his assistant out, closed the door, and let out a sharp sigh. “It wasn’t a big deal, Hannah. It was just… some pure capsaicin extract. Chelsea saw a prank video online and wanted to see if it worked. I didn’t think it would actually hurt her. We just wanted to see what would happen.” “We just wanted to see what would happen.” My daughter, whom I had carried for nine months and cherished with every fiber of my being, was nothing more than a lab rat for his mistress’s amusement. The rage inside me boiled over. I swung my hand and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side. He stared at me in absolute shock, which quickly curdled into fury. “Hannah! Are you out of your mind? Maisie is fine now, isn’t she? Why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion? I apologized! What more do you want from me?” Even now, he felt no guilt. He hadn’t even asked how our daughter was doing. To him, she was as insignificant as my feelings. My eyes burned with tears. “She is your daughter, Garrett! She has your blood running through her veins! How can you watch her suffer and feel absolutely nothing? What kind of monster did you let that woman turn you into?” Garrett sneered, his mask completely slipping. “Don’t lecture me about family. I never wanted that kid anyway. You were the one who trapped me, remember? You were the one who threw yourself at me, got pregnant, and forced me to marry you. What kind of child do you think a desperate woman like you is going to raise? If Maisie’s sick all the time, maybe it’s because of whatever garbage you were doing before you met me!” The room felt entirely cold. I stood frozen, the breath knocked out of me. For ten years, I believed Garrett simply didn’t know how to express his love. I never imagined that beneath his silence lay such deep, venomous contempt. He didn’t see my sacrifices as love. He saw them as desperation. The house I sold, the career I paused to support his startup—it was all just a pathetic woman clinging to him. I had wasted the best decade of my life on a man who despised me. There was nothing left to save. I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “I want a divorce, Garrett. We’re done.”

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I took a speeding, out-of-control truck to the skull to keep my wife and daughter from being crushed. When I finally woke up, the doctors told Rachel that my cognitive function was permanently capped at the level of a five-year-old. At my bedside, Rachel wept, clutching my hand and swearing to the heavens that she would spend the rest of her life protecting me. Our daughter, Lucy, held my pinky in her tiny palm, her voice high and sweet: “Don’t worry, Daddy. Lucy will keep you safe now.” For the first two years, they actually did. Then, in the third year, Brandon arrived. He was the kind of guy who could fix a leaky kitchen pipe without calling a plumber, the guy who sat at the dining table patiently explaining long division to Lucy, the guy who had a warm, home-cooked meal waiting on the stove whenever Rachel stumbled home after a grueling double shift. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they fell in love with having him around. Rachel began giving him the prime cuts of the roast. Lucy drew a new family portrait for art class and sketched him right in the middle, standing where I used to stand. On Lucy’s eighth birthday, I stood outside her bedroom door, clutching the gift I had spent a month crafting with my stiff, fumbling fingers. Through the crack in the door, I saw her snuggling into Rachel’s lap. “Mommy,” Lucy whispered, her eyes wide. “Daddy is so silly. Why can’t Brandon just be my real daddy?” Rachel didn’t correct her. Her silence cut deeper than any words could have. I crawled back into my bedroom and cried until my chest ached. Finally, with trembling hands, I dialed a number I had kept memorized from a lifetime I could barely recall. It belonged to my old mentor. “You once told me you could make me smart again,” I whispered into the receiver. “Does the offer still stand?” A heavy silence stretched over the line. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with gravity. “It does, Thomas. But you know the cost. You will lose everything else. You will forget them.” … “I’m not afraid of forgetting, Professor,” I whispered. The old man let out a long, heavy sigh, telling me to wait while he made the arrangements and that the surgery would be scheduled soon. I hung up, staring down at the hand-carved wooden pony in my palms. It was Lucy’s eighth birthday present. I had spent a month scraping away at a block of pine with a dull pocketknife, my fingers now covered in circular Band-Aids. They stung at the slightest touch. But I had kept telling myself: “Lucy will smile when she sees this. Lucy will be happy.” Laughter erupted from the living room, loud and bright. “Brandon! What did you get me?” Lucy’s voice was full of pure excitement. “Ta-da! The limited-edition Barbie dreamhouse set you’ve been begging for,” Brandon replied, his voice rich and easy. “Oh my gosh, Brandon! You’re the best! I love you so much!” I heard the distinct, wet sound of Lucy planting a kiss on his cheek. A dull, heavy ache settled in my chest. I stood up, pushing my bedroom door open. In the kitchen, Rachel was setting the table. Brandon was wearing my favorite linen apron, holding a spatula, laughing as he ruffled Lucy’s hair. The three of them stood there, framed by the warm kitchen light, looking exactly like the families in the commercials. I squeezed the wooden pony tight and shuffled over to Rachel’s side. “Rachel, I’m hungry.” The smile on Rachel’s face faltered. She turned to me, her voice dropping into a hushed, exasperated whisper. “Thomas, go back to your room for a little bit, okay? It’s Lucy’s birthday, and we have a guest.” “A guest.” I didn’t understand. If Brandon was a guest, why was he wearing my apron? I held the wooden pony out toward Lucy, offering it like a peace offering. “Lucy, happy birthday. Daddy carved this pony for you. Remember? You used to love the carousel.” The joy instantly drained from Lucy’s face. She took a step back, hiding behind Brandon’s leg. “I don’t want that. It’s ugly,” she said, pointing a finger at my hands. “And your fingers are all bandaged and gross. Don’t touch my new dolls with those dirty hands.” My hand froze in midair. It wasn’t ugly. I had sanded it down for hours, making sure there wasn’t a single rough edge that could hurt her. Brandon knelt down, pulling Lucy into a protective hug, and looked up at me with a patronizing smile. “Tom, kids don’t know how to filter themselves. Don’t take it to heart. But honestly, raw wood can be a bit splintery. We wouldn’t want Lucy getting hurt, right, Rachel?” He looked up at my wife. Rachel frowned, stepping over to push my hand down. “Thomas, stop making a scene. Brandon was nice enough to cook for us today. Can’t you just behave for once?” “But Rachel,” I muttered, looking at her. “You used to say that as long as I made it, Lucy would love it.” Rachel’s eyes darted away, her guilt quickly hardening into irritation. “That was before. Lucy is older now. She has real interests. Go back to your room with that block of wood. You’re ruining the mood.” “A block of wood.” My eyes stung, hot tears blurring my vision. I looked down at the cuts on my fingers. They really, really hurt. Brandon stood up, gently tugging Rachel’s arm. “Rachel, don’t be so harsh. He has the mind of… well, he’s like a kid. Maybe we should let him sit at the table? I can whip up another side dish.” Rachel sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at him. “You’re too patient, Brandon. He doesn’t appreciate it anyway. He just causes trouble. Let him eat in his room so he doesn’t knock things over and ruin Lucy’s night.” I understood. They didn’t want me there. I clutched the pony to my chest and turned back toward the hallway. “I won’t eat at the table. I’ll eat in my room.” As I closed the door behind me, I heard Brandon asking Lucy, “So, birthday girl, what did you wish for when you blew out your candles?” Lucy’s voice carried clearly through the thin drywall. “I wished that Brandon could stay with us forever and be my real daddy.” This time, Rachel didn’t say a word. She didn’t protest. I leaned against the door, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and silent. They really didn’t want me anymore. I wanted to be smart again. I wanted to leave this place. I pulled out my phone and typed a clumsy message to my mentor. “Professor, can we do the surgery sooner?” “Yes, Thomas. I will arrange it as quickly as possible,” the reply came. I stared at the glowing screen, then buried my face in my knees. The next morning, the apartment was dead quiet. Rachel and Lucy were already gone, and Brandon was nowhere to be seen. On the kitchen counter sat a couple of stale, cold breakfast biscuits. Beside them was a note from Rachel. “Took Lucy to the amusement park with Brandon. Stay inside and don’t wander off.” My stomach growled. I picked up a biscuit and took a bite, but it was dry and hard as a rock. I couldn’t swallow it. Rachel never used to let me eat cold food. She used to tell me my stomach was sensitive and that cold food would give me cramps. She used to wake up early to simmer warm, fragrant chicken porridge for me. If I didn’t want to eat, she would coax me like a child, holding the spoon to my lips. “Just one bite, Tommy. One bite, and I’ll give you a kiss.” Now, she couldn’t even bear to look at me. I wanted to go to the amusement park, too. They had promised me that after Lucy’s birthday, we would all go together and ride the Ferris wheel. But they took Brandon instead. I put the biscuit down and drank a glass of tap water. I didn’t understand why Brandon’s arrival meant I had to lose everything. Around noon, the front door clicked open. Rachel and Lucy walked in, with Brandon trailing closely behind. But Lucy wasn’t happy; she was sobbing hysterically. Brandon’s arm was wrapped in heavy white gauze, seeped through with fresh, bright red blood. Rachel was holding onto his good side, her face pale with panic and tenderness. “Careful, watch your step,” she murmured. “The doctor said to keep the stitches dry.” I ran over, looking at them. “Rachel, what happened?” Rachel snapped her head up, her eyes flashing with pure fury. She shoved me back, hard. “Don’t touch him!” I stumbled backward several steps, my spine slamming into the sharp edge of the shoe cabinet. A dull ache bloomed across my back. “Rachel, I just wanted to ask…” “Ask what?” Rachel’s voice shook with rage as she pointed a finger at me. “If you hadn’t thrown a fit yesterday and ruined Lucy’s birthday, she wouldn’t have been in such a terrible mood today! She wouldn’t have run away from us at the park!” “If Brandon hadn’t shielded her from that shattered glass, Lucy would be the one in the hospital right now!” I froze. I didn’t understand how Lucy running away at a park miles away was my fault. I had been home all day. Lucy peeked out from behind Brandon, pointing her little hand at me. “It is your fault! You’re a dummy! You always make Mommy mad. All the other kids have smart daddies, and I have you. I hate you!” The words felt like physical needles piercing my chest. I knelt down, trying to meet Lucy’s eyes. “Lucy, Daddy didn’t mean to… Daddy saved you once, remember? The truck—” “Shut up!” Rachel screamed, cutting me off. “Thomas, are you going to hold that accident over our heads for the rest of our lives? Yes, you saved us. But I have spent the last two years bathing you, feeding you, and putting up with you. Haven’t I paid my debt?” She looked at me, her eyes filled with nothing but cold exhaustion. “I am so sick of this. I am tired of taking care of a giant toddler. I deserve a normal life, a normal family.” The words crashed over me like stones. So that was it. Caring for me was just paying a debt. She had been sick of me for a very long time. Brandon let out a soft sigh, placing his uninjured hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Rachel, don’t. Tom doesn’t understand what he’s doing. As long as Lucy is safe, a few stitches don’t matter.” Rachel looked up at Brandon, her eyes shining with tears. “I’m so sorry, Brandon. We always drag you into our messes.” Brandon smiled, gently tapping Lucy’s nose. “I’d do anything to keep you two safe.” Watching the three of them console one another, I felt like a piece of discarded trash left in the corner of my own home. I stood up, slowly backing away. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I won’t make you mad anymore.” I turned and ran back to my room, locking the door behind me. I crawled under the blankets and pressed my hands over my ears, blocking out the murmur of their voices. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from the Professor. “Grace’s restoration surgery was a complete success. Are you ready, Thomas?” Grace was another patient, a young girl who, like me, had suffered severe brain trauma. She was smart again. I wiped the tears from my face and typed out four words: “I am ready, Professor.” “Come out and eat,” Rachel called, knocking curtly on my door later that evening. Her voice was flat, as if the screaming match from earlier had never happened. I opened the door and walked out. The dining table was crowded with dishes—slow-roasted ribs, pan-seared salmon, and a pot of rich chicken soup. It was all Brandon’s handiwork. I sat down and reached my fork toward the ribs. They used to be my favorite. But before my fork could touch the meat, Rachel’s fork blocked mine. “The ribs are for Brandon,” she said coldly. “He’s injured and needs to recover. Don’t touch them.” She picked up two large ribs and placed them gently in Brandon’s bowl. My hand hovered in the air. I looked at Rachel, then at Brandon, who gave me a performative, apologetic shrug. “Rachel, come on, let Tom have some,” Brandon said smoothly. “I don’t need all of this.” “Absolutely not,” Rachel countered, her eyes narrowing. “You bled so much for Lucy today. You need to replenish your strength.” She turned back to me, pointing her chin toward a plate of plain sautéed greens. “Eat the vegetables. They’re better for your digestion anyway.” I bit my lip, slowly drawing my fork back, and took a single green leaf. It tasted incredibly bitter. I remembered how Rachel used to cook ribs for me. She would always pick out the tenderest, most flavorful pieces and slide them onto my plate. “Tommy is a growing boy,” she would tease. “You need your protein to stay strong.” Now, I wasn’t even allowed a single bone. Lucy took a sip of her soup, pointing at the pot. “Mommy, I want to give Brandon the chicken drumstick. Brandon is a superhero. He protected me.” Rachel smiled, brushing a hand through Lucy’s hair. “That’s very sweet of you, baby.” Lucy fished out the drumstick, dropped it into Brandon’s bowl, and then shot me a disdainful look. “Daddy is a coward. He doesn’t do anything but hide in his room.” I kept my head down, chewing on plain white rice. I wasn’t a coward. The day the truck came hurtling toward us, I hadn’t run away. I had pushed them both to safety. My skull had fractured, and there had been so much blood. It had hurt so bad. But Lucy didn’t remember any of that. After dinner, Rachel left me in the living room to watch TV while she went to wash the dishes. Brandon sat on the rug, helping Lucy with a puzzle. I sat on a small wooden stool in the corner, watching them from the shadows. Brandon suddenly turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine, and a cruel, tiny smirk touched the corner of his lips. He leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice so low that only I could hear. “You know, Thomas,” he murmured, “Rachel told me last night that marrying you was the biggest mistake of her life.” My fingers dug into my jeans. “You’re lying,” I whispered. Brandon let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Lying? Look at the way she looks at you. There’s nothing left but disgust. You’re just a heavy, useless anchor. Without you, the three of us would be a perfect family.” “A perfect family.” He meant him, Rachel, and Lucy. I stood up, glaring at him. “This is my house.” Seeing my anger, Brandon’s eyes gleamed. He suddenly gripped his bandaged arm and let out a sharp cry of pain. “Ow! Tom, please don’t push me! My stitches!” He threw himself backward onto the sofa, wincing dramatically. Rachel burst out of the kitchen instantly. “What happened?!” She saw Brandon clutching his arm, and her face turned incredibly dark. She marched over and stood directly in front of me. “Thomas, have you lost your mind?!” “I didn’t push him,” I shook my head, desperate to explain. “He’s lying! He was talking to me and then he just threw himself down!” Rachel didn’t believe a word. She raised her hand. “Slap.” The force of the blow snapped my head to the side. A sharp, burning sting flared across my cheek. The living room went dead silent. Lucy shivered, burying her face in Brandon’s chest. I held my burning cheek, staring at Rachel. Once, if I so much as scraped my knee, she would cry from worry. Now, she had slapped me across the face for the sake of a stranger. “Thomas, when did you become so malicious?” Rachel’s voice shook with disgust. “Brandon has done nothing but help us, and you try to hurt him? Go to your room. Do not come out until I tell you to.” I didn’t cry. I just looked at her, studying her face with absolute intensity. I wanted to commit this version of her to memory—so that after the surgery, I could wipe it away completely. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.” That night, Rachel didn’t call me for dinner. I was too hungry to sleep, so I sat on the floor and began packing my things. There wasn’t much to take. A few clothes, a pair of sneakers, and two photographs. One was taken before the accident—me in a white lab coat, looking sharp, capable, and intelligent. The other was a family portrait taken shortly after Lucy was born. Rachel was smiling so beautifully. I stared at the family portrait for a long time. Then, very slowly, I tore it down the middle. I threw the half containing Rachel and Lucy into the trash can. I only needed the version of myself that was whole. At dawn, my phone lit up with a message from the Professor. “Your flight is booked for 3:00 PM. A car will pick you up at 1:00 PM.” I typed back a simple: “Okay.” I walked out of my room. Rachel and Brandon had already gone to work, and Lucy was at school. The apartment was hollow and quiet. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were plenty of ingredients. After a moment of hesitation, I pulled out some tomatoes, eggs, and a cut of pork. These were the only two dishes I knew how to make. Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork with peppers. After I had lost my mind, I had spent months trying to learn how to cook them just to surprise Rachel. I used to burn my fingers constantly back then, and Rachel would always tear the spatula from my hands in a panic. “Tommy, you don’t need to cook. I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives.” She had broken her promise. I clumsily chopped the ingredients, turned on the stove, and began to cook. A drop of hot oil splattered onto the back of my hand, leaving a stinging red blister. Ignoring the pain, I plated the two dishes and set them on the dining table. Then I took out a piece of paper. I wanted to write something, but my child-mind only knew how to write my own name. In crooked, childish letters, I wrote: “Thomas is gone.” I slid the paper under the plate. At exactly 1:00 PM, a car horn honked outside. I slung my small black backpack over my shoulder and walked out of the door. When the door clicked shut behind me, I didn’t look back. Sitting in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport, I watched the city skyline recede. Goodbye, Rachel. Goodbye, Lucy. At 6:00 PM, Rachel walked through the front door, holding Lucy’s hand. Brandon followed behind them, carrying a small bakery box. “Rachel, let’s go out for dinner tonight to celebrate my promotion,” Brandon suggested as he kicked off his shoes. Rachel scanned the quiet living room. “Why isn’t Thomas out here watching TV?” She frowned and walked further inside. “Probably still throwing a tantrum in his room. His temper has been getting so strange lately.” As she approached the dining table, she stopped. On it sat two cold plates of food. Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork. Beside them was a slip of paper. She pulled it out and stared at the uneven, struggling handwriting. “Thomas is gone.” Rachel stared at it for a second, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Unbelievable. He’s actually trying to run away now. He’s getting bolder.” Brandon walked over, looking at the plates with disgust. “Look at this mess. The eggs are practically burnt. Who could eat this?” “Rachel, let’s just throw it out. It’s an eyesore.” Rachel nodded, picking up the plates and walking into the kitchen. With two heavy thuds, the food I had spent all morning preparing was scraped into the garbage bin. Rachel washed her hands, walked down the hallway, and pushed open my bedroom door. “Thomas, stop playing these childish games. Get out of—” The words died in her throat. The room was completely empty. The closet doors were wide open, and several hangers were bare. On the nightstand sat my medical file. Rachel walked over and picked it up. Underneath it lay a crisp, white surgical consent form. At the top, the details were clearly printed: “Patient: Thomas.” “Procedure: Irreversible Selective Neurosurgery (Memory Ablation and Emotional Severance).” “Warning: This procedure will result in permanent, irreversible memory loss and emotional detachment.” Rachel’s hand began to tremble. Her eyes locked onto the words “permanent, irreversible memory loss”, and her breath caught.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “512296”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day of our engagement, Ward vanished. He didn’t answer my calls, and my texts went completely ignored. My parents and I were frantic, terrified that he had been in a horrific car crash on his way to the venue. We were on the verge of calling the police when, after dozens of attempts, we finally reached his driver. The man stammered on the other end of the line, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Ward is… he’s currently with Ms. Lacey, helping her pitch a new client. The client is proving difficult, and Mr. Ward can’t step away right now.” I swallowed the rising tide of anger, opening my mouth to demand that he put Ward on the phone, when a series of text messages from Ward popped up on my screen. “Our families have known each other for over twenty years, Izzy. Don’t sweat the formalities today.” “This is Lacey’s first time pitch-meeting a client on her own. The guy is a notorious shark, and I need to make sure she’s safe.” “I’ll add another thirty thousand dollars to our wedding fund. Don’t be mad.” My dad’s face fell as he read the messages over my shoulder. Without a word, he turned his back to me, staring out the window, his hands trembling slightly as he lit a cigarette. My mom’s eyes welled with tears. She looked at me, her voice thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, are you absolutely sure you want to marry him? I’ve watched that boy grow up, but familiarity shouldn’t give him the right to treat you like an afterthought…” Seeing my parents’ heartbreak cut through me like a knife. I squeezed my mom’s hand, forced a bright smile, and turned to our gathered family and friends. “Everyone, please, let’s eat! The engagement is off. Let’s celebrate my return to single life!” … Throughout the dinner, hushed whispers echoed around the private dining room. My parents kept brave, smiling faces until the last of the guests had been sent off. Watching their retreating figures, a burning pressure built behind my eyes. They had worked tirelessly their entire lives, looking forward to this day, dressing up in their finest clothes to host this celebration—only for it to end in public humiliation. The crushing weight of guilt broke me. “Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry. I embarrassed you both.” My mom turned, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and smiled gently. “What are you talking about? You are our greatest pride. Whatever you decide, we’re right behind you.” My dad, a man of few words, gave a firm nod. “Your mother is right. No matter what, we’ve got your back.” With that, he pulled out his phone and immediately wired back the wedding funds Ward had sent. Worried I hadn’t eaten enough, they went to the grocery store to pick up some of my favorite ingredients to cook at home. Shortly after we returned and I changed into my loungewear, Ward let himself in. Our families had been neighbors since childhood. After his father passed away and his mother remarried and moved, leaving him alone, my parents had practically adopted him, always inviting him over for family dinners. Over the years, he’d memorized our front door keypad code. He had used it for over a decade without it ever being changed. Seeing me in sweatpants on the sofa, his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing my parents busy in the kitchen, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into my bedroom, slamming the door. His face was twisted with anger. “Izzy, what the hell is this?” he snapped. “You turned our engagement dinner into a single-life party? Do you have any idea how that makes me look to all our relatives?” I stared at him, letting out a soft, hollow laugh. “Oh, so now you care about the relatives? You didn’t care when you stood me up, leaving my parents to swallow their pride in front of everyone. What was your excuse again? Ward, if you didn’t want to get married, nobody was holding a gun to your head.” It was likely the first time he’d ever heard me stand up to him. He blinked, momentarily caught off guard, a flash of panic crossing his features. He knelt down, taking my hands, his tone softening. “Izzy, I’m sorry. It was poor judgment on my part. But have you forgotten what happened when you first started working? That client who tried to touch you?” He looked at me pleadingly. “You cried so hard. And your boss didn’t even support you; they blamed you for losing the account. I just didn’t want Lacey to go through the same nightmare you did. Can’t you understand that?” I looked down at the faint scar on the back of my hand, a dull ache blooming in my chest. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. The client back then had been a notorious predator in the industry. The moment the project was assigned to me, I had warned Ward. We made a pact: if things went south during the dinner, I would text him three specific numbers as a distress signal, and he would come in to rescue me. But when the night came, I sent dozens of messages, and not a single one was answered. Ultimately, it was a pot of scalding water on the table that saved me. Amidst the client’s screams, I stumbled out of the room and ran downstairs, only to find Ward fast asleep in the driver’s seat of his car. I didn’t wake him. With trembling hands, I called the police myself. It wasn’t until the sirens wailed that he finally woke up. At the hospital, he wept and begged for forgiveness, claiming he’d been running on no sleep due to a major company launch and had only closed his eyes for a second. Seeing his dark circles and deep exhaustion, I forgave him. But now, he was using that unresolved guilt to justify rescuing another woman. And he expected me to just understand. Sensing my silence, he assumed I was softening. A relieved smile touched his lips. “Don’t be mad, Izzy. I’ll apologize to your parents properly, and we’ll pick another date. I promise I’ll be there for every second of it…” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted quietly, pulling my hands from his grasp. “We’re done. Check your bank account. The wedding money has been returned. Once you see it, please leave my house.” Ward’s face hardened as he checked his phone notifications. He stood up abruptly. “Izzy! We’ve been together for eight years. You’re seriously throwing all of that away over this?” Before I could answer, a soft, sniffling cry echoed from the living room. I bypassed him and opened the bedroom door. Lacey was standing in the entryway, clutching a basket of fruit and a carton of organic milk. My mom was sitting on the couch, and my dad stood by the kitchen door, his expression grim. Lacey’s fingers were tightly laced together, her eyes red and tearful. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Miller,” she whimpered. “Today was entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have begged Ward to come with me. Please don’t be angry with him.” I turned to Ward. “You brought her here? Ward, are you out of your mind?” Lacey rushed forward. “Izzy, please don’t blame Ward. I came here on my own. I swear I had no idea today was your engagement party. If I had known, I never would have asked for his help. It won’t happen again…” “Again?” I let out a bitter chuckle. “What’s next? The wedding day? Or maybe our wedding night? If you’re so dependent on your boss, why don’t you just move in with him?” Lacey looked up, her tears finally spilling over. “Izzy, I know you’re angry with me, but that’s not fair. This was my first business trip out of town, and it was in Ward’s hometown. I didn’t know anyone else…” Before she could finish, Ward stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. He glared at me, his voice dropping an octave. “Izzy, there’s a limit to everything. Why are you taking this out on a kid?” “I’m taking it out on her?” “Yes,” he said defensively. “Apologize to her. If you don’t…” “If she doesn’t, what exactly are you going to do to my daughter?!” My dad stormed out of the kitchen, putting his trembling, aging frame between Ward and me. A man who had never raised his voice in his life was now shouting in pure rage. “Ward! As long as I am breathing, you do not get to threaten my child!” My mom stood up from the couch, wrapping her arm tightly around my shoulder. Ward took two steps back, his composure crumbling. “Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, that’s not what I meant…” Lacey shook her head, biting her lip. “This is all my fault because I’m incompetent. I should be the one apologizing.” To our horror, she reached onto our entryway console, grabbed a bottle of high-proof whiskey my father had saved for years to toast our wedding, uncorked it, and began chugging it straight from the bottle. She choked on the first gulp, coughing violently and clutching her chest. Within seconds, her fair skin began to break out in bright red hives. “She’s allergic to alcohol!” Ward gasped. He snatched the bottle away and threw it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered into pieces, filling the room with the sharp scent of aged liquor. He swept Lacey up into his arms, grabbing her purse from the entryway hook, and rushed toward the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back. “Izzy, I have to get her to the ER. You and your parents need to cool down. I am not agreeing to a breakup. Wait for me to come back.” Then, he was gone. Staring at the shattered glass and spilled amber liquid, a profound bitterness washed over me. I turned to my parents. “Mom, Dad, remember how you wanted to rent a cabin in Charleston for a while? A friend of mine just opened a branch office there and offered me a director position. If you’re up for it, we can book a flight tonight. I’ll finish my wrap-up work here and join you in a few days.” My parents exchanged a look. My mom nodded gently. “Let’s do it. Your father and I have worked our whole lives; it’s about time we took a real trip.” While my dad quietly returned to the kitchen to pack up the food and my mom began packing their bags, I swept up the broken glass. I texted my friend to accept the position, asked him to help coordinate my parents’ arrival, and changed our front door keypad code. After seeing my parents off at the airport, I caught a flight back to the city where my job was based. I landed around 8:00 PM. Outside the airport, a young college couple walked ahead of me. The girl was sitting on her rolling suitcase while the boy pushed her, wearing her pink backpack and holding her half-finished boba tea in one hand. They were laughing effortlessly, drawing fond looks from passersby. Watching them, my mind drifted back to my early college years with Ward. We were nineteen. His mother had just had a child with her new husband, cut off all contact, and stopped paying his tuition and living expenses. Ward worked back-to-back part-time jobs while juggling classes. Since we were dating, our expenses naturally went up. Knowing he was drowning in stress, my parents quietly gave me an allowance so I could cover our dates. But Ward was proud; he quickly caught on. From then on, whenever we dined out, he’d make an excuse to use the restroom and secretly pay the bill beforehand. He would hold my hand, his eyes burning with absolute sincerity. “Izzy, I’m your boyfriend, and I’m going to be your husband. I know you’re trying to protect my pride, but providing for you is my job. No matter what gifts I buy you, you don’t need to match their price. It makes us feel like strangers, and I want us to be closer than anyone else.” When his college startup finally took off, he showered me with everything that was trendy. We rented a tiny apartment together after graduation. Because of his devotion, I allowed myself to fully lean on him. We had our share of petty arguments, but we always took the time to learn each other’s love languages. As the years bled together, however, I noticed his attentiveness drifting. His emotional bandwidth for me grew narrower. Back then, I convinced myself that adult relationships required compromise, and that over-analyzing these shifts would only tear us apart. So, we kept walking until we reached the age where marriage was the natural next step. I had envisioned a beautiful wedding this year and perhaps a baby the next. But my mother’s words at the canceled dinner had shattered my denial: “Familiarity shouldn’t give someone the right to treat you like an afterthought.” I quickened my pace, bypassed the young couple, and hailed a cab. As soon as I closed the cab door, Ward’s name popped up on my screen, accompanied by a little red heart. I let it ring. He tried four more times; I declined every call. Finally, a local, unrecognized number called. Thinking it might be my landlord or a delivery service, I answered. Before I could speak, Ward’s voice barked through the speaker, thick with irritation. “Izzy, have you lost your mind? You changed the door code and ignored my calls?” He let out an exhausted sigh. “I brought Lacey here to apologize to your parents. Open the door.” “I can’t,” I said quietly. “And that door will never open for you again.” He scoffed. “Are you seriously doing this right now? How old are you, Izzy? You’re going to throw our entire relationship away because of a stupid engagement dinner? You even dragged your parents into this. Don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?” “It isn’t just about the dinner, Ward,” I said, watching the city lights blur outside the window. “It’s about who you used to be.” Silence fell over the line. “Who I used to be? What is that supposed to mean?” I toyed with the engagement ring on my finger. “Remember in college, when you said you wanted us to grow closer and depend on each other? I did that for eight years. You didn’t. Instead, you let our history become an excuse to treat me with contempt.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Izzy, is that what this dramatic speech is about? Who stays head-over-heels after eight years? Stop reading those trashy relationship blogs. You’re turning thirty soon. Aren’t you embarrassed to be throwing a temper tantrum like a teenager and humiliating your family? Let’s just end this drama. We’re getting our marriage license tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the city clerk’s office at two.” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, his words still managed to squeeze the air from my lungs. A sharp pain bloomed in my throat. Before the tears could fall, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “I will never marry you, Ward.” I hung up, rolled down the window, slipped the diamond ring off my finger, and flicked it into the darkness. The taxi pulled up to my apartment complex. The driver, an older woman around my mother’s age, looked at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes soft and understanding. “Sweetheart, half-baked love only leaves a bad taste in your mouth. I admire your courage to close the book. Don’t ever settle.” My throat tightened. “Thank you,” I whispered, nodding. Inside the apartment, the first thing I saw was our Polaroid photo wall in the living room. Seven years of memories. Looking closely, I realized that from year one to year seven, our physical gap had widened—from our cheeks pressed together to a stiff elbow’s distance apart. This year’s photo was supposed to be taken at the courthouse. There was no point now. I pulled every single photo off the wall, fed them into the paper shredder, and watched seven years turn into confetti. I opened my laptop and submitted my formal resignation letter to HR. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. It was Becca, my close friend in HR. “Izzy! Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating your engagement? Why am I looking at a resignation letter? Tell me you’re not pregnant because I’m not ready to be an aunt!” I managed a weak chuckle. “You’re safe. The engagement is off, we broke up, and there’s no baby on the way.” “What? What did that bastard do?” I told her everything. Becca was practically vibrating with rage through the phone. “I knew he was a piece of work! Thank God you got out. Remember that massive rainstorm last month? You went back to the office to grab some files and got stranded. I had to come pick you up because you couldn’t get a ride. Well, on my way home, I drove past his office building. I saw him carrying a girl on his back across the flooded street…” My heart seized. “Are you sure it was him?” “I took a video. I’m sending it to you right now.” The video arrived a second later. Outside Ward’s corporate office, the water was shin-deep. Ward was carrying Lacey on his back, her arms wrapped around his neck, her colorful slip-on shoes dangling as she laughed happily. I watched it on a loop, feeling a slow, cold numbness spread through my chest. That night, I had been trapped in the lobby for over an hour, unable to secure an Uber. When I called Ward, he told me he was stuck on a highway outside the city. He Venmoed me $500, telling me to use it for a premium ride-share. By midnight, my clothes were soaked, my period had started early, and I was in agonizing pain. I had no choice but to call Becca. When Ward finally got home in the early hours of the morning, he stayed up to make me chamomile tea, prep a heating pad, and bring me Midol without even changing out of his damp clothes. I had been so deeply moved by his care back then. Now, it just felt pathetic. “Izzy… Izzy, are you there?” Becca’s voice was soft, laced with worry. “I’m here. Thanks, Becca. I appreciate you.” I hung up, packed the remainder of my things, booked a moving service, and notified my landlord of my immediate move-out. The next morning, I handed in my keycard at the office. Just as I walked out of the building, an Instagram notification popped up. It was Ward. He had posted a picture of his car parked outside the city clerk’s office, with Lacey sitting in the passenger seat. The caption read: “Waiting for our turn at the courthouse. Lucky number 13.” The post was thirty minutes old. We shared dozens of mutual friends, yet there wasn’t a single like or comment. There was only one explanation: he had customized his privacy settings so that only I could see it. I smiled faintly and got into my airport ride. As the flight attendant requested we switch our phones to airplane mode, I opened Instagram, pulled up the post, and left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you a lifetime of happiness.”

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Lauren was allergic to romance. Ever since we got together, anniversaries were just another square on the calendar. I did my thing, she did hers. So on our seventh anniversary, when my phone stayed silent all day, I didn’t think twice about it. I was used to the quiet. But when she came home that night, she did something completely out of character. She handed me a small, wrapped box. I froze for a couple of seconds, my eyes instantly stinging with a sudden, ridiculous warmth. The stubborn, practical woman I loved had finally turned a corner. I eagerly took a dozen photos of the box, trying to find the perfect angle to post on my Instagram. But right before I hit upload, my feed refreshed. It was a post from her new personal assistant, Tony. “100 days at the firm! Thank you so much for the sweet surprise, Boss~” In the photo, the handsome, sharp-featured kid was standing next to an open car trunk overflowing with beautifully wrapped gifts, fairy lights, and expensive-looking boutique bags. When I tapped the live photo, the sound of Lauren’s voice played. It was soft, carrying a rare, gentle laugh I hadn’t heard in years: “It suits you.” I looked down at the cheap, flimsy five-dollar plastic trinket in my hand—the kind of throwaway item you buy in bulk off Temu. Suddenly, the last seven years felt entirely pointless. … My phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a string of texts from my close friend, Zach. You could practically feel his excitement vibrating through the screen. “Did Lauren finally turn a corner???” “Seven years! A literal miracle!” “I know the box looks a little small, but a gift is a gift! She finally learned how to be romantic.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh and forwarded him Tony’s Instagram post. “This is what she gave her assistant today.” Zach’s side of the chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, a barrage of question marks and exclamation points flooded my screen. “That new kid, Tony?” “Doesn’t he know about you and Lauren?” “She bought him an entire trunk full of gifts?!” “Are you kidding me? This is messed up, Matt.” I stared at the messages, a slow, aching burn rising in my throat. In the past, whenever Zach tried to stick up for me, I’d always scramble to make excuses for her. She’s stressed. She doesn’t think about these things. She didn’t mean any harm. But this time, I couldn’t find a single word to defend her. When Lauren came out of the shower, I was still sitting on the sofa. She rubbed her damp hair with a towel, glanced at the unopened gift on the coffee table, and then looked at me. “Why aren’t you in bed yet?” Instead of answering, I opened Tony’s post and held the screen out to her. “Did you buy him this?” She barely glanced at it, her expression entirely flat. “The kid reached his hundred-day mark. I wanted to keep his morale up.” I stared at her indifferent, casual posture and spoke softly. “Lauren, do you know what today is?” The hand drying her hair paused. “What?” “Our seventh anniversary.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren looked at me, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Matt, really? We’re not in college anymore. Why are you suddenly obsessing over these trivial things? Can’t we just focus on building our lives together?” She draped the towel over her shoulders and turned to walk away. Watching her retreating back, I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Lauren, I’m turning thirty next month.” She stopped. “Most of my friends are already settling down, having kids. When… when are we getting married?” She sighed, turning back to face me with a pinched, exhausted expression. “The company is in a critical growth phase right now. Just give it some time.” “How much more time?” Lauren didn’t answer. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her face darkening. “Matt, I had an incredibly long day. Stop starting fights.” With that, she walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I sat alone on the dark sofa, staring at the cheap box on the table. The wrapping paper was wrinkled and torn at the edges, looking like something pulled from a clearance bin. Late that night, my dad called me from London. “Hey, Matty. You still up?” “Yeah, Dad.” “I just wanted to check in. Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time?” I gripped the phone, staying silent. Five years ago, my parents had relocated to the UK for my dad’s work. They had begged me to come with them. But because of Lauren, I had stubbornly insisted on staying behind. For seven years, I had stayed by her side. I was there when we lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment, and I was there when we moved into this luxury high-rise. I had helped her build her company from a tiny, two-person operation into a thriving business. I had always told myself that once the hard part was over, marriage would be our natural next step. But looking at the closed bedroom door, I realized I had been lying to myself the entire time. “Matty?” my dad’s voice was gentle, filled with a quiet concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way, son. But if she wanted to marry you, she would have done it years ago. She wouldn’t keep you waiting in the wings for seven years.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know, Dad. Give me a few days. I’ll make a decision.” After hanging up, I sat in the quiet living room for what felt like hours before finally heading into the bedroom. Lauren was already fast asleep. I carefully climbed into my side of the bed, turning onto my side to look at her. When we first started dating, she had nothing. Every time she got paid, the first thing she did was transfer her paycheck to my account so we could save. If I hesitated to buy something for myself because of the price, she would drag me back to the store and buy it anyway. She wasn’t big on sweet talk, but her actions always made me feel like I was her entire world. I had never doubted her love for me. Until Tony arrived. One hundred days was all it took to dismantle seven years of devotion. The next morning, the office was buzzing when I arrived. A small crowd of coworkers had gathered around Tony’s desk. “Come on, Tony, what was that post about last night?” “An entire trunk! The boss really went all out for you.” “Spill the details. Is there something going on between you two?” Tony cupped his hands over his red cheeks, his voice dripping with performative shyness. “Oh my god, guys, stop! Don’t make assumptions. Lauren was just celebrating my hundredth day at the firm, that’s all.” “Oh, really? Then why didn’t the rest of us get a trunk full of gifts on our hundredth day?” “Exactly!” The teasing grew louder. Tony caught my eye from across the room. A small, smug smile touched his lips, but he quickly looked down, playing the part of the innocent junior. Just then, Lauren walked out of her corner office. Ignoring the knowing looks exchange among the staff, she gestured to Tony. “Tony, in my office, please.” “Right away, Lauren!” Tony piped up, practically skipping toward her door. Once the door clicked shut, a few colleagues drifted over to my desk. “Hey, Matt. You’ve been with the company since the beginning. What’s the actual deal with Lauren and Tony?” I kept my eyes on my monitor. “I wouldn’t know.” They looked disappointed but didn’t push further, quickly moving on to whisper about something else. I gripped the folder in my hands, a familiar tightness squeezing my chest. Lauren had always been incredibly sensitive about keeping her professional life professional. For years, we had kept our relationship strictly underground to avoid office gossip. Once, early on, I had left a homemade sandwich on her desk because I knew she had skipped breakfast. She had lost her temper, accusing me of being unprofessional, and didn’t speak to me for an entire week. From that moment on, I kept my distance. We never rode in the same elevator, never ate lunch together, and barely made eye contact in the hallways. But apparently, those rigid rules didn’t apply to Tony. It was a grueling day, and by the time I finished wrapping up my work, it was nearly midnight. The trains had stopped running. After a moment of hesitation, I swallowed my pride and walked down to the parking garage, hoping to catch a ride with Lauren. But as I reached her SUV, the elevator doors slid open. Lauren walked out, and right behind her was Tony. When she saw me standing there, she froze, her brow furrowing immediately. “What are you still doing here?” My voice was quiet, stripped of any emotion. “I had to finish the quarterly reports. I missed the last train.” She stared at me for a couple of seconds before letting out a sharp sigh. “Get in.” The headlights flickered on. I walked over to the passenger side and reached for the door handle. But before my hand could make contact, Tony slipped right in front of me and pulled the door open, sliding into the front seat. “Oh, sorry, Matt,” Tony said, blinking up at me with an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Lauren promised me I could always have shotgun. My motion sickness is really bad at night.” My hand hovered over the empty handle. I didn’t move. Lauren tapped the horn, her face tight with impatience through the windshield. I let go of the handle, walked to the back, and silently got into the rear seat. The SUV merged into the late-night traffic. Tony chattered the entire way, his voice high and animated. “Lauren, that client today was so hilarious, he kept telling the worst dad jokes…” “Oh, and did you see that new sushi place that opened down the street? Some of the girls said it’s amazing. We should definitely try it sometime!” Lauren offered soft, amused replies, occasionally laughing at his jokes. I leaned my head against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and red. The silence in the back seat felt like an ocean. When we finally dropped Tony off at his apartment building, the car fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren kept her eyes on the road, driving in silence until we pulled into our garage. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, but I spoke before she could open it. “Lauren.” She paused, turning her head slightly. “Yeah?” I took a slow, steady breath. “Let’s break up.” The air in the car turned freezing. Lauren stared at me for a long moment, then let out a soft, dismissive chuckle, shaking her head. “Matt, are you seriously throwing a tantrum over a car seat?” I didn’t say anything. Her tone softened slightly, condescendingly. “Tony is just a kid, and it was late. As his boss, making sure he gets home safely is just basic responsibility. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” I looked directly into her eyes. “Lauren, it’s been seven years. Every single time I worked past midnight, I walked to the train station alone.” “That’s completely different—” “How?” I interrupted, my voice cracking slightly. “Am I not allowed to want someone to care about me?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “I’m serious, Lauren. We’re done.” Her brow furrowed, her voice sharp with irritation. “Matt, this is getting ridiculous. Are you really going to throw away seven years over this?” I kept my gaze steady, refusing to back down. Eventually, she sighed, reaching out to pat my cheek. Her touch felt incredibly heavy. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just go inside. I have a flight tomorrow morning, and I need to get some sleep.” She opened her door and walked toward the elevator. I remained in the back seat, watching her figure disappear around the corner. The last lingering ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. I pulled out my phone and texted my dad. “Dad, I’ve made up my mind. As soon as I wrap things up here, I’m coming to London.” The reply was almost instant. “Good. Your mother and I will have everything ready for you. Just come home.” The next morning, the sound of sizzling oil woke me. I walked into the kitchen to find Lauren standing at the stove, frying eggs. I stood in the doorway, momentarily stunned. It had been at least five years since she had cooked anything. When she noticed me, she gestured toward a pot on the counter. “There’s oatmeal. Help yourself.” Then, my eyes drifted to two neatly packed lunchboxes on the counter. “Who are those for?” “Oh, those are for Tony,” she said, her focus entirely on flipping the eggs. “He always skips breakfast, and his blood sugar drops. He’s passed out at work a couple of times.” Before I could even process the words, she checked her watch and hurriedly wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Shoot, I’m going to miss my flight. I have to go.” She grabbed her suitcase by the door, then paused, stepping back to give me a brief, obligatory hug. “I’ll be back in a few days. Take care of yourself.” The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the messy kitchen. If this had been any other day, I would have immediately started cleaning up her mess. But not today. Today, I had an appointment at the consulate. The wait at the visa office was long, but my paperwork was processed without any issues. By the time I returned to the office, the sun was already starting to set. The hallways were quiet, most of our colleagues having already left for the day. I knocked on the HR door. Katie was still at her desk. “Matt? What are you doing here so late?” “I’m here to submit my resignation.” Katie’s jaw dropped. “What? Why? You’re a founding member of this place. Lauren was literally talking about setting up your equity package next quarter.” I offered her a polite, tired smile. “I’m ready for a change. I want to go spend some time with my family overseas.” She saw the look in my eyes and didn’t press further. “Alright. If you’re sure, I’ll start processing it.” She turned to her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Once we finish the offboarding paperwork, your last day will be next Tuesday.” I nodded. “Thank you, Katie.” As I turned to leave, I paused. “One more thing. Please keep this between us. I’d prefer if Lauren didn’t know until after I’m gone.” Though confused, she gave me a reassuring nod. “Understood. I’ll keep it under wraps.” Over the next few days, I threw myself into wrapping up my projects. Lauren sent me several text messages, but I left every single one of them on read. On Friday night, I finally dragged myself back to the apartment, completely exhausted. I was just taking off my shoes when my phone rang. It was Lauren. I stared at her name on the screen for a long time before finally picking up. “Matty…” her voice was thick, slurred, and carried that soft, clinging tone she only used when she was completely drunk. “I drank way too much… Can you come pick me up?” My heart gave a painful, familiar thud. She hadn’t called me “Matty” in years. Normally, it was just a blunt “Matt.” She continued to mumble into the receiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the sudden wave of emotion. “Send me the address. I’ll be there.” The city was wrapped in a heavy midnight fog when I arrived at the restaurant. But as I approached the entrance, my steps faltered. Lauren was leaning heavily against Tony, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. When Tony spotted me, he stiffened, taking a hurried, awkward step back. “Matt… I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” his voice was panicked, his eyes wide with a performative fear, as if I were about to strike him. The movement shook Lauren awake. She blinked, her instinct immediately driving her to step in front of the kid, shielding him from me. “Matt, don’t start with him,” she mumbled, her eyes glassy. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. Even completely wasted, her first instinct was to protect him. Tony clutched Lauren’s arm, his eyes shining with tears. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her drink so much. I’m so sorry, Matt.” Lauren reached up, gently patting his hair. “It’s not your fault, Tony. Don’t apologize to him.” Unable to watch another second of it, I stepped forward, pulling her dead weight away from him. “Let’s go. We’re going home.” She mumbled incoherently against my shoulder the entire ride back. I didn’t say a single word. By the time we got back to the apartment and she finished throwing up in the bathroom, she had sobered up significantly. She walked into the bedroom, a sheepish smile on her face, and tried to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back, letting her arms fall into the empty air. She blinked, confused. “What’s wrong?” I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. “Next Tuesday is my birthday. I want you to have dinner with me.” She hesitated, her eyes darting away. “I think I have a client dinner that night…” “Lauren,” I interrupted. “In seven years, you have never once spent my birthday with me.” She stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll clear my schedule.” On Tuesday evening, I put on a tailored charcoal shirt—the one she used to tell me made me look handsome. When she walked into the restaurant and saw me, a flicker of genuine appreciation crossed her face. “You look nice tonight.” I offered a polite smile but didn’t reply. Make it special, I told myself. A proper goodbye to the last seven years. At the table, Lauren ordered several of my favorite dishes without even looking at the menu. But then, she turned back to the waiter. “And could you prepare a duplicate order of these to-go, please?” Seeing my questioning look, she explained, “Tony’s been talking about wanting to try this place for weeks. Since we’re already here, I figured I’d grab some for him.” I didn’t say anything. I just lowered my eyes and took a slow sip of water. The food had barely arrived when Lauren’s phone lit up on the table. She glanced at the screen, and her face immediately tightened. She set her fork down. “There’s an emergency at the office. I have to go. Go ahead and eat without me.” Without waiting for my response, she grabbed the takeout bags the waiter had just brought over and rushed out the door. I sat alone at the table, looking at the steaming dishes. I had completely lost my appetite. I paid the bill, walked out into the cool night air, and went home. I spent the next hour packing my life into two suitcases. At the bottom of the closet, I found an old shoebox. Inside were all the tiny mementos I had saved over the last seven years—movie ticket stubs, concert wristbands, and the annual photo booth pictures I had practically begged her to take with me. I stared at them for a few seconds, then carried the box to the trash chute and let it go. As I was wrapping up, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Tony. No words, just a single image. It was a close-up of his hand. Slid onto his ring finger was the thin silver band I had given Lauren for our first anniversary. My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, I reached down, slid my own matching silver band off my finger, and set it gently on the coffee table. I took one last look at the apartment we had shared for years. There was nothing left here for me. The airport terminal was bright and loud, filled with families and travelers rushing to their destinations. I sat at the gate, opened my phone, and went through my contacts. One by one, I deleted and blocked Lauren’s number, her social media accounts, and her email. I was finally cutting the cord.

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