Five minutes after the wedding dinner was served, my husband suddenly stood up. He walked toward the head table, pulled the handcuffs from the small of his back, and pinned them around my father’s wrists. My father is sixty-three. He spent his entire life teaching in an underfunded school district in rural upstate New York, living so frugally that he’d refuse even a jar of homemade preserves from a grateful parent. Twelve plainclothes officers rose from various tables around the ballroom, sealing off every exit. My husband pressed my father’s face down against the glass lazy Susan on the table. I tried to rush forward, but two officers immediately grabbed my arms and held me back. My husband didn’t even look back at me. “Cooperate with the investigation,” he said, his voice entirely flat. “Do not obstruct justice.” With that, he reached into the inner pocket of my father’s blazer and pulled out a black debit card. “You are suspected of money laundering and financial fraud totaling forty-six million dollars. You are under arrest.” My father’s monthly retirement pension is exactly three thousand one hundred dollars. And my husband was claiming there was forty-six million dollars in his name. My mother collapsed onto the carpet, terrified, but no one moved to help her. Three months ago, he was the one who insisted we get married, moving the date up by two full years. I had been ecstatic. He has seven scars on his body, each one a badge of honor from his time on the force. Detective of the Year. A decorated hero. Everyone told me how lucky I was to marry the most honorable man in the department. I stared at him. “You used our wedding to set a trap?” His lips twitched, but no sound came out. My heart went entirely cold. Looking at his profile, I said quietly, “Don’t bother investigating. That forty-six million—it’s mine.” 01 “Say that again.” Darnell’s hand froze mid-air, the other end of the handcuffs still dangling from my father’s wrist. In a ballroom filled with over three hundred guests, you could have heard a pin drop. “That forty-six million is mine,” I said, holding his gaze, enunciating every single word. “It has absolutely nothing to do with my father.” He turned around slowly. It was a face I had looked at for nearly two years. A face I had kissed, touched, and traced under the moonlight when insomnia kept me awake. But right now, there was nothing on it. It was as blank as a sheet of paper. Except for the slight narrowing of his eyes. It was his interrogation tic. I had watched him do it in press conference footage and training videos at least a dozen times. “Isabel, do you have any idea what you’re saying?” “I know better than anyone in this room.” My father’s cheek was still pressed against the glass platter. Cold broth from the roasted duck had soaked into half his collar. The suit he was wearing—the most expensive thing he owned—was one I had ironed for him myself just this morning. I wrenched myself free from the two officers holding me and rushed to the head table, pulling my father up. This time, no one stopped me. Probably because of what I had just said. Everyone was waiting for Darnell’s cue. “Dad, it’s okay,” I whispered, wiping the grease from his face. His lips trembled violently, but he couldn’t form a single word. My mother was still on the floor. Two plainclothes officers stood nearby, looking at each other, unsure whether to help her up or keep her contained. “In front of three hundred guests, you have twelve cops blocking the doors, and you pin a sixty-three-year-old retired teacher to a dinner table,” I said, my voice steady. “Now I’ve told you the money is mine. What are you going to do about it?” Darnell walked over to me. He was six-foot-one, and standing under the harsh venue lights, his shadow completely swallowed me. “Then you’re coming with us.” He didn’t call me Isabel. He didn’t call me his wife. He used “you”. The cold, clinical “you” reserved for suspects. “Fine,” I said. “But take the handcuffs off my dad first.” “Protocol dictates—” “What protocol?” I cut him off. “You arrested your own father-in-law at your wedding. Don’t talk to me about protocol.” He hesitated for two seconds, then gave a slight nod to the officer beside him. The handcuffs clicked open. My father subconsciously rubbed the deep red indentation on his wrist, then quickly hid his hands behind his back so I wouldn’t see. That small gesture nearly broke me. But every single person in this room—including my husband—was a cop. Crying was useless. A woman stood up from a table in the corner. She had a sharp, ear-length bob, wore a tailored black blazer, and had a body camera pinned to her chest, identical to the one Darnell wore. “Isabel,” she said gently, her tone patronizingly soft, like she was soothing a difficult child. “The transport vehicle is waiting outside. Let’s take this down to the station. No need to keep your father standing here.” I didn’t know her. “Who are you?” She smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up with practiced precision. “Samantha Webb. Darnell’s partner, and the co-lead on this investigation.” Co-lead. Partner. She had been part of the arrest plan from the start. My husband hadn’t made this decision alone. He had an entire task force behind him. Samantha walked over and naturally took hold of my arm. Her grip wasn’t brutal, but her fingers were locked around my elbow at an angle where I couldn’t break free without a struggle. “This way, Isabel.” I looked back at Darnell one last time. He was murmuring something to another detective, his head turned completely away from me. “Darnell.” He stopped talking, but he didn’t turn around. “How long?” I asked. He finally turned. “What?” I stared at him. “From the very first day you showed up in my life, up until today—how long did you spend setting this trap?” The air in the ballroom felt suffocatingly thin. Three hundred pairs of eyes were pinned to the two of us. He didn’t answer. Samantha spoke up for him, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of amusement in her voice. “We can discuss all of this at the precinct, Isabel. Let’s not keep everyone waiting.” 02 “Water, Isabel.” Samantha placed a paper cup in front of me. The light in the interrogation room was a sterile, blinding white, leaving nowhere to hide. My red silk reception dress looked absurdly loud under the fluorescent glare, like dried blood. The hairpins in my updo were crooked, but no one had given me the time to take them out. I didn’t touch the water. “Don’t be polite, we’re practically family,” Samantha said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. She withdrew a thick stack of documents from a manila envelope. “If you don’t mind, let’s start with a chat.” “Where is Darnell?” “Detective Vance is next door. So is your father. Don’t worry, we aren’t going to mistreat him.” She flipped open the first page. On it was a printed photograph. It was me and Darnell, the day we met. The coffee shop on the corner of 4th Street. I remembered it was raining that afternoon; his umbrella had broken, and I had lent him mine. Later, he told me that moment had been fate. In the bottom right corner of the printout, there was a string of red text: “Camera 3, 14:37.” “You recognize this place, right?” Samantha tapped her fingernail against the paper. “Darnell looked incredibly handsome in that grey trench coat. I’m sure you thought so too at the time.” My fingers slowly clenched into fists. “What is this?” “Just the case file.” She flipped to the next page—a photo of the restaurant where we had our first official date. It was taken from an angle across the street, looking through the window. The third photo. The fourth. The fifth. Me resting my head on his shoulder in a movie theater. Him kneeling in the park to tie my running shoe. My birthday, where he had gone down on one knee with a single sunflower, telling me he’d give me one every year until we had ninety-nine. Every single photo had a timestamp and a surveillance camera ID in the corner. “These…” “Active investigation logs,” Samantha closed the folder, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. “When Darnell was assigned to this case, he didn’t even know who you were.” I could hear my own heartbeat. Heavy, slow thuds, like someone driving nails into my chest. “You’re saying… he only approached me because of the investigation into my father?” “I didn’t say that.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I simply said the case was opened first, and you met second. As for whether Darnell’s feelings were real… I think you know the answer to that better than anyone.” She knew I didn’t. She wanted me to ask. She wanted me to rip open my own wound for her amusement. “How long have you been building this case?” I asked. “Isabel, I’m not really at liberty to—” “How long?” Samantha stared at me for three seconds before setting her cup down. “Twenty months.” Twenty months. Darnell and I had been together for exactly nineteen months and six days. He had entered my life even earlier than I thought. He hadn’t met me as a person and then got caught up in a case. There was a case first, and he had manufactured an introduction. “You look pale, Isabel. Do you need a minute?” I didn’t say anything. “Let’s move on, then.” She opened another file. “You claimed that forty-six million dollars belongs to you. Can you explain the source of those funds?” “The money is entirely legal.” “Legal funds kept under your father’s name, without his knowledge, while he lives on a three-thousand-dollar pension? Does that sound plausible to you, Isabel?” “If you would let me finish—” “Go ahead. I’m listening.” “The money is—” The heavy metal door swung open. Another detective stuck his head in. “Samantha, Darnell says to pause. Give them a break.” Samantha closed her file and smiled at me. “What were you about to say? Oh, it’s fine. We can continue later. We have all night, after all.” Her smile was unchanging—polite, warm, and entirely ironclad. It was far more chilling than Darnell’s cold shoulder. “Isabel,” she turned back at the doorway, looking at me. “Do you know what your father had on him when we processed him? A cheap watch, an old leather wallet with two hundred and thirty dollars in cash, and a worn-out school photo of you when you were seven.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Nothing.” She stepped out. “Just… he seems like a sad old man.” 03 “Isabel Dalton, right? The internet is having a field day with your family.” The door opened again, and a detective I didn’t recognize walked in, shoving his phone screen in front of my face. I looked down. It was trending on social media. The headline read: “Decorated Detective Arrests Father-in-Law at Wedding.” The video thumbnail was a freeze-frame of my father’s face pressed into the lazy Susan. “Who recorded this?” “There were three hundred guests there, Isabel,” Samantha said, appearing in the doorway again with her arms crossed. “How many of them do you think we could actually stop from uploading?” The comment section was updating at a dizzying speed. “A retired public school teacher with $46 million in his account? What a joke. So much for ‘honest educators.’” “The groom is a hero. Seven scars, putting the law before family. That’s real integrity.” “Imagine getting busted by your own son-in-law at your daughter’s wedding. Unbelievable.” Every single comment felt like a physical blow. My father had spent his entire life terrified of one thing: losing his dignity. As a teacher, if a single student failed to pay attention, he would blame himself for weeks. Now, the entire city was watching him get pinned to a table like a common criminal. “We finished the inventory at your place,” Samantha said, handing me a clip-board. The list was exhaustive. Every drawer in the apartment I shared with Darnell had been searched. The sleeping pills in my nightstand, the old photo albums on the top shelf of the closet, the bank statements in my desk, even the food in our fridge—everything had been photographed and logged. “You searched my home?” “Your home? Technically, Darnell’s name is on the deed,” Samantha corrected gently. “But don’t worry, everything is still there. Nothing was confiscated.” She paused, adding, “Your handwritten recipe notebook was quite interesting. The first page says: “Darnell doesn’t like cilantro or onions. Make sure to peel the cucumbers.” “Why were you looking through my recipes?” “We didn’t search it. It just fell open while we were taking photos, and I happened to glance at it. You really took care of him.” I gripped the armrests of my chair. My nails dug deep into the vinyl, but I didn’t let myself snap. From the hallway, a faint, trembling voice filtered through the heavy door. It was my mother. “…My husband has spent his entire life in a schoolhouse. He’s never even touched that kind of money… Please, I beg you, he doesn’t know anything…” “Ma’am, please calm down. Sit here,” an officer was trying to soothe her. “Why did you take him? He doesn’t even know how to use a smart TV, he’s never owned a debit card in his life—” My mother’s voice was raspy. Her desperate crying turned into heavy wheezing, then into dry heaves. “Mom!” I bolted upright. Samantha’s hand instantly came down on my shoulder, forcing me back into the chair with practiced, immovable leverage. “Sit down, Isabel. Someone is looking after your mother.” “Looking after her?” I stared into her eyes. “You brought a sixty-year-old woman in for questioning. What are you going to ask her? How she managed to cook dinner for forty years? How she tended her garden?” “Standard procedure. We are verifying information.” “Verifying what? That she’s lived a quiet, simple life?” “Isabel, don’t get emotional—” “Stop calling me Isabel like we’re friends.” Samantha froze. The perpetual, glossy smile on her face cracked for a fraction of a second. But only for a second. Then the mask slid back on. “Fine. Isabel. You claim the forty-six million is yours. That leaves you with two options. Either you explain the exact source of that money, or your father remains in custody as the primary account holder while we continue the investigation.” Outside, my mother’s weeping started again, fragile and broken. “Your choice, Isabel.” “I earned that money. Every single dollar is fully documented.” “How?” “I need my lawyer.” “You can tell us first, and then—” “Under the Sixth Amendment and criminal procedure, I have the right to counsel during questioning,” I said, my voice hardening. “If you refuse to let me call my attorney, every second recorded in this room becomes a procedural violation that will throw your entire case out of court.” Samantha’s smile finally vanished. She slowly stood up, smoothing the front of her blazer. “You certainly know your rights.” “I didn’t want to,” I said. “You forced me to.” She walked to the door, resting her hand on the metal handle before looking back at me. “Do you want anything to eat? I can have someone pick up takeout. After all, you didn’t get to eat much of your wedding buffet.” 04 “Your father isn’t doing well.” When Samantha walked back in carrying a takeout container, her usual pleasant expression had returned. “What do you mean?” “His blood pressure is dangerously high, and he has a minor heart condition. At his age, extreme stress can easily trigger a cardiac event.” It was already 2:00 AM. I had been sitting in this interrogation room for nine hours. The red silk of my dress felt heavy and stiff, catching the sterile light like dried blood. “I need to see him.” “Not permitted under protocol.” “He has hypertension. He takes two different medications every day. The white pill needs to be taken thirty minutes before meals—” “Telling me won’t change anything. Tell your husband.” She put a deliberate, sharp emphasis on the word “husband”. “Get Darnell in here.” She sighed, pulling out her phone to make a call. Five minutes later, the door opened. Darnell stood in the doorway. He had changed into a plain black hoodie, looking entirely different from the polished groom in the tuxedo from earlier. His eyes were heavily bloodshot, but his face remained completely unreadable. “Your father has medical staff with him,” he said. “I need to see him.” “Not right now.” “Darnell, he’s sixty-three. He has high blood pressure and diabetes. His body cannot take this kind of stress.” I stood up. My knees were so stiff from sitting that they wobbled, and I had to lean on the edge of the metal table to keep my balance. “What exactly are you trying to find? I will tell you where every single dollar came from. Just let him go.” “You say the forty-six million is yours,” he said, his tone as flat and detached as a police report. “How could your income support that? I know your job. I know your bank statements better than you do.” “Yes, of course you do.” I looked at him. “Because you investigated me. But did you actually look at the things that didn’t add up?” He didn’t answer. “Darnell,” I took a step forward, bringing myself within arm’s reach of him. “Answer me one question.” He didn’t flinch or move away. “Was it the case first, or was it us?” The fluorescent light cast a long, sharp shadow across his face. His throat tightened as he swallowed. “The case first.” Three words. They sounded colder than the snap of the handcuffs. I took a step back, my spine hitting the cold wall of the room. The case first. Nineteen months ago, that rainy afternoon at the coffee shop, his broken umbrella. I had truly believed the universe had sent him to me. It was the universe, but he wasn’t a gift. He was an investigator. “Good,” my voice sounded strangely detached, as if someone else were speaking through me. “I understand now.” “Isabel—” “Is there anything else you need to ask? Ask it now, while you still have the chance.” Suddenly, rapid footsteps and chaotic shouting echoed from the hallway. “The old man is crashing! Get the paramedics!” “Hurry up—” “Dad!” I bolted for the door, but Darnell caught me by the waist, locking his arms around me. “Let go of me! That’s my dad!” Across the hallway, the double doors of the medical room were thrown open. Two EMTs were wheeling my father out on a gurney. His face was a sickly grey, his head lolling to the side, his hands hanging limp. The stained blazer he was wearing was flung open. “Dad!!” I thrashed violently against Darnell’s grip, driving my elbow hard into his ribs. He let out a muffled groan but didn’t release me. “Isabel, calm down—” “Calm down? You did this to him! Let me go!” The double doors at the end of the corridor swung shut, cutting off my view. All the strength drained from my legs, and I slid down against the wall. The train of my wedding dress pooled on the dirty floor, a ruined mess of red silk. I don’t know how long I sat there. It could have been five minutes, or it could have been an hour. Samantha knelt down in front of me, offering a tissue. “Isabel, your father has been transported to the hospital. He’s stable. His life isn’t in danger.” I didn’t take the tissue. She remained kneeling, waiting patiently. “Isabel, I know you don’t want to hear this right now. But the sooner you cooperate, the sooner your father gets released. If you keep dragging this out, he has to stay in the system. You saw his condition.” I slowly lifted my head, looking at the smooth, unblemished face of the woman in front of me. My eyes were swollen, my dress was covered in dust, and my hair was a wild tangle of pins. I must have looked pathetic. But suddenly, the urge to cry vanished. “Fine,” I said. “But I need to make one phone call.” Samantha’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “Isabel, under these circumstances—” “Bring me my phone. One call. Ten minutes. After that, I will tell you whatever you want to know.” She stared at me, calculating. “Who are you calling?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “502722”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

By the time my mother’s follow-up scan results came back, she had already been sitting on a hard plastic chair in the lobby of Mercy Oncology Center for three solid hours. She hadn’t dared to call me directly. Instead, she’d sent me a blurry screenshot of her check-in ticket. When I finally rushed into the clinic waiting area, she was clutching the thick envelope of X-rays from our hometown clinic to her chest, whispering to the receptionist: “Excuse me, sweetie, is Dr. Regina Ward seeing patients today? I’m her mother-in-law. I was hoping she could just take a quick look at this.” The receptionist dialed the internal line. Before long, Regina’s sharp, clinical voice bled through the receiver. “Tell her to get in line for a general admission ticket. She shouldn’t be using the VIP express lane.” The eager smile on my mother’s face froze. She nodded quickly, trying to save face. “Of course, of course. We don’t want to break any rules.” But as she turned to walk away, she had to lean heavily against the wall. The pain in her chest was so intense she couldn’t even straighten her back for a long moment. Regina was the youngest associate chief of oncology at Mercy. A single word from her could have bumped my mother’s contrast CT scan up by three days. Yet, right after I helped my mother into a seat, I saw Regina personally pushing an elderly woman out of the VIP elevator. Walking right beside her was Wayne, her first love. The head nurse hurried after them. “Dr. Ward, we’ve reserved the private suite for Mrs. Grant. The chief’s consultation and the biopsy are scheduled for tomorrow morning.” I looked down at the red ink circled on my mother’s report: “Hilar shadow. Recommend immediate screening for malignancy.” Meanwhile, Wayne’s mother was only dealing with a benign thyroid nodule. My mother, noticing my white knuckles, tried to placate me. “Don’t go pick a fight with Regina, Dan. Doctors hate it when families make a scene. I can wait. A couple of days won’t make a difference.” I watched Regina bend down, gently tucking a soft wool blanket around another man’s mother. In that quiet, agonizing moment, I realized I was entirely out of excuses for her. … 1 The waiting room at Mercy Oncology was suffocating, packed with people, the digital queue screens flashing incessantly. My mother sat rigidly on the plastic chair, her arms locked around the hometown clinic’s manila envelope. “Danny, you don’t need to stay with me. Go back to work,” she said, offering a weak smile despite the beads of cold sweat gathering on her forehead. I knelt to tie her loose sneaker. “Mom, I’m staying right here.” Still, she fretted, tapping her fingers. “Just… don’t bother Regina. She’s so busy, and we don’t want people whispering that she’s giving us special treatment.” We waited over two hours before her number was called. When the clinic doctor pulled up her scans, his brow furrowed deeper with every passing second. “The tumor is in a difficult spot,” he said, turning his screen slightly. “We need a contrast CT and a bronchoscopy as soon as possible. Ideally, by the end of this week.” “Can we get her in today?” I asked, my voice tight. The doctor sighed. “The earliest opening is next Wednesday.” I opened my mouth to plead, but my mother placed her cool, dry hand over mine. “Next Wednesday is fine, doctor. We’ll wait.” I went to the billing counter to pay for the upcoming tests. As I rounded the corner toward the VIP pavilion, I saw Regina standing outside the entrance. Wayne was leaning against the wall beside her, his eyes rimmed with red. “Regina, if it weren’t for you, I’d be lost,” he murmured. “My mom was so terrified about the biopsy she didn’t sleep a wink last night.” Regina’s voice was softer than I had heard it in years. “I’ve taken care of everything. Dr. Gregory is performing it tomorrow morning. The room is completely private and quiet, so you can stay overnight and keep her company.” She took a thermal mug from a nearby nurse, tested the temperature against her wrist, and gently handed it to Wayne’s mother in the wheelchair. I stood frozen in the hallway, suddenly remembering the cold tap water my mother had swallowed this morning in the waiting room. She had refused to let me buy her an eight-dollar hot latte downstairs, instead pulling a squished, homemade biscuit from her purse, splitting it in half, and offering the larger piece to me. My phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from Regina: “Stop dragging your mother around the clinic looking for favors. I’m incredibly busy today.” Before I could even lock the screen, my mother shuffled over to me. In her hand was a worn canvas tote bag containing two small mason jars of homemade chamomile-lemon tea concentrate. “Danny,” she whispered, her eyes shining with hope. “I made this for Regina. She works so many night shifts. It’ll help soothe her throat.” Just then, Regina spotted us. Her expression darkened instantly. “Why haven’t you taken your mother home yet?” she demanded, walking over. My mother straightened up, offering the tote bag with both hands. “Regina, sweetie, I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just a little something to drink.” “The hospital doesn’t allow homemade food items in the ward,” Regina said, her voice dry and sterile. My mother’s hands froze mid-air. A couple of passing nurses and a patient nearby turned to look. Blushing, she quickly pulled the bag back, whispering, “Oh, of course. I’m so sorry.” Wayne stepped forward, offering a polite, patronizing smile. “That’s so sweet of you, Mrs. Evans. But my mom just had her pre-op and she’s incredibly sensitive to smells right now. It’s probably best not to bring unsealed items into the sterile zone.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Mr. Grant, my mother wasn’t offering it to you.” Wayne’s smile stiffened. Regina’s brow furrowed. “Dan, don’t start a scene here.” My mother frantically pulled at my sleeve. “Danny, please. Regina is just doing her job. Let’s go.” That evening, I checked my mother into a budget motel down the street from the hospital. She sat on the edge of the saggy mattress, folding the medical bills into perfect, neat squares. “Danny, it might not even be that bad. Don’t go worrying yourself to death.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. When I returned to our apartment later, Regina was sitting at the dining table, freshly showered, reviewing a stack of medical records. The table was set with three carefully prepared, healthy takeout meals. Wayne was sitting in my usual chair, wearing one of my casual knit zip-ups over his shoulders. “Hey, Dan,” Wayne said softly, looking up with an apologetic expression. “Sorry to crash like this. My mom’s biopsy is tomorrow and I was starting to spiral. Regina insisted I come over to get some food in me.” Regina didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Did you get your mother settled?” she asked me. “No,” I replied, my voice flat. “The earliest they can do is next Wednesday.” “Then you wait,” she said simply. I looked at the bowl of hot soup sitting in front of Wayne—perfectly warmed, steam still rising. At that very moment, my mother was sitting in a drafty motel room, using tap water to swallow over-the-counter painkillers. “Regina,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Have you, even for a single second, considered her your mother-in-law?” She finally raised her head, her face etched with profound annoyance. “Dan, the hospital is not a place where your mother can just cut the line because she feels like it.” Wayne stood up, looking distressed. “Dan, please don’t misunderstand. Regina just has a soft heart. She couldn’t bear to see how terrified my mother was.” “So because your mother is anxious, she gets a green light,” I countered, staring at them both, “but because my mother has a suspected malignancy, she has to ‘follow the rules’?” The living room fell dead silent. Regina’s expression turned utterly cold. “You are highly emotional right now. I’m not having this conversation with you.” I didn’t argue. I turned and went straight into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind me. I stayed awake until dawn. In the middle of the night, a text from my mother popped up on my phone: “I didn’t throw away the tea concentrate. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. If Regina doesn’t want it, you can drink it.” A tear splashed onto the glass screen, blurring her words. I opened my laptop and started searching for local family law firms. The next morning, I took a day off work, collected my mother’s scans, and drove her to another major teaching hospital across town. We waited from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon just to catch a senior pulmonologist as he was leaving his clinic. The specialist studied the scans for a long, quiet minute before looking up. “Why did you wait so long to bring her in?” The color drained from my mother’s face. “Our clinic doctor back home told us to come to the city immediately,” she stammered. “We… we only got here yesterday.” The specialist fell silent for a moment, then scribbled a priority note on her chart. “Don’t panic,” he said, handing the papers back. “We need these scans done immediately. The mass is in a sensitive area, but it’s not too late. There is still a window.” My hands shook as I took the paper. But my mother leaned forward, her voice tentative. “Doctor, if you expedite me, will someone else lose their spot? We can wait our turn.” The doctor looked at her gently. “Ma’am, in your condition, you cannot afford to wait.” My mother bowed her head, looking as though she had committed a crime. On our way out, I stopped at a small diner near the hospital and ordered her a bowl of hot chicken broth with extra shredded chicken and toast. She shook her head when she saw the receipt. “You’re wasting money, Danny.” “Eat, Mom,” I said softly. Just as I sat down, my phone rang. It was Regina. “Where did you take your mother?” she asked, her tone clipped. “To see a doctor.” “I told you to wait for the scheduled slot. Dragging her all over the city to random clinics only increases the risk of a misdiagnosis.” I watched my mother blow gently on her hot soup, her shoulders hunched. My voice was barely a whisper. “At least this doctor was willing to look at her.” There was a brief pause on the line before her voice chilled further. “Dan, stop letting your emotions cloud your clinical judgment. For a case like your mother’s, the standard outpatient timeline is perfectly adequate.” I closed my eyes. “Then why wasn’t the standard timeline adequate for Wayne’s mother?” “Her situation is entirely different.” “How is a benign nodule different?” Her voice dropped to a freezing register. “Did you look up her private medical records?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “The head nurse was shouting her discharge instructions across the entire VIP lobby, Regina. Everyone in the building heard it.” Regina exhaled slowly, trying to contain her anger. “Mrs. Grant suffers from severe clinical anxiety. She cannot handle stress.” I looked down at the bright red circle on my mother’s scan report. So that was it. In Regina’s world, another man’s mother’s nerves were far more urgent than my mother’s life. When we went to pay the co-pay, my mother pulled out a faded, hand-stitched coin purse. Inside was a small stack of crumpled bills and two worn fifty-dollar notes. “Don’t let Regina pay for this,” she whispered, smoothing out the paper money. “I brought enough. She has so much pressure on her, and residency is hard. Let’s not burden her.” I stared at that little faded purse, a physical ache tightening in my chest. Just last month, the old commercial freezer in my mother’s tiny convenience store back home had broken down. It cost nearly four thousand dollars to repair. I had mentioned it to Regina once. She had been texting Wayne at the time, not even looking up. “She should just close that money-pit of a store anyway. She’s getting too old. Tell her to stop making a fuss over nothing.” Yet, three days ago, while using the printer in her home office, I had found a bank transfer receipt. She had sent forty-five thousand dollars directly to Wayne’s account. I had lied to myself then. “She’s a doctor,” I’d thought. “She just hates to see people suffer.” But now, sitting in this quiet diner, the truth settled over me like a cold draft. She didn’t hate to see patients suffer. She just couldn’t bear to see Wayne suffer. That night, after making sure my mother was asleep in her motel room, I went back to the apartment. Regina was in her office, on a video call with Wayne. His voice filtered through the cracked door, thick with tears. “Regina… the biopsy is tomorrow. I’m literally shaking.” Regina rubbed the bridge of her nose, her voice carrying a deep, familiar warmth I hadn’t felt in years. “Don’t worry. I’ll be in the room the entire time. I’ve already prepared her post-op meal plan and sent it to your email.” When she hung up, she finally noticed me standing in the doorway. “When did you get back?” I walked over and laid the printout of the forty-five thousand dollar transfer on her desk. “What is this?” I asked. Regina glanced down at the paper, her face remaining entirely composed. “Wayne was in a tight spot with his business. I lent him some money.” “When my mom needed four thousand dollars to fix her freezer, you told me she was making a fuss.” She frowned. “How is that even comparable? Mrs. Grant’s long-term medical care needs to be secure. Your mother’s little shop barely clears a profit anyway.” I stared at her. “So my mother didn’t even deserve four thousand dollars of help?” A flash of irritation crossed Regina’s face. “Dan, do you have to reduce every single thing to whether I love you enough or who ‘deserves’ what?” I shook my head. “I’m not reducing anything. I’m just stating what you already believe.” She stood up, her jaw tight. “I’ve had a twelve-hour shift. I’m too tired to argue.” “Then let’s not,” I said. I walked back to the guest room and quietly shut the door. I pulled a thick folder from the bottom drawer of the desk and went through the documents page by page. Looking at the marriage certificate, the joint bank statements, and the draft agreements, I realized my past three years with her had been like a chronic misdiagnosis. We had dragged it out so long that the rot had reached the bone. It was finally time to cut it out. The day my mother’s contrast CT results came back, the specialist told us she needed to be admitted for immediate surgery. I thanked the doctor and walked out of the office clutching the thick chart. My mother was sitting on the wooden bench outside, nervously turning the keys to her little convenience store over and over in her hands. “Do I have to stay in the hospital?” she asked, her voice small. “Yes, Mom.” “How much will it cost?” “I’ll take care of it.” She immediately panicked, grabbing my hand. “Don’t ask Regina for a dime, Danny. I still have some savings.” I knelt down in front of her. “Mom, I have the money.” Despite what Regina liked to whisper to her friends, I had never been her “househusband.” Before we married, I was a project coordinator for a major medical device firm. After we tied the knot, she complained constantly about my travel schedule, saying there was no one to keep the house running. So, I resigned from my corporate position and transitioned to freelance consulting. My income fluctuated, but it had never run dry. Regina had simply never bothered to ask. In her mind, I was entirely dependent on her. I got my mother admitted to a general ward. It was a semi-private room shared with five other patients. Her bed was right next to the door, where the hum of the corridor and the squeak of nurses’ shoes never quite stopped. But she was incredibly pleased. “This is perfect, Danny. Look, I’m right next to the restroom.” As evening fell, Regina appeared. She stood in the doorway of the ward, her white lab coat pristine and bright against the dim, yellow hospital lighting. “Why didn’t you tell me she was being admitted?” she asked, her voice hushed. I looked at her, tired. “Would it have made a difference?” My mother immediately pushed herself up against the pillows. “Regina! Oh, sweetie, come in, sit down. Don’t worry about me. I’m doing wonderfully here.” Regina’s expression softened slightly. She picked up the chart at the foot of the bed and flipped through it with practiced efficiency. “The surgical plan looks solid,” she said. “Just follow whatever the attending physician recommends.” My mother nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, of course.” The elderly lady in the next bed peeked over her privacy curtain. “Is that your daughter-in-law? A doctor? Oh, you’re a lucky woman.” My mother’s smile faltered, turning tight. “She’s… very busy. I try not to get in her way.” A phone buzzed. Regina glanced at the screen and answered it immediately. “Wayne, what’s wrong?” The ward fell completely quiet. Wayne’s voice leaked clearly through the speaker. “My mom says her incision is stinging. Regina, I’m getting really freaked out.” Regina was already turning toward the door. “I’ll be right there.” My mother kept her brave smile plastered on her face, but I saw her hands slowly retreat under the thin hospital blanket. I followed Regina out into the corridor. “Regina.” She stopped, her hand already hovering over the elevator button. “My mother’s pre-op consultation is tomorrow morning. Can you be there?” She glanced down at her smart watch. “Mrs. Grant has her follow-up tomorrow. I might not be able to make it.” I stared at her. “It’s a routine thyroid check-up, Regina.” “Dan, in medicine, no case is ‘just’ routine.” A dry chuckle escaped my throat. “Funny. Why didn’t you apply that logic to my mother?” Her face darkened. “You are being completely irrational again.” “Yeah,” I said, leaning against the cold painted drywall. “I guess I’ve been rational for way too long.” She didn’t answer. She stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut. Later that night, after my mother had fallen asleep, I went back to the apartment to pack her basic toiletries and some fresh clothes. The moment I unlocked the front door, Wayne’s voice drifted down the hall from the living room. “Regina, do you think my mom could stay here for a few days after she gets discharged? She says the hospital smell is making her nauseous, and she can’t sleep.” My hand froze on the doorknob. Regina’s reply was smooth and unhesitating. “Of course. We can clear out the guest room tonight.” The guest room. The room I had spent weeks painting and setting up specifically for my mother’s visits. I walked straight into the living room. “Who did you say was moving in?” Regina looked up, unbothered. “Mrs. Grant needs a quiet space to recover. Your mother is already admitted to the hospital; she has round-the-clock care from actual nurses.” I pointed toward the guest room. “My mother is having major surgery tomorrow, and you’re giving her room to someone else?” Wayne scrambled to his feet, his face a picture of gentle distress. “Dan, look, if it’s a problem, please don’t worry about it. I can take my mom to a hotel—” Regina snapped her eyes toward me. “Dan, stop intimidating him.” Suddenly, the anger drained out of me. When someone’s heart is that skewed, trying to talk sense into them is just an exercise in self-humiliation. I walked past them into the guest room and began packing the rest of my mother’s personal belongings. Wayne followed me in, keeping his voice soft and hesitant. “Dan… my mom has a really sensitive stomach post-op. Regina mentioned this smart mug keeps liquid at a perfect temperature, so I… I went ahead and used it.” I looked at the blue ceramic travel mug in his hand. My mother had bought that specifically to keep her warm broth hot after her surgery. I reached out and plucked it firmly from his grasp. “That belongs to my mother.” A tear immediately slipped down Wayne’s cheek. Regina appeared in the doorway, her face hard as stone. “Dan. It’s a cup.” “To you,” I whispered, “everything is ‘just’ something.” I bent down to pick up the handmade quilt my mother had left on the bed. It still carried the faint, comforting scent of lavender soap. As I headed for the front door, Regina blocked my path. “Where are you going?” “To the hospital.” “Are you seriously going to be this dramatic?” I didn’t even look at her. I opened the door and walked out into the chilly night. The day of my mother’s surgery, Regina was nowhere to be seen. I sat alone in the sterile corridor outside the operating theater, signing the consent forms. As the surgeon ran through the list of potential complications, my fingers trembled so badly I could barely hold the pen. Before they wheeled her through the double doors, my mother reached out and squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, Danny. I’ve always been tough.” I managed a nod. But the moment the heavy doors swung shut, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke. From morning until late afternoon, the only communication I received from Regina was a single text: “Mrs. Grant is being discharged today. I can’t leave her side right now.” I stared at the screen, and for the first time, I felt absolutely nothing. The wire inside me that had been stretched tight for three years finally snapped. At three in the afternoon, the surgeon came out. He told me the resection had gone smoothly, though we would have to wait a few days for the pathology report. My knees buckled, and I had to lean against the corridor wall to keep from falling. But late that night, my mother’s oxygen levels suddenly began to plummet. The on-call nurses rushed in, and the physician on duty recommended transferring her to an intensive observation ward for overnight monitoring. The head nurse checked the system, her face tight with worry. “All our observation beds are currently occupied,” she said quietly. “We’ll keep her on high-flow oxygen here while we try to coordinate something.” Standing near the nurse’s station, I overheard her making a quiet phone call. “Dr. Ward? I’m calling about the private observation suite you coordinated for Mrs. Grant. Will she be staying another night? Clinically, her vitals are perfect, and she could easily continue her recovery at home.” I couldn’t hear the response on the other end, but the head nurse stole a quick, uncomfortable glance at me. “Understood, Doctor. I’ll leave the hold on the room.” She hung up the phone and walked over to me, offering a polite, practiced smile. “Mr. Evans, we’re going to monitor your mother closely right here. We’ll handle any emergency immediately.” “Who is in that observation room?” I asked. She looked down, avoiding my eyes. “It’s an automated system assignment, sir.” I pulled out my phone and opened social media. At the top of my feed was a fresh post from Wayne. It was a picture of his mother resting in a spacious, sunlit private suite, surrounded by fresh flowers and premium gift baskets. His caption read: “So grateful to Dr. Ward for ensuring my mom gets a peaceful night’s sleep.” And there, just twenty feet away from me, my mother lay in a crowded six-bed ward right next to the noisy hallway, her chest rising and falling in shallow, labored gasps beneath a plastic oxygen mask. Thirty agonizing minutes later, her oxygen saturation finally stabilized. She blinked her eyes open, her voice barely a breathy rasp behind the mask. “Danny… don’t bother Regina. She’s… she’s busy.” I leaned down, tucking the thin blanket around her shoulders. “I won’t, Mom,” I whispered. “We’re never bothering her again.” She seemed to understand. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, soaking into the rough hospital pillow. The following morning, I went back to the apartment to grab some clean clothes. The moment I stepped inside, the air felt thick with the smell of strangers. Wayne’s mother was sitting on our sofa, watching a morning talk show, while two private caregivers were busy in the kitchen, stirring a pot of herbal broth. Wayne walked out of our master bedroom, wearing my favorite pair of house slippers. “Oh, hey, Dan. You’re back?” I didn’t say a word. I walked straight past him into the master bedroom. Inside the closet, my clothes had been shoved to the far left corner. Half of the rack was now occupied by Wayne’s designer jackets. On the vanity, my cologne had been pushed aside to make room for his high-end skincare products. Regina stepped out of the adjoining study. “What are you doing now, Dan?” I held up my phone, showing her Wayne’s social media post. “My mother suffered post-op hypoxia last night,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We couldn’t get her an intensive observation bed.” A flicker of guilt crossed Regina’s face, but she quickly masked it. “Your mother’s condition was managed and stabilized. Mrs. Grant’s anxiety is severe; moving her would have triggered a panic attack.” I stared at her. “Her anxiety prevents her from moving, but my mother struggling to breathe is something that can just wait?” Wayne stood in the bedroom doorway, his eyes welling with tears. “Dan, I know your mom’s sick, but my mom is just so fragile. She literally cannot handle a public ward.” I turned my gaze slowly to him. “You knew my mother was in critical condition?” Wayne’s face turned caught out and pale. Regina stepped between us, shielding him. “That’s enough, Dan. Stop making routine hospital administration look like some sort of conspiracy.” I let out a soft laugh. “Routine administration?” I reached into my bag, pulled out a printed copy of the divorce petition, and laid it quietly on the nightstand. Right beside it, I placed a neatly organized file containing three years of joint financial statements, and a detailed log of her unauthorized use of hospital resources for Wayne’s family. Regina’s face finally lost all of its color. “What is this supposed to mean?” I slid my silver wedding band off my finger and let it drop onto the paperwork. “I want a divorce.” I looked at her, my voice completely steady. “If you refuse to sign, this file will be on the hospital board’s desk by nine tomorrow morning.”

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After Grace died in the climbing accident, I lost thirty pounds in a single month. I fed decades of our chat history into an AI, desperate to create a virtual version of her to keep me company for the rest of my days. But after thirty seconds of deep processing, the AI spat out a cold truth: She never loved you. Later, they finally recovered Grace’s body. During the avalanche, she had used her own body to shield Kyle. When they died, there was no fear on their faces—only a quiet, mutual peace. After burying my wife and my best friend, my body gave out. I collapsed in the cemetery, coughing up a mouthful of dark blood. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the morning of the SATs. At the entrance of the testing center, the two of them were frantic, sweating in the heat because Grace’s grandfather had suffered heatstroke. I took one look at them, turned around, and walked away. This time, I wanted nothing to do with either of them. I just wanted to live for myself. …… 1 I walked through the crowd, keeping my head down. Just as I was about to step through the gates, a frantic male voice called out from behind me. “Liam! Come over here and help! Grace’s granddad passed out from the heat.” I paused, but I didn’t turn around. The icy wind of the cemetery still seemed to whisper in my ears, and the faint, copper taste of blood lingered in my mouth. Suddenly, a warm, soft hand grabbed my wrist. “Liam, please. You’re the only one who can help me.” Eighteen-year-old Grace was wearing a faded school hoodie. Her eyes were as clear as mountain lakes—the kind of eyes you could easily drown in. But I wasn’t that eighteen-year-old boy anymore. In my past life, terrified that this would ruin Grace’s exams, I had offered to take her grandfather to the ER myself. By the time I rushed back to the testing center, I was thirteen minutes late. I couldn’t finish the essay section. That single mistake derailed my scores, forcing me into a mediocre local state college. Meanwhile, she and Kyle went off to Columbia together. Years later, on our wedding day, Grace told me that if it hadn’t been for eighteen-year-old me, she would never have achieved everything she did. At the time, her expression had been complicated. It took me a lifetime to realize that her look wasn’t just gratitude; it was the suffocating weight of obligation. I shook my head. “I can’t help you, Grace.” “Taking him to the hospital means missing the start of the test.” Disbelief flickered across Grace’s face. “That’s exactly why we’re asking you,” Kyle snapped from beside her. “Grace is the top of our class. The whole district is counting on her to get into the Ivy League. You can’t let her ruin her future over this.” Kyle’s voice grew increasingly frantic. I took a deep breath. “I know. That’s why I’m not going.” “Liam!” Kyle’s voice shot up an octave. “Your future at some state school doesn’t compare to Grace’s. How can you be so selfish?” I froze, staring directly at Kyle. With my actual academic level, a normal performance would easily land me in a solid university. But here he was, already writing me off as state-school material. “Grace is your girlfriend. How can you stand there and do nothing?” Grace pulled him back. She let out a soft sigh. “Stop, Kyle. This is my family’s problem. He has every right to say no.” “But if you miss the chance at being valedictorian, it’s a tragedy,” Kyle said, his eyes rimmed with red. I looked at Kyle, my voice dead calm. “If you’re that worried, you take him.” Kyle choked on his words. “It’s fine, Kyle. Don’t worry,” Grace said, her tone softening as she turned to soothe him. “I’ll take Granddad to the ER and run right back. Just focus on your test, okay?” She patted Kyle’s shoulder reassuringly. Suddenly, Kyle threw his arms around her. “Just hurry back!” Grace’s hands hovered in the air for a few seconds. Those hands. I knew them better than my own. They had cooked for me, adjusted my ties, and once worn a wedding band I placed on her ring finger. Slowly, her hands descended, gently patting Kyle’s back. “I will. Focus on the exam.” Grace turned to look at me, but I had already averted my gaze. I turned and walked away. When the proctor began reading the exam instructions, my mind was still in a haze. But I forced myself to calm down. It didn’t matter who Grace truly loved anymore. What mattered was the thirteen minutes I had just bought back for myself. It wasn’t until the final exam of the week ended that I saw Grace again, waiting by the gates. Kyle tapped her shoulder. The moment she turned around, he leaned in and kissed her on the lips. Grace froze, but she didn’t pull away. It took her a few seconds to gently push him back. “What if Liam sees us?” Kyle pouted. “So what if he does? Were you planning on hiding it from him forever?” Passing students turned to look. Once they recognized the top two students in our class, their faces softened into knowing, supportive smiles. I walked past them. Their hands were still reluctantly parting. “How’s your grandfather?” I asked. Grace pulled her hand back completely, her voice turning cold. “He’s in the hospital. He’s going to be fine.” “Good.” I turned to leave, but Grace caught my arm. “Let me drive you home.” I pulled my arm out of her grasp. “No need. You should take Kyle instead.” Grace’s eyes darkened. In my past life, our friendship had spanned fifty years. Like Grace, my parents worked out of state, and I had been raised by my grandparents. When I was eleven and got my first wet dream, I had been terrified and confused. It was Kyle who had knocked on my door with a clean pair of boxers, laughing as he comforted me: “Don’t sweat it, man. It just means you’re growing up.” It was Grace who had let me ride on the back of her bike, telling me, “From now on, you’ll be the one taking care of me.” Later, they went to the same elite university, started a tech company together after graduation, and eventually made the Forbes 30 Under 30 list. And I was the husband, the best friend, the cheerleader standing in the shadows, applauding their brilliant achievements. Until they went to climb Everest and never came back. It was only after their deaths that I discovered our fifty years of marriage had left behind a chat history of barely a hundred megabytes on her phone. But her chat history with Kyle spanned dozens of gigabytes. The will she kept in her safe stated her wish to be buried beside Kyle. All she left for me was a single, scribbled sentence: I’m sorry. But what use was an apology for a wasted life? The morning after the exams, I was heading out the door with my backpack. My grandfather poked his head out of the kitchen. “Starting your part-time job already, kiddo?” I paused for a second, then shook my head. “No, Granddad. I’m going to the library.” He smiled warmly. “I don’t mind you working, Liam. I just worry you’re pushing yourself too hard.” “I know.” Grace’s family had always struggled financially, and after her grandfather’s hospitalization, her tuition and living expenses became a massive burden. In my previous life, to help save up for her college expenses, I had started working the very day after high school ended. For two months of summer, I worked three different part-time jobs, never taking a single day off. Every night when I finished my shift, she and Kyle would drive over from the library to pick me up. They had already started self-studying college-level courses, discussing advanced calculus in the front seats. I would sit in the back, fighting off exhaustion, unable to join their conversations. Sure enough, when I sat down at the library, I ran into Grace and Kyle. Kyle looked genuinely surprised to see me. “Liam? Aren’t you supposed to be working at the boba shop?” He glanced at the thick copy of A Pattern Language on my desk. “Does a state school really require this kind of reading? I thought you guys just cruised through graduation.” He leaned in. “Instead of wasting time on useless books, you should be paying more attention to Grace. You’ve got a world-class girlfriend here. If you don’t step up, there’s a line of guys waiting to take your place. You won’t even make the waiting list.” I understood the underlying bite in his words. I just offered a faint smile. “Grace is indeed incredible. You should cherish her.” Grace remained silent for a long moment. “Liam… when did we become so distant?” I smiled, offering no explanation. When did we change? Probably when I first heard the news of her death, unable to eat or sleep, watching my hair fall out in clumps. Or perhaps when I exported her chat logs, whispering to an AI model, “Sweetheart, I miss you so much.” Or when the AI finished analyzing every single message they had ever sent, displaying its cold, mechanical diagnosis: [Analysis: The user’s interactions with his wife show she initiated conversations only 1.2% of the time. Average response length: 4.1 words. High-frequency words: ‘Sure,’ ‘Okay,’ ‘Got it.’ This relationship exhibits severe emotional asymmetry.] Grace didn’t know that I hadn’t slept at all that night. At dawn, I had sent one last message to the virtual Grace. “Let’s get a divorce.” The AI had replied, “If that’s what you want.” From that day on, I knew I had to let her go. Because I hadn’t been late for my exam this time, my scores were fifty points higher than in my previous life. It was more than enough to get into a top-tier university. Grace didn’t secure the title of district valedictorian, nor did she make it into Columbia. But her foundation was solid enough to get her into a prestigious state flagship in Seattle. The day after scores were released, Grace was waiting for me downstairs. “I’m planning to go to Seattle,” she said. “Tell me your scores. I can help you look at colleges in the area that might fit.” I didn’t take the bait. “I’ve already picked a school in Boston. No need to worry about it.” Grace’s brows knitted together. “Long distance is hard,” she said, pausing before adding, “Since I didn’t get the top scholarship, money is going to be tight. If we aren’t in the same city, it’s going to be really hard to see each other.” In my past life, those words would have made my heart ache. I would have thought she was fighting to keep us together. But now, I understood. She was just calculating the cost. Is seeing me worth the train ticket? Is it worth the investment? In my past life, Grace’s career soared after graduation. We got married, and I naturally became the one who managed the homefront. But during our third year of marriage, she and Kyle went to London to set up a European branch. The cost of flights was pocket change to her by then, yet she didn’t come home once that entire year. During the holidays, I finally called to ask when she was coming back. She had brushed me off. “Things are crazy with the expansion, Liam. Non-essential things have to take a backseat.” I smiled slightly at the memory. “Don’t worry about the distance,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Our priority of seeing each other was never that high anyway.” Grace’s face went completely blank. “Liam…” “What are you guys talking about?” Kyle interrupted, stepping up and patting my shoulder with mock warmth. “I’ve decided to go to Seattle with you guys. Pretty great, right?” “Even though turning down Columbia is a bit of a bummer, I couldn’t bear to leave you two.” I was mildly surprised that Kyle had actually given up an Ivy League offer for Grace. “Grace told me your scores are good enough for a decent state school,” Kyle continued. “Even if you can’t get into a top major, a degree is a degree.” I gently slid my shoulder out of his reach. “I’ve already submitted my choice. I’m going to Boston.” “Boston?” Surprise flashed in Kyle’s eyes, quickly replaced by a wave of relief. “Well, look at our Liam, making his own decisions. Boston is great. Beautiful city.” He nudged Grace with his shoulder. “Right?” Grace didn’t answer. Her voice was low and tense as she looked at me. “The portal is still open. You can still change your application.” I shook my head. “I’ve made up my mind.” Grace stood frozen for several seconds, her hands slowly clenching into fists at her sides. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” In my past life, while Grace was overseas, I had taught myself video editing and digital marketing while taking care of our child. When Grace and Kyle returned, a top media agency based in Boston had reached out to me with an offer. Kyle had bought me a brand-new Rolex. “To our incredibly capable Liam! Your channel is really taking off.” “But,” he had added smoothly, “if you move to Boston, who’s going to take care of Grace and her parents?” Grace had reached out, pressing her hand down on the contract I was reading, her voice laced with disapproval. “Liam, why do you always lose sight of what actually matters?” “The money I make is enough to support us for a lifetime. Why do you need to be some internet influencer? Taking care of this family is your real job.” After weighing everything, I had turned down Boston. I spent decades cooking, cleaning, caring for the elderly, and running myself ragged. And what did I get in return? The strap of my backpack was digging into my shoulder. I shifted it to the other arm and walked past them without another word. The library’s AC was blasting cold air. I spent the afternoon taking pages of notes on architectural design. By the time I walked out, night had fallen. Passing by a familiar storefront, I recalled working at this very boba shop in my previous life. As I neared the entrance, two familiar voices drifted out. “Standing for eight hours straight is literally killing me.” “Grace, my back hurts so bad. Give me a massage.” Looking through the window, I saw Kyle leaning against Grace, whining. Grace looked startled and took a half-step back. “Why are you flinching? Liam’s not even here.” “Seriously, when are you going to break up with him?” Grace didn’t say anything. Kyle gave her a gentle shove. “I could have gone to Columbia, and instead I’m shaking boba cups here every day for you. My wrists are practically broken, and you still won’t give me a proper title!” Grace sighed, saying something completely out of context. “That summer… Liam worked three jobs a day. It couldn’t have been easy for him.” I stood by the entrance, unmoving. I remembered that hot summer, walking tiredly behind them after my shifts. Once, my shoelaces had come undone. I knelt to tie them, and when I looked up, they had already disappeared down the alley. Back then, I thought she was just walking fast because she was in a hurry. Only later did I realize she simply never thought to look back for me. I averted my eyes and walked away. Back home, right after my shower, my phone buzzed. “Liam, I’m downstairs.” I pulled back the curtains. Grace was standing beneath the old sycamore tree outside my window, looking up at me. “What is it?” The amber streetlamp stretched her shadow long and thin. She just stared at me, silent. Just as I was about to hang up, she spoke. “I changed my application.” “Five minutes before the system locked.” I let out a soft “Okay.” “Aren’t you going to ask me where I changed it to?” I repeated dryly, “Where did you change it to?” I heard her take a shaky breath. “I’m coming to Boston with you.” She looked up at me with an expectation and a tenderness I had never seen on her face before. I looked away, staring into the dark. “What time does the boba shop close? You should go pick up Kyle.” “Liam… please don’t be like this.” She paused, as if gathering her courage. “I don’t know why you refused to come to Seattle with me, but since this is what you chose, I’m coming to you.” I said quietly, “There is absolutely no need.” The night wind stirred the leaves of the sycamore. I remembered the last time we saw each other at the airport before they left for Everest. They had walked through security, laughing and talking. She hadn’t looked back once. “Grace,” I said softly. “Let’s break up.” “What?” Her breath hitched. Under the dim light, she clenched her fists and tilted her chin up stubbornly. “Liam, why?” I looked at her and said quietly, “After the avalanche, it took me a long time to unlock your phone.” “Do you still remember what the passcode was?” Her shoulders began to tremble. Silence. “I know. It was 0924. Kyle’s birthday.” I continued, “The night before the climb, you sent him one last message.” “You wrote: ‘If there is a next life, I choose you.’” Under the streetlamp, she stared up at me. After what felt like an eternity, she whispered, “Liam, what are you talking about?” She looked completely bewildered, but her hand was gripping her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. My hand remained on the curtain.

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My coworkers always told me I had the perfect girlfriend. No matter the weather, rain or shine, Lauren would call me without fail, offering sweet, gentle reminders to stay dry and keep warm. But my best friend, Wyatt, didn’t buy the act. “If you both work in the exact same building, why doesn’t she just walk out with you and ride home together?” he asked one afternoon, his voice laced with casual skepticism. I smiled, shaking my head, and offered the same excuse I always did: her department got off ten minutes earlier than mine. But in truth, every time I walked into the subway station, collapsing my wet umbrella while cold rain dripped down the back of my neck, a heavy, quiet ache would settle in my chest. That was until a coworker of mine ended up transferring to the firm where Wyatt worked. He was the one who sent me the photo. It was taken right outside their office building. The image was clear: Wyatt was holding a large umbrella, tilting it carefully over Lauren, shielding her body with his own as he guided her toward the passenger side of her car. Lauren hadn’t caught a single drop of rain. A follow-up text from my coworker popped up: “This has been going on for a month. I’ve been debating whether or not I should tell you.” I stared at the screen for a very long time, my mind completely blank, until a single tear slipped down my cheek and smeared the glass. She didn’t want to wait ten minutes for me. Because she was driving all the way across town, taking the long route, just to pick him up and drive home together. The car she was driving was one I had bought for her. I looked up at the window. Outside, the sky was black, releasing a furious, unforgiving downpour. 1 Right on cue, Lauren’s daily text message lit up my phone. It was the same predictable routine. “It’s pouring out. How are you getting home?” “Make sure you stay safe.” I stared at her words, but all I could see was the tilted angle of the umbrella in that photo. After a long pause, I typed out a brief reply. “I’m not coming home tonight.” I stayed at my desk until nine o’clock. Lauren sent message after message, but I didn’t reply to a single one. I simply didn’t know how to look her in the eye. At ten, she showed up at the office lobby. The moment she spotted me sitting alone in the dim reception area, she rushed over, shaking out a dry coat she carried on her arm and draping it over my shoulders. “Why haven’t you come home?” Before I could answer, she took my wrist and pulled me toward the exit, her voice a soft, scolding murmur. “Silly. You’re a grown man, Jesse. You’d think you’d know enough to go home when it’s raining.” Outside, the storm had quieted into a steady drizzle. She opened her umbrella and held it over us, but as we walked, she subtly tilted the canopy toward her own shoulder. The cold mist drifted onto my bare neck. That familiar, suffocating wave of helplessness washed over me again. As soon as we got into the car, I unlocked my phone and held the photo directly in front of her face. “Can you explain this?” Lauren froze. A flicker of sheer panic crossed her eyes before she quickly masked it. “We… we just happened to be heading the same way. Where did you even get this picture, Jesse?” I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. “You’re the one who needs to explain.” Lauren let out a dry, dismissive cough. “Wyatt is your best friend. He only looks out for me because of you. It’s just a favor.” I didn’t argue. I just kept my eyes locked on hers, searching for any trace of the woman I thought I knew. The silence inside the car became heavy and suffocating. Finally, Lauren let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “It’s absolutely nothing, Jesse. We’ve been together for eight years. Do you seriously trust some random gossip over me? You’re just overthinking things.” At that exact second, her phone began to ring. I glanced at the illuminated dashboard screen. The caller ID was a single red heart emoji. She answered, and Wyatt’s voice filled the quiet car. “Hey, the rain is brutal today. You’re definitely going to catch a cold when you get home. Make sure you brew some hot tea, okay?” He paused, then continued in a casual, familiar tone. “Oh, by the way, those bagels you bought for Jesse last month were amazing. Bring me some when you pick me up tomorrow morning, will you?” “Hello? Lauren? Can you hear me?” When had their conversations started sounding so comfortable? So much like an old married couple? For a terrifying second, I felt like a stranger intruding on someone else’s life. The car was dead silent. Lauren finally spoke, her voice tight. “Jesse knows.” Wyatt hung up almost instantly. A moment later, my own phone began to buzz with calls and a barrage of texts. All of them from Wyatt. “Jesse, buddy, you know how you get. Lauren and I are completely platonic, swear. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.” Was I really just overthinking? I clicked the power button, turning my screen dark. My head was spinning, my vision blurring behind a hot screen of tears. “When did it start?” “Jesse, please don’t—” “I asked you when it started!” I pushed her hand away, lunging forward to grab the dashcam’s memory card reader. Lauren immediately tried to block me, scrambling to grab my wrists. But she was too late. I pulled up the footage on my phone. Today. Yesterday. The day before that. Every single day. The moment she clocked out, she drove straight to Wyatt’s office to pick him up. Every single day, rain or shine. And all the while, she had kept me at arm’s length with lies about mismatched schedules while I trudged through the rain to catch the subway. The loop only stored three months of data. By the time I finished scrolling through the dates, I was weeping openly, my chest heaving. “Why?” I sobbed, the sound raw and ugly. “Why would you do this to me? Why the two of you? Why?” Outside, a sudden crack of thunder shook the sky, a perfect, mocking soundtrack to my unraveling. Lauren reached out and tried to pull me into her arms. “Jesse, stop, please. It breaks my heart to see you like this…” I wrenched myself out of her embrace. I blinked away the burning tears, my throat raw. “We’re done,” I said. “It’s over.” The moment we got back to the apartment, I began packing my things. I remembered a joke I had made to Wyatt years ago when we first moved in. “I shouldn’t buy too much stuff,” I’d laughed. “If Lauren and I ever break up, packing will be humiliating.” How cruel, to have predicted my own ruin. It didn’t take long. Eight years of my life fit neatly into just two suitcases. Lauren sat on the edge of the sofa, watching me in icy silence. She didn’t offer a single word until I rolled my suitcases toward the front door. “I’m giving you one chance to regret this,” she said quietly. “We’re supposed to get married soon, Jesse. This little tantrum is getting ridiculous.” I responded by shutting the door behind me. Walking down the dark, wet street with my suitcases dragging behind me, my mind slipped back to our college graduation. “Lauren, I promise you, I will never let you suffer like this. We will always have a roof over our heads.” When we first arrived in New York City, we were young, broke, and squeezed into a miserable little apartment. One night, our landlord abruptly kicked us out at midnight because someone else offered double the rent. Our meager belongings had been thrown out into the hallway, our cheap suitcases tumbling down the stairs. I had picked up those broken bags, looked into her tear-streaked face, and made that promise. I had smiled then, full of foolish, naive hope. But I wasn’t smiling now. Now, I was the one walking the streets alone in the dark. Lauren, you absolute liar. Rainwater and sweat mixed on my face. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Wyatt’s name on the screen. “Jesse, stop being dramatic,” Wyatt said the moment I answered. “Go back home. Don’t make Lauren worry about you.” Worry about me. What a joke. Three years ago, Lauren had been overwhelmed by the pressure of working in New York and wanted to relocate to Charleston. I didn’t hesitate; I quit my promising management track job and followed her south. But Charleston’s job market wasn’t kind to me. The sudden stress, combined with a severe stomach ulcer, landed me in a hospital bed. Wyatt had flown down the moment he heard. I remembered him standing by my hospital bed, his eyes red with tears. He and Lauren took turns caring for me for two straight months until I recovered and finally landed a local desk job. I had felt so incredibly loved back then. But now, a sickening thought crept in. “When did they really start getting close? Was it during those long hours by my sickbed?” The more I thought, the more I loathed my own stupidity. The rain kept falling, and the thunder made me shiver to my bones. “Don’t worry about it,” I told Wyatt, my voice shaking. “I’m never going back. I hope I never see either of you again for the rest of my life. I can’t wish you well. Goodbye.” I hung up, dragged my bags into a nearby budget hotel, and checked in. Staring up at the sterile ceiling of my room, my mind replayed every detail of the evening. Sleep was impossible. I was used to Lauren’s weight beside me, her voice soothing me to sleep. I would never have that again. Tears slipped silently down into my hair, but I didn’t even have the energy to wipe them away. Suddenly, I thought I heard Lauren and Wyatt’s voices in the hallway. I must be losing my mind, I thought. But when I opened the door, they were actually standing there. When I demanded to know how they had found me, they both stumbled over their words, but the pieces fell into place quickly enough. To keep their little secret safe from me, Lauren had secretly installed a tracking app on my phone. No wonder she always knew where I was. Lauren tried to grab my hand. “Jesse, don’t look at me like that. It was only for your safety.” Wyatt wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “See? He’s perfectly fine. You worried over nothing.” He looked at me, his lip curling in disgust. “I honestly thought you’d gone off to get a room with some random girl. If Lauren hadn’t been hysterical, I wouldn’t have wasted my night coming here.” Lauren nudged him, frowning. “Wyatt, shut up.” But Wyatt kept going. “You and Lauren are getting married. Stop acting like a child. I can explain the rides. Lauren is delicate. She can’t walk in the rain—it triggers her migraines.” The excuse sounded horribly familiar. Three years ago, Lauren had suddenly insisted on buying a car. I had been thrilled, thinking she was finally planning for our future. I paid for the vehicle in full, in cash, and registered it under her name as a gesture of my devotion. But once the keys were in her hand, she never brought up marriage again. Instead, she claimed Wyatt needed to borrow it for his commute. That “temporary” loan had lasted three whole years. Now, the memory of the night before we bought that car flashed in my mind. Wyatt had caught a fever after getting drenched in a storm. Lauren and I had gone to his apartment to bring him medicine. I remembered him sighing on his couch. “I wish I never had to walk in the rain again.” “How long?” I asked, my voice flat. “How long has it been?” Wyatt answered without a shred of hesitation. “Three years.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Three years. The car had been bought for him from the very beginning. I had been nothing but a bank account and a fool. “Get out,” I said, slamming the door in their faces. I called the front desk and had security escort them out of the building. I didn’t sleep a single wink that night. The next morning, I bought a new phone, threw my old one in a trash can, and walked into my office to hand in my resignation. During our three years in Charleston, Lauren had used her family connections to climb into a comfortable management role. Meanwhile, despite my degree from a top-tier university, I had settled for a low-level administrative clerk job just to keep her happy. My work was so simple that it didn’t even require a transition period. No one tried to convince me to stay. As I walked out of the HR department, I ran right into Lauren. She blocked my path, her eyes darting between me and the director’s office. “Are you going to complain to management?” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “Are you trying to tell them I’m immoral? You’ve really grown a spine, haven’t you, Jesse?” “I didn’t—” “Let me tell you something,” she interrupted, stepping closer. “My word carries a lot more weight in this company than yours ever will.” I remembered our life in New York. I had earned five times her salary back then. She used to knock politely before entering my office. But in Charleston, the power dynamic had completely shifted. She reached back, curling her arm through Wyatt’s as he stepped up behind her. “If I hear a single whisper of you trying to ruin Wyatt’s reputation here, Jesse, I will make your life a living hell.” I had no energy left to explain myself. I brushed past her outstretched arm. “I just resigned,” I said quietly. “Let me through.” Lauren froze, then lunged forward to grab my sleeve. “What do you mean, you resigned? Explain yourself!” I tried to pull away from her grip. In the clumsy scuffle, she let out a sharp gasp, clutching her abdomen as she fell to her knees on the polished floor. I instinctively reached down to help her up. Before I could touch her, a shadow crossed my face. “Smack.” A stinging slap landed squarely across my cheek, sending a dull ring through my ears. Wyatt’s eyes were practically burning with rage as he scooped Lauren into his arms. “She’s two months pregnant!” he roared. “How dare you lay a hand on her!” Two months? My mind spun. Two months ago was exactly when we were supposed to get married. But she had suddenly called off the entire ceremony, canceling the venue and the dress at a massive financial loss. She had claimed the date was “unlucky.” Now I understood. She just couldn’t bear the thought of Wyatt’s child being born a bastard. My head throbbed, the world tilting on its axis. Wyatt sneered, his voice a cruel whisper. “Want to know when it happened? If you’d watched that dashcam footage for just one more second, you would have seen us doing it in the parking lot of your apartment building. Every single day, right before she went upstairs to you.” “Don’t blame us, Jesse. Lauren was bored of you years ago.” He smirked. “What’s with the blank stare? Want me to copy the files for you? You can listen to it on repeat.”

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The preschool dressing room was absolute chaos, a frantic blur of pint-sized performers running around in bright, stiff costumes. “Todd, take your suit off. Let Sammy wear it.” My mother’s voice was clipped, her fingers already reaching behind my back to tug at the Velcro strap. I instinctively clutched my chest. The miniature blue cadet uniform was special. My dad had taken me to a local tailor shop to get it custom-fitted, measuring my shoulders and inseam with a yellow tape measure. I had waited two long weeks for it to be finished. “Dad bought this for me,” I said, taking a step back, my heel hitting a pile of plastic props. “Sammy doesn’t have a mom, Todd. His dad can’t afford a costume like this. He’s the lead soloist today, and you need to be the bigger person.” Without waiting for me to answer, she lunged forward and grabbed my shoulder. “Rrrrrip.” The Velcro gave way with a sharp, ugly tear. The uniform slid down my arms, leaving me in just my undershirt. The draft from the air conditioning hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps. Nearby, three other kids stopped playing to stare at me. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my chest from heaving. I looked up at her, my vision blurring slightly, and said, “Mom, I don’t want the suit anymore. Why don’t you go be someone else’s mom?” 1 My mother’s hand froze in midair. She looked at the crisp blue cadet suit in her hands, then down at me. “Todd, that is incredibly rude.” She turned away, sliding the uniform onto Sammy’s shoulders. She pulled his sleeves down, adjusted his collar, and placed the matching pilot cap on his head, gently patting the brim. “Mr. Sullivan has a hard enough time raising Sammy on his own,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “We’re fortunate. We should help where we can.” Sammy spun around in front of the vanity mirror, admiring himself. He was a little chubbier than me, and the waist of the trousers looked tight, the fabric straining. My mother knelt down, loosening the adjustable tabs at his hips. “Look at you,” she said, her voice softening into a warm, adoring tone I hadn’t heard in weeks. “You look like the handsomest little pilot in the world.” “Thank you, Ms. Davis,” Sammy chirped, his voice sweet and clear. Gary Sullivan walked over, his eyes shining with gratitude as he looked at my mother. “Rebecca, I honestly don’t know how to thank you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what Sammy would have done today.” My mother stood up, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, Gary, don’t worry about it. We’re neighbors. Todd can wear anything on stage. He doesn’t mind.” The coordinator’s voice boomed over the intercom, calling the kids to the wings. My mother scanned the clothing racks quickly, pulled down an oversized white backup t-shirt from the choir surplus, and tossed it to me. “Put this on. Quickly. You’re going to be late.” The shirt was massive. The neckline slid halfway down my collarbone, and the sleeves completely swallowed my hands. I slowly worked my fingers out of the cuffs and tucked the massive hem into my waistband, trying to make it look intentional. When the lights went up, I was standing in the back row of the choir, tucked away in the far corner. Every other child around me wore tailored little blazers or matching dresses. Sammy was front and center. The stage lights caught him perfectly, making the thirty-six polished brass buttons on my cadet uniform gleam like tiny stars. I looked out into the darkened auditorium and found my mother. She was standing near the stage, holding her DSLR camera, her finger constantly clicking the shutter, capturing every angle of Sammy’s solo. During the second song, we were supposed to sway side to side. The boy next to me took a step and accidentally trod on the hem of my oversized shirt, which had escaped my waistband. I lost my balance and tumbled sideways, scraping my palm hard against the splintered stage floor. It stung—a sharp, hot burn as a patch of skin peeled away. But I forced myself not to cry. I scrambled back up, tucked my shirt in again, and kept singing. My mother never saw it. She was too busy recording a video of Sammy’s high note. When the show ended, we all went back to the classroom to wait for our parents. My dad finally arrived, running through the door, his face flushed. He’d had a crucial board meeting but had promised to meet me the second the curtain fell. He knelt in front of me, his eyes instantly locking onto the ridiculous white shirt. “Todd, where’s your cadet suit?” Then he saw my hand—the raw, red scrape on my palm. His brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening. I pointed toward the far side of the classroom. My mother was sitting at a desk, pouring water from a thermos for Sammy. Gary was standing right next to her, holding her trench coat over his arm. Sammy was still wearing my blue uniform. “Sammy has it,” I said quietly. “Mom took it off me.” The warmth drained from my dad’s face. He stood up, took my uninjured hand, and walked straight toward them. “Rebecca, what the hell is this?” Several nearby parents paused their conversations, turning to look. The smile on my mother’s face stiffened. She snatched her coat back from Gary and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “David, don’t start a scene here. Sammy was the soloist. He needed to look presentable.” “So you stripped your own son to dress someone else’s kid?” My dad stepped closer, lifting my scraped hand so she could see it. “Todd was tripping over a shirt three sizes too big because of you. He fell on stage and tore up his hand. Did you even notice?” My mother glanced at my palm, her expression barely wavering. “Kids fall down, David. It’s a scratch. If Sammy had gone on stage in his old clothes, the other kids would have made fun of him. Todd is mature. He understands.” “I don’t understand,” I said. My mother blinked, momentarily speechless. “I don’t understand,” I repeated, looking her in the eye. “You ripped the Velcro off my back. It hurt, and it made me sad.” Gary stepped forward, looking intensely uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck. “David, please don’t blame Rebecca. It’s my fault. I’m a screw-up who couldn’t even get his kid a decent outfit. Sammy, take it off right now. Give it back to Todd.” Gary reached for Sammy’s zipper, but Sammy immediately wrapped his arms around my mother’s leg, hiding his face. “Ms. Davis, I don’t want to. I love this suit.” My mother instinctively shielded Sammy behind her. “It’s just a piece of fabric, David. Are you really going to hold a grudge against a motherless child? I’ll buy Todd an identical one tomorrow.” “You can’t,” I said. “The tailor said those brass buttons were the last ones he had.” My dad let go of my hand and took a slow, deep breath. “Rebecca, you rob your own son just to play the saint for an audience. You make me sick.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and led me out of the school. “David!” she called after us, her voice echoing down the hallway. “When are you going to grow up? You don’t have a single drop of empathy in you!” My dad didn’t look back. In the passenger seat of his car, I pulled the seatbelt across my chest. My dad pulled a sanitizing wipe from the glove box and gently dabbed at the dirt in my scraped palm. “Does it hurt, buddy?” “No,” I lied, shaking my head. I looked out the window. My mother was walking out of the school gates, flanked by Gary and Sammy. She unlocked her car, and Gary and Sammy climbed into the passenger seats as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This wasn’t the first time she had given my things away. Last month, my dad had waited in line with me for two hours to get a limited-edition dinosaur balloon at the street fair. We had barely walked a block when we ran into my mother and Sammy. Sammy pointed at the balloon, and my mother simply took the string out of my hand and handed it to him, telling me I was a month older and needed to be a good big brother. But I didn’t have a brother. The week before that, she had promised to take me to the adventure park to ride the giant rainbow slide. But at the entrance, Gary called to say Sammy had a fever and was crying for her. My mother left me in the park’s sandbox, telling me to play by myself. I sat in that sand for three hours. Eventually, a park security guard had to call my dad. By the time my dad left work and rushed over to get me, I had fallen asleep in the corner of the sandbox, my hair full of dirt. “Dad,” I said, turning to him. “Yeah, buddy?” “I don’t want anything Mom buys me anymore. I only want the things you get me.” My dad’s hand stopped moving. He leaned over and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight against his chest. “Okay, Todd. From now on, whatever you want, Dad will get it for you.” Three days later, my mother brought home a massive cardboard box. Inside was a limited-edition Lego castle set. I was sitting on the living room rug, working on a puzzle, and didn’t look up when she walked in. She knelt beside me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Todd, are you still mad at Mommy?” I slotted a blue puzzle piece into place, keeping my mouth shut. “I didn’t think things through last time. Tell you what—tomorrow is the weekend. Just the three of us. No one else. We’ll go to the Westside Adventure Park and ride those double go-karts you’ve been begging to try. How does that sound?” The double go-karts required an adult to drive with a kid. My dad had been working late on a massive project and couldn’t take me, and I had begged my mother for weeks, but she had always claimed she was too busy with work. I stopped touching the puzzle and looked at her. “Just the three of us?” “Mommy promises.” She held up three fingers. “Tomorrow morning at nine. Just you, me, and Dad. We’ll drive out to the park.” I glanced at my dad, who was standing by the kitchen door, holding a glass of water. His face was expressionless, his eyes cool. He didn’t say a word. “Okay,” I agreed softly. My mother smiled, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “That’s my good boy.” The next morning, I was up by eight, fully dressed in my sneakers and athletic gear. My dad had cleared his morning schedule and put on a casual pullover to join us. But when we walked down to the parking garage, my mother’s SUV was already running, and the front passenger seat wasn’t empty. Gary Sullivan rolled down his window, looking slightly embarrassed as he nodded at my dad. The back window slid down, and Sammy leaned out, clutching a giant rainbow lollipop. “Hi, Todd! Good morning!” I stood frozen beside the car door. My dad’s hand lingered on the door handle. He slowly turned his head to look at my mother through the driver’s side window. She offered a bright, easy smile. “David, Gary’s water main burst this morning, and the landlord has plumbers working in their apartment all day. Sammy was going stir-crazy with all the noise, so I thought it’d be nice to bring them along.” She pushed her door open, stepped out, and opened the back door for me. “Todd, sweetie, get in. You and Sammy can sit together in the back and share some snacks.” I stared into her eyes. “You said yesterday it would only be the three of us.” She knelt down to meet my gaze, her voice perfectly patient. “Todd, plans change. Sammy’s apartment is a total mess right now, and he was really scared by the plumbers. I know you’re a sweet, generous boy. Having a friend along will make it more fun, won’t it?” She always did this. She used this incredibly gentle, reasonable voice to hand my happiness over to someone else. “The go-karts only have two seats,” I pointed out. “Mommy can buy two tickets,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll take Sammy for a spin first, and then I’ll take you right after. Deal?” “No.” I pulled my shoulder away from her touch, taking a step back. “I don’t want to go anymore. Let’s go home.” Her smile faltered, but she kept her voice level. “Todd, it’s a beautiful day. Don’t throw a tantrum. I kept my promise, didn’t I? I’m taking you to the park.” “You didn’t keep it,” I said, shaking my head. “You said just us. There are other people in the car. You lied.” I grabbed my dad’s hand. “Dad, let’s go home.” My dad squeezed my fingers tightly. He gave my mother a cold, hard look. “Go ahead without us, Rebecca. Todd and I are staying behind.” My mother stood up, her brow knitting into a sharp line. “David, don’t encourage his bad behavior. Gary and Sammy are already in the car. If you refuse to go now, do you know how uncomfortable you’re making them feel?” Gary quickly opened his door and stepped out. “Rebecca, maybe we should just head back. We don’t want to ruin your family day.” “Don’t be silly, Gary. Your place is completely unlivable right now.” My mother put a hand on Gary’s arm, pushing him gently back toward the car, before turning her sharp eyes back to me. “Todd, stop being difficult. Get in the car.” I looked down at the gravel beneath my sneakers. “Mom, just take Sammy. He doesn’t have a mom, so you can just be his. I don’t want the go-karts anymore. And I don’t want you.” My dad didn’t take me home that morning. Instead, he walked me out of the neighborhood, hailed a cab, and took me to a pottery studio downtown. “Todd, you can mold whatever you want today. Dad’s right here with you.” I sunk my hands into the cool, wet clay, shaping a clumsy little cat and then a lopsided car. I didn’t cry or throw a fit, but when we went to get lunch, I could only manage a few bites of my food. By three in the afternoon, my neck started to itch. I scratched at it, feeling a cluster of raised, bumpy welts under my collar. My dad noticed me scratching, pulled my collar down to look, and his face turned pale. I’ve had a severe seafood allergy since I was a baby—the kind that triggers intense, sudden hives. Something in the broth at the restaurant must have been cross-contaminated. Within minutes, the red, swollen hives spread down my arms and onto my face. I was shaking from the intense itching. My dad scooped me up and ran out of the mall. “Don’t scratch, Todd. Dad’s getting you to the hospital.” The pediatric ER was a nightmare of weekend crowds. When my dad rushed me to the triage desk, the screen showed over forty people ahead of us. He pulled out his phone and dialed my mother. The first call went straight to voicemail. The second rang for a long time before she finally answered. “Rebecca, Todd is having a severe allergic reaction and the ER is packed. You know the chief of pediatrics here, don’t you? Call Dr. Henderson and see if he can fit us in immediately! We’re on our way up to the clinic.” The background on her end was noisy—the loud, mechanical roar of the amusement park rides. “Hives? Is it really that bad?” her voice sounded distant, competing with the noise. “He’s covered from head to toe, Rebecca! He’s clawing at his skin! Call Henderson now!” “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll text him. Take Todd straight to Room 3 on the second floor. I’ll meet you there.” My dad carried me up the stairs to the outpatient wing. Outside Room 3, about a dozen anxious parents were waiting. My dad gave the nurse our name, and she checked her tablet. “Yes, Mrs. Davis called ahead. Dr. Henderson said you can go in as soon as the current patient leaves.” My dad let out a ragged sigh of relief, sitting down on a vinyl bench and holding me close. I was miserable, my fingernails digged into my arms, leaving angry red tracks. My dad gently pinned my hands down, blowing cool air onto my skin to soothe the burn. The heavy wooden door of Room 3 clicked open, and a family walked out. But before my dad could stand up, a small group came rushing down the hallway. It was my mother. She was leading the way, with Gary close behind, holding Sammy in his arms. My mother marched straight to the clinic door. My dad stepped forward. “Rebecca, thank god. Get Todd in there, he’s miserable.” My mother looked at me, then put a hand on my dad’s chest, blocking him. “David, wait a second.” She turned, ushering Gary and Sammy forward. “Dr. Henderson, could you take a look at Sammy first?” she called into the room. “He had some ice cream at the park and he’s been vomiting and having diarrhea. He’s running a fever, and I’m terrified it’s acute gastroenteritis.” My dad stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Rebecca, are you out of your mind? Todd is covered in hives and can barely breathe from the itching, and you’re letting Sammy go first?” My mother turned around, her voice remaining smooth, measured, and entirely reasonable. “David, keep your head. Hives are just an itchy skin irritation; it’s not life-threatening. Sammy is different. He’s throwing up and feverish. Small children dehydrate so quickly. If we wait, he could end up on an IV.” She pushed Gary into the examination room. “Dr. Henderson, please, look at him first.” Gary glanced back at us over his shoulder, his face a mask of awkward apology. “David, I’m so sorry, Sammy’s really in bad shape…” The door clicked shut in our faces. I sat back down on the bench, staring at the sterile white door. Strangely, the itching on my neck didn’t seem as bad anymore. A cold, heavy weight was settling deep in my chest, pushing everything else out. Beside me, my dad was trembling with a quiet, terrifying rage. Finally, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Rae,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Where are you right now?” Five minutes later, a tall figure in a cream-colored trench coat came rushing down the hallway.

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Ever since my mother lost my baby brother to a late-term miscarriage, and my father chose to spend his nights comforting his former classmate in her quiet suburban townhouse, I had been cutting him out of our family photos. The school called my mother one afternoon. My teacher had overheard me telling my desk mate that my father was gone, that I wanted his father instead. My mother froze over the receiver. When she finally spoke, her voice was a hollow whisper. “Yes,” she told the teacher. “He passed away early.” During the school’s father-daughter field day, my mother watched from the sidelines as I handed a crumpled ten-dollar bill to Mr. Higgins, the school security guard, asking him to play my dad for just one afternoon. She didn’t scold me. Instead, she quietly slipped a two-hundred-dollar bill into his palm so he would stay and walk me through the parent-teacher conference afterward. Whenever a father’s presence was required, my mother simply let me buy one. Then, my father suddenly realized he hadn’t heard from us in a long time. He canceled all his meetings and showed up to pick me up from school, only to be turned away by a frowning teacher who didn’t recognize him. Confused, he came home. The moment he stepped through the door, he heard me speaking to Mr. Henderson, our building superintendent. “My dad died,” I was saying. “Do you want to be my new dad?” 1 The living room wall was covered in framed photographs of my childhood victories, but the man standing beside my mother and me in every single one was a stranger. “Nydia, who the hell is this man standing next to you?” My father’s voice was so cold it felt like ice against my skin. His eyes were burning holes into the frame. I didn’t understand why he was so angry. I stood there, shifting on my feet, desperately trying to think of an explanation. Mr. Henderson wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Kiddo, what are you talking about? Your dad is standing right here!” He offered a tense, awkward smile and hurried out of the apartment. My father’s mouth twitched with rage. He was holding a bakery box, completely unaware that the cake inside had slipped and smashed against the hardwood floor. “I’ve only been gone for two months, and you’ve already told everyone I’m dead?” His chest heaved. “Is this how you raise our daughter, Nydia?” Terrified, I rushed forward to shield my mother. “No one taught me! Don’t blame Mommy. I said it myself!” His face went entirely dark. He reached up to tear the frames off the wall, ready to smash them, but his hand froze when he read the gold lettering on the certificates. His grip slackened, and he looked at me with a complicated, unreadable expression. I held my breath, waiting for the storm. He didn’t know that two months ago, when he “died” to us in Cassandra’s townhouse, my mother had already paid several men to stand in his place for my competitions. Hearing the noise, my mother emerged from the bedroom. In just two months, she had withered away. Her eyes were hollow, her steps unsteady, her clothes hanging off a frame that looked like nothing but fragile glass. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry or threaten him with a knife, demanding he choose between her and his mentor’s daughter. She just stared at him with an icy, absolute indifference. The anger in my father’s eyes sputtered out, replaced by a sudden, guilty swallow. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a sleek, expensive camera, holding it out to her like a peace offering. “Nydia, look. It’s the new model you’ve wanted forever. And I know you want to get back into your photography, so I went ahead and submitted your old portfolio to the international gallery showcase.” My mother looked at the box. Her face remained a perfect, flat slate. There was no joy, no rush of relief. I recognized that camera. It was the one she had kept in her online shopping cart for two years. To save money for our household expenses, she had never bought it. When she finally brought herself to ask him for it, he had brushed her off, time and time again. He didn’t know that his gift was already outdated. She had saved up and bought the latest release herself. Sensing her coldness, my father’s brow furrowed. He sighed, gently taking her hand and placing the camera in her palm, his voice softening into that old, patronizing warmth. “Alright, sweetheart. It’s my fault. I know you’ve been fragile since the miscarriage, and I shouldn’t have raised my voice. But I promise you, Cassandra’s situation is almost sorted out. Just give me a little more time…” Time. I clenched my small fists, my heart aching for my mother. For two months, he had been a liar. He had made that exact promise fifty-two times, and not once had he kept it. My mother had waited for him until she lost the baby, until her clinical depression spiraled into self-harm. She had waited until she was covered in scars, and still, he had not come home. Instead, he had always snapped at her: “Nydia, I told you, she’s my late mentor’s daughter. We’re practically family. Why do you have to make everything a scene?” Suddenly, his phone blared. He answered it quickly, and the speakerphone carried the shrill, terrified wail of a little girl. “Daddy! Come back quick! Mommy’s head is so hot, and she’s lying on the floor and won’t get up!” Then came Cassandra’s weak, breathless voice in the background: “Why did you call him, Zoe? We can’t keep bothering him…” My blood boiled. I wanted to scream. He isn’t your daddy! He’s my daddy! But my father’s eyes instantly welled with tears. His voice trembled. “Cassie, what are you saying? I want you to bother me for the rest of my life.” He tossed the camera carelessly onto the bed. “Nydia, Cassie’s exhausted. I have to go check on them. I’ll come back and explain later.” He ran out the door, his keys jangling in his frantic grip. My mother and I stood in the silence, staring at the empty doorway. We both knew he wouldn’t be back tonight. My mother picked up the camera. She turned it on and scrolled through the internal storage. There, saved on the memory card, were dozens of photos of my father, Cassandra, and Zoe. I saw the dates. On the day my mother was in the hospital losing my baby brother, my father was riding the Ferris wheel with them. On the night my mother’s depression peaked and she was admitted for severe hemorrhaging, my father was holding Zoe up to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. A sharp pain pierced my chest. I began to cry. My father had plenty of time. He just chose never to give it to us. My mother was shaking violently. She pulled me into her arms, her voice raspy but entirely resolute. “Maisie, your father is dead. Right?” I nodded quickly, clutching her shirt. Something shifted in her eyes. She picked up the expensive camera and hurled it against the brick wall with all her might. It shattered into a hundred plastic teeth. I knew then that whatever was left of her heart had shattered right along with it. That night, before I fell asleep, I heard her on the phone with a man. “I’ll take the transfer to the London studio,” she said. “I’ll be there in a week.” In my half-asleep haze, I remembered that before she married my father, my mother had been a globally renowned photographer. Collectors and celebrities used to bid fortunes just to secure a print of her work. But she had surrendered her legacy for him, hiding away in New York, working a miserable, low-paying job where she was constantly mistreated. I smiled into my pillow. In seven days, the brilliant, shining version of my mother would finally be back. Five days before our departure. I came home from school to a chaotic mess. My father, who hadn’t stepped foot in the apartment for two days, was busy throwing my trophies and certificates into a large cardboard shipping box. Even the princess dresses my mother had saved up to buy me, along with my limited-edition dolls, were being ruthlessly shoved inside. My mind went blank. I looked at my mother, terror rising in my chest. Her face was pale, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorframe. “Alex, are you even human?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You haven’t checked on Maisie in two days, and the moment you walk through the door, you start stealing her things for those two?” My father didn’t even look up. He picked up one of my spelling bee trophies, examining it casually. “Nydia, I didn’t want to do this, but you posted that photo on social media. It triggered Cassandra and Zoe. Zoe’s been depressed ever since. Maisie has so much. What’s wrong with letting a fatherless child have some of her things?” My mother let out a dry, bitter laugh, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Only a filthy mind sees filth everywhere. I never bragged. Maisie and I earned those trophies. When you’re busy being a savior to another man’s wife and daughter, do you ever stop to think about your own?” My father scoffed. My mother took a deep breath, as if she had finally seen through him completely. She took out her phone and sent a message to the journalist who had been begging to interview us. “Hi, Susan. I accept the ‘Champion Mothers’ feature. Tomorrow night at seven. 302 Bayside Lane.” “Nydia! What do you think you’re doing?” My father lunged forward, snatching the phone from her hand. My mother looked down at him, her eyes dead. “If they want the trophies, they have to earn them. If they can survive a live press interview, they can keep them.” My father’s jaw clenched. “Do you have to make everything so ugly? What happened to the woman I married? You used to be so elegant, so understanding.” He ordered the movers to take the final box. Before he stepped out, he looked at her with deep disappointment. “They’re just toys, Nydia. I’ll bring them back when Zoe is done with them. Delete that interview request.” My chest felt heavy as I stared at my shoes. My mother stepped forward. “Don’t you dare walk out that door with—” “Mommy,” I interrupted quietly. I looked at my father and shook my head. “It’s okay. I don’t want them anymore. Let her have them.” A flash of relief washed over my father’s face. He smiled and reached down to pat my head. “That’s my good girl. Always so sensible.” After he left, I looked around the empty room. I went to my piggy bank, fished out a ten-dollar bill, and walked down the hall to the apartment of the college student who lived upstairs. “Sam,” I said when he opened the door, holding out the bill. “Can you be my dad for tonight? It’s my mommy’s birthday.” Sam’s voice cracked. “Did Alex…” “He’s dead,” my mother and I said in unison. Understanding softened his face, and he quietly followed us back to our apartment. We blew out the candles on the small cake, and as I started to sing happy birthday, my mother’s phone buzzed. Her hand shook as she opened the notification. I peeked over her shoulder. My blood ran cold. Cassandra had posted a new photo. The caption read: “I love breaking things. He never gets angry; he just smiles and hands me another.” Underneath was a picture of my hard-won trophies, smashed into pieces on her living room floor. Beside them, my beloved dolls had been defaced with black marker, painted to look like ugly clowns. Ding. A notification from the bank app popped up. My father had sent my mother a transfer of five thousand dollars. Then, a voice note: “Nydia, there was an accident with the trophies. Just take the cash and buy Maisie some new ones.” Tears hot and heavy blurred my vision. But Daddy, money can’t buy back the love we had for you. My mother squeezed her eyes shut. She took a screenshot of the post, of the bank transfer, and sent a voice note to our family lawyer. “Mr. Fletcher, I’m sending over the financial records and the evidence of Alex’s infidelity. Let’s get the divorce filed immediately.” My mother never replied to my father’s transfer. Instead, his calls came flooding in, one after another. “Nydia, it’s your birthday. I’m sorry I forgot.” “Why aren’t you accepting the money? Why do you have to be so difficult?” “Are you happy now? The reporters showed up at Cassandra’s place and made a scene. Is this what you wanted?” My mother read the texts silently. For the first time, she didn’t cry. She simply tapped his profile and hit block. Goodbye, Alex. You will never hear from her again. Three days before our departure. There was a community father-daughter sports day at the local park. My father had promised me over and over that he would show up. I sat on the wooden bench, clutching my mother’s hand, waiting. Five minutes passed. Then thirty. My mother’s phone rang. It was him. “There’s an emergency at the firm. I have to go in. I’ll make it up to Maisie next time.” Before he could finish, my mother hung up and blocked the temporary number he was calling from. I tried to force a smile to comfort her, but then, a familiar laughter echoed from the other side of the field. “You’re the best, Daddy Alex! We’re going to win!” My mind went entirely blank. I turned around. There was my father, lifting Zoe into the air, his face glowing with a bright, proud smile. I looked at my mother, lost. “I thought Daddy had to go to work.” My mother stood up, her face tight with rage, ready to confront him. I grabbed her hand, pulling her back. “Mommy, no. The race is starting.” We returned to our lane. It was a relay race. If I could run the first two hundred meters and hand the baton to my mother, we could win. The grand prize was a family vacation package—something we had dreamed of. Hope flared in my chest. At the sound of the starting gun, I ran with everything I had. Fifty meters… one hundred… one hundred and ninety… Sweat stung my eyes, but I reached out, desperate to hand the baton to my mother. Suddenly, a violent force shoved me from behind. I crashed onto the gravel path, my knees scraping raw. Blood seeped through my leggings. I gasped, tears springing to my eyes. Beside me, Zoe let out a piercing scream. “Why did you push me! Daddy, it hurts!” She lay on the ground, wailing at the top of her lungs. My mother flew toward me, wrapping her arms around me to protect me. But my father and Cassandra were already there, their faces twisted with anger. “Maisie! Why did you push Zoe?” my father roared. “I didn’t!” I screamed through my tears. Zoe pointed a trembling finger at me. “She did! She did it on purpose, Daddy!” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. My mother stood up, her voice like a blade. “Check the cameras. If you don’t believe my daughter, let the footage speak for itself.” But my father didn’t care. He swept Zoe into his arms, glaring at us. “Cameras? You’ve raised her to be so manipulative, Nydia. Watching the tape will only humiliate her.” They rushed off toward the first-aid station. My face went pale, and I reached up to touch my mother’s cheek. “Mommy, it doesn’t hurt…” And then, everything went black. When I woke up in the medical tent, the speakers outside were blaring. “Congratulations to Zoe for winning the relay!” I stared at the ceiling, tears silent against my skin. I had been so much faster. Why did she win? Did my father pull strings for her again? My mother, her face set in a dark mask, stood up and marched straight toward Cassandra. “Oh, Nydia,” Cassandra purred, a cruel little smile playing on her lips. “You didn’t have to come over to congratulate us.” She leaned in, whispering so only my mother could hear. “Honestly, thank you. If it weren’t for Alex helping us, we’d be nothing. Technically, you guys were faster, but Alex just has such a soft heart… he can’t stand to see us cry.” Slap. My mother’s hand connected with Cassandra’s face, hard. She grabbed Cassandra by the hair, dragging her backward. “I told you to stay the hell away from my daughter!” Cassandra’s shrieks brought my father running. “Nydia! Have you lost your mind? Just because you lost a race, you’re attacking her?” My mother’s eyes were bloodshot. “Yes! I want you both to burn in hell!” My father slammed into her, shoving her away. My mother hit the ground, her hands flying to her throat as she gasped for air. Her panic attack. Her clinical depression was clawing its way out. Terrified, I scrambled to my feet, limping heavily as I reached into my pocket for her rescue medication. “Mommy!” But before I could reach her, someone’s foot tripped me. I went flying, the pills scattering across the dirt. Zoe stood over them, a malicious grin on her face, and brought her sneaker down hard, crushing the tablets into dust. “No!” The scream tore from my throat, raw and agonizing. Those pills were her lifeline. Without them, she could suffocate in minutes. As I crawled to save the remaining powder, Cassandra screamed. “Maisie, don’t push Zoe!” My father didn’t even hesitate. He shoved me back. Behind me was the deep, stone-lined ornamental lake. Before I could fall, my mother lunged forward, throwing her body in front of mine. Splash. The cold water swallowed her. She couldn’t swim. She thrashed, her face turning blue. I threw myself at my father’s legs, sobbing hysterically. “Daddy! Mommy can’t swim! She has depression! Please save her!” My father’s eyes widened. He took a step toward the water. But Cassandra wailed, “Alex! Zoe’s fainted! Help her!” My father froze. His heels pivoted. He picked up Zoe and ran, shouting over his shoulder to his assistant to pull Nydia out. I watched him run away, my heart tearing in two. Daddy, did you really just abandon us? At the hospital, after my mother was stabilized, I pulled another ten-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to the orderly. “Sir, can you play my dad for today? Just to look after my mommy?” The man looked at me, heartbroken. “Sweetheart, where is your dad?” My voice was quiet, dead. “My dad is dead.” He died the moment he walked away from my drowning mother. One day before our departure. My mother packed our suitcases and finalized our visas. My father came to the hospital every day. Whenever he saw the orderly helping us, his brow would knit into an angry scowl. “Maisie has a father, Nydia. Are you that desperate for a man’s attention?” Neither of us answered him. The orderly eventually kicked him out. He brought jewelry, designer clothes, and expensive toys. We quietly donated every single item to the pediatric oncology ward next door. He had no idea. Five hours before our flight. My mother took me to the amusement park. It was the one place I had begged to go, but her illness had always kept us home. “I’m so sorry I kept putting this off, sweetie,” she whispered, kissing my temple. I grinned, showing all my teeth. Suddenly, my smart watch buzzed. It was a text from my father. “Maisie, tell Mommy I’ve sent Cassandra and Zoe out of the country. I’m taking you both out tonight to make up for your birthdays.” My chest tightened. But then I looked across the plaza. There was my father, holding shopping bags, laughing as Cassandra clung to his arm. I didn’t tell my mother. I tapped the screen and blocked his number. Another lie. As we queued for the Ferris wheel, sirens suddenly began to wail across the park. A chaotic scream ripped through the crowd. Four massive, rabid guard dogs had broken loose and were charging toward the visitors. My mother grabbed my hand, trying to pull me toward the exit, but the stampede of panicked people tore us apart. “Maisie!” Fear anchored my feet to the ground. My legs felt like lead. Suddenly, my father’s voice boomed over the noise. “Maisie! Come here! Run to Daddy!” My eyes welled with tears. I started to run toward him. But Cassandra’s voice shrieked, “Alex! Zoe is trapped over there! Save her!” My father looked at me, then at Zoe in the distance. My mother’s voice was hoarse from screaming. “Alex! Save Maisie! Someone else is going for Zoe!” My father’s eyes darted back and forth. Finally, he looked at me. “Maisie, just wait there!” Wait. Always wait. He turned his back on me and sprinted toward Zoe, scooping her up as he fled. The four snarling dogs closed the circle around me. The last spark of love I had for him died in that moment. As they lunged, my mother charged through the crowd like a wild animal, brandishing a heavy wooden stake. She threw herself over me. The dogs tore into her legs. Blood soaked my clothes, but she looked down at me, smiling through the agony. “Don’t be scared, baby. Mommy’s here.” I sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. Just as the dogs lunged again, a team of security guards rushed in with tranquilizer rifles and subdued them. At the hospital, after the rabies shots were administered and her wounds were bound, my mother gripped her passport with bloodless knuckles. “Maisie, let’s go. I can’t breathe in this city for another second.” As the plane lifted off into the clouds, I had only one thought. Goodbye, Alex. You will never find us again.

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That was the third time Caroline forgot my birthday. I didn’t make a scene. Instead, I quietly cooked my favorite meal and bought an expensive ice cream cake I’d normally skip, treating it as a solitary celebration of a day nobody else seemed to care about. But when I came out of the shower, ready to finally sit down and enjoy it, I found the dinner I had spent three hours preparing packed away into Tupperware containers. The ice cream cake sitting next to them was a crushed, unrecognizable mess. Caroline finally noticed me standing there. Without looking up, she said, “Elliot hasn’t eaten all day and his blood sugar is crashing. I’m taking some food over to his place. Don’t wait up.” I watched her back as she walked out. In that exact moment, I knew. I was done waiting for her. 1 Caroline had barely left when the landlord, Mr. Henderson, knocked on the door. He glanced inside, looking confused. “Hey, Logan. Your lease is up at the end of the month. Are you guys renewing or moving? I need to know so I can list the place.” Last month, I had asked Caroline about our plans. I wanted to know if we should renew or look for a new place. At the time, she was staring at her phone, typing back to Elliot, completely absorbed. When she finally looked up, her face carried that familiar, thinly veiled irritation. “Whatever you want. You decide.” Recalling that, I looked at Mr. Henderson and said, “We’re not renewing. We’ll be out by the end of the month.” “As for the security deposit, you can send it back to Caroline. No need to split it.” When we first moved in, she had paid the deposit and the first month’s rent. It was only fair she got it back. The landlord looked bewildered. “But you two are getting married, aren’t you? Why keep the finances so separate? It’s the same thing whether I give it to you or her.” I offered a faint smile and said nothing. Satisfied with my answer, he turned to leave, but stopped to add, “Just make sure you clear everything out before you go. Don’t leave a mess for the next tenant.” I nodded. “Will do.” Today was the twenty-eighth. I had exactly three days left. I pulled out my phone and messaged the broker who had helped me find this place. He replied almost instantly: “Still looking for a three-bedroom? Any specific requirements?” “Just a two-bedroom. It’s only for me.” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a simple text: “Did you two break up?” Seeing those words in print sent a strange chill through me. When Caroline and I first started dating, the idea of breaking up never even crossed my mind. I used to spend hours daydreaming about our future. Now, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d pictured a life with her. I didn’t answer. The broker sent another text: “Do you need movers? I know a reliable local company.” “Yes, please.” “When’s the move?” “Three days from now.” Just in time for the lease to end. And just in time to cut Caroline out of my life completely. After finalizing the details, I hung up and started packing my things into boxes. Then, my phone buzzed. It was Caroline. “Elliot says the food you made is amazing, but his stomach is acting up. Can you whip up a light, clear soup and bring it over?” Before I could say a word, she added, “No onions. He hates the smell.” I stared at the wall for a long moment. “Caroline,” I said, my voice quiet. “Do you know what today is?” We had been together for five years. She had celebrated my birthday with me exactly twice. The first time, she took me to Disneyland. At midnight, beneath the exploding fireworks, she gave me a designer watch and told me she loved me. The second time, I was away on a business trip. She took time off work and flew out to surprise me with a homemade cake. That day, she whispered something sweeter than any icing: “Logan, no matter where you are, if you need me, I’ll be there.” But by our third year, she forgot. She forgot because my birthday, May 30th, happened to be the anniversary of the day she and Elliot met. As expected, there was no hesitation on her end. “It’s the anniversary of the day Elliot and I met. Why?” Having confirmed exactly what I expected, I hung up on her for the first time in five years. I didn’t feel panicked. I didn’t feel hurt. Inside, I was as still as deep water. I looked at the melting ice cream cake on the counter. The sweet, frozen layers were turning into a sticky, shapeless pool. Just like our relationship—once seemingly solid, now slowly eroding into nothing. I set my phone face down and went back to packing. The next afternoon, Caroline came home. There was a faint trace of guilt in her eyes, her posture softer than usual. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, walking over to me. “I forgot yesterday was your birthday. I know you’ve been wanting a new car to commute to work, so I went ahead and picked one out today. Consider it your birthday present.” I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, she rushed on: “Actually, Elliot was the one who reminded me. You should thank him next time you see him. He helped pick it out. He said you’d absolutely love it.” So, she hadn’t remembered on her own. It took someone else pointing it out. And even the gift meant to apologize to me was chosen by another man. While I was expected to smile, say it’s fine, and accept whatever scraps they threw my way. Caroline pulled out her phone, scrolling through her photos. “Look, Elliot picked white. It suits you…” As she swiped to the next photo, my eyes locked onto the screen. It was a selfie of Elliot. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of the new car, flashing a peace sign at the camera. Noticing my silence, Caroline quickly explained, “Oh, Elliot loves taking selfies. His phone died, so he used mine to snap a few.” I didn’t say anything. I just gently took the phone from her hand and swiped backward. There were three hundred and twenty-three photos in her camera roll. One hundred and twenty of them were of Elliot. Exactly three were of the car. And that’s when it hit me. Caroline had always claimed she hated taking photos. She hated clutter on her phone. We didn’t have a single photo together. She didn’t even have my contact saved in her phonebook. It was as if I was a ghost in her life. When I had asked her about it years ago, she had laughed and hugged me. “I have your number memorized, Logan. I could recite it in my sleep. Why would I need to save it?” Yet, Elliot was saved in her contacts as Elliot Bear. On every messaging app and social platform, he was pinned to the very top. I kept scrolling silently. Caroline didn’t stop me. She just leaned against the counter, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Are you auditing my phone now? Go ahead. See if you can find any scandalous texts…” Before she could finish, a notification popped up from Elliot Bear: “Caroline! You can’t be biased! You got Logan a car, what about me? Where’s mine? Get on it, boss!” The moment I saw the message, the energy drained out of me. I handed the phone back to her. Caroline took it, her expression shifting slightly. I got up from the couch, catching a glimpse of her screen as she typed her reply: “Company cash flow is a bit tight right now. I owe you one.” Elliot didn’t like that. He spam-sent dozens of whining, begging emojis. A flash of hesitation crossed Caroline’s face. She looked up at me. “Logan… your office isn’t that far from here, right? What if we let Elliot have this car first? I’ll get you another one next time.” It was the exact same hesitation she’d had last month. We had planned a movie night. We were standing right outside the theater when Elliot called. He wanted her to go swimming with him. She had looked at me with that same apologetic, yet determined expression. “Logan, do you mind if we skip the movie tonight? I’ll make it up to you next time.” Faced with a choice between me and Elliot, she chose him. Every single time. “Sure,” I said, my voice completely flat. “Whatever you want.” The tension in her shoulders melted away instantly. She let out a soft, relieved sigh. “I knew you’d understand. Elliot is such a handful sometimes. It’s exhausting.” She made it sound like a complaint, but her tone was dripping with fond indulgence. She didn’t realize that my “understanding” wasn’t maturity. It was apathy. I just didn’t care anymore. “Oh, by the way,” she said, pocketing her phone. “Elliot said a new hot pot place opened downtown. He wants to buy us dinner. Let’s go.” I was about to refuse, but she added quickly, “He said if we don’t go, he’s just going to bring the ingredients over and cook here.” I hated the lingering smell of hot pot in the apartment. More than that, I hated the faint scent of jasmine cologne on him—the exact same scent Caroline wore. So, I found myself sitting across from them at a wooden table in the restaurant. The waiter came over to take our order. “Just a mild broth—” Caroline started. “Split pot. Spicy on one side,” I interrupted. She stared at me, surprised. “Since when do you eat spicy food?” I didn’t eat spicy food because she preferred bland meals. I had spent five years changing my palate to match hers. “I’ve always liked it,” I said, looking down at the menu. “You just never noticed.” I ordered the dishes I actually liked, adding a matcha shaved ice for dessert. Seeing this, Elliot immediately pointed to the menu. “Oh! I want the mango shaved ice!” Caroline frowned, slapping his hand away playfully. “Did you forget your stomach issues from last month? No cold things for you.” She crossed the dessert off the list and ordered him a warm sweet corn juice instead. Elliot didn’t look annoyed at all. He just grinned, leaning in. “So what if my stomach hurts? Your hand is better than any medicine anyway. What do I have to fear when you’re here?” I remember when I used to get sick. Caroline had run through a downpour to buy me medicine. When I was curled in pain, her eyes had filled with tears. She had pressed her warm hand against my cold stomach, her voice trembling. “I wish I could take the pain for you, Logan. I hate seeing you suffer.” Back then, I had felt the same way Elliot did. With her by my side, I could survive anything. But ever since Elliot moved to the city, those warm hands belonged to someone else. Watching them banter back and forth, completely lost in their own world, I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. Just then, a waiter placed a dessert drink with two straws between them. “Compliments of the house,” the waiter smiled. “Today is our owners’ tenth anniversary. We’re giving out free sharing drinks to all the couples dining with us tonight.” Elliot took it happily, taking a sip. “Wow, this is amazing! Caroline, try some.” He offered her the straw he had just used. Without a second thought, Caroline leaned down and took a sip from the same straw. “Not bad,” she agreed. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest. I had prepared myself for their intimacy. I thought seeing it wouldn’t hurt anymore. But when it happened right in front of me, it still felt like a needle driving straight into my heart. “Hey, Logan,” Elliot said, offering a bright, innocent smile. “Caroline and I have been like this since we were kids. We share everything. You don’t mind, right?” He looked like a harmless boy, but I didn’t miss the sharp glint of triumph in his eyes. “Of course not,” I replied, meeting his gaze evenly. “She told me she views you as a little brother. Why would I mind?” The smile on Elliot’s face froze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice tightening. “If there were anything else between us, she wouldn’t be with you, right?” The first time Caroline told me Elliot was “just a brother” was two months after he arrived. It was raining heavily, and he called saying he was terrified of thunderstorms and needed her to come over. I had blocked the door, stopping her as she tried to leave. “You’re a grown woman, and he’s a grown man. It’s inappropriate. Don’t go.” I hated storms too. Whenever it thundered, I used to hold her tight to feel safe. But that night, amidst the howling wind, she pushed me aside without hesitation. The warmth in her eyes had vanished, replaced by an icy distance. “I view Elliot as a brother, Logan. Only dirty minds see dirty things. Stop making a scene. He needs me.” The second time was when my gastritis flared up. She had promised to take me to the clinic. But on the way, Elliot called, saying he had sprained his ankle walking down the stairs. She immediately told the driver to turn around. She didn’t see the cold sweat dripping down my face. She didn’t hear my voice shaking from the pain. When I finally whispered, “Is he your boyfriend or am I?” she snapped. “What are you talking about? Elliot is my brother! He’s alone in this city. How can I just ignore him? Stop being so paranoid!” Back at the restaurant table, Caroline didn’t correct him. She simply began picking the chili peppers out of his dipping sauce. I barely tasted my food. Elliot, however, ate heartily under her careful attention. The next day, the broker found me a perfect place. It was fully furnished and ready for immediate move-in. On the day our lease expired, I scheduled the movers. When the landlord saw that I was only packing my own belongings, he sent a text to Caroline: “The lease has officially ended today. Please ensure all belongings are cleared out. Thank you.” I calculated my share of the rent for the days we had stayed this month, and sent it to Caroline via Venmo. Once my boxes were loaded, I climbed into the front seat of the moving truck. As we drove through the intersection outside our neighborhood, my phone rang. It was Caroline. I ignored it. A second later, a voice message came through. Her voice was sharp with panic. “Logan, why aren’t you answering? Didn’t we agree to renew for another year and then talk to the landlord about buying the place? Why is he telling me to move out?”

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After a drunken night with my best friend’s older brother, I became his secret girlfriend. By our eighth year of keeping things in the dark, my parents finally laid down the law and arranged a blind date for me. “Logan,” I whispered, tracing the collar of his shirt. “My parents gave me an ultimatum. I have to get married this year.” He paused, his fingers freezing on my waist for a fraction of a second before he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. It was the same old refrain: “Just wait a little longer.” But then I opened Instagram and saw a post from our new intern, Brianna. It was a photo of her and Logan holding up a marriage certificate at city hall. Her caption read: “CEO secured.” The piece of paper I had spent eight years begging for, she had secured in three months. Swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, I double-tapped the screen. I left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you two a long and happy life together.” Then, I picked up the phone and told my mother I would agree to the wedding date she had set. 1 My phone vibrated almost instantly. For the first time in eight years, Logan’s voice sounded panicked. “Chelsea, don’t overthink this. It was just a stupid game of truth or dare at a bar. I only signed those papers with Brianna because I lost a bet…” I cut him off. “Logan, I’m getting married.” The line went quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, his panic had dissolved into his usual patronizing irritation, accompanied by a girl’s giggling in the background. “Here we go again,” he sighed. “Is that all you think about? The company’s cash flow is on the brink of collapse, Chelsea. Can you please not do this right now?” I stood on my balcony, the cool evening wind stinging my cheeks. My voice was entirely flat. “I’m not doing anything. I’m actually getting married.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh, as if I’d just told a terrible joke. “Right. With who? You don’t even have a guy in your contacts who isn’t a client. Who are you marrying? The air?” I opened my mouth to say Henry’s name, but he was already rushing off. “Look, I have to take another call. The marriage certificate was just a joke. Don’t be dramatic.” The call clicked shut, replaced by the empty drone of the dial tone. I stared at the dark screen, my fingertips numb. Eight years, and his only response to my grief was always “don’t be dramatic”. The next morning, I walked into the office carrying two boxes of expensive European wedding chocolates. The bullpen was buzzing. Brianna was at the center of a crowded circle, her cheeks flushed a bright, performative pink. “Brianna, seriously, you’re a genius! Logan is usually so cold, how did you lock him down in three months?” one of the junior coordinators squealed. “We have to call you the boss’s wife now. Don’t forget about us when you’re running the place!” Brianna covered her face, her giggles pitched perfectly to carry across the entire floor. “Oh stop, it’s not what you think! It really was just a silly bet we lost. Please don’t spread it around.” I wanted to laugh. She had posted it to a public Instagram account with hundreds of followers, and now she was playing the modest victim. She caught sight of me standing by the door with the boxes of chocolates. She clicked toward me in her brand-new designer heels. “Chelsea! Did Logan ask you to pick up the wedding favors for us? Thank you so much! You’re the best mentor ever.” Before I could speak, she snatched the boxes out of my hands, ripped open the gold foil packaging, and began handing them out to the staff. “Everyone, try some! Logan had these imported especially for us!” The bullpen erupted into appreciative murmurs, praising how romantic and thoughtful the boss was. Right on cue, the elevator doors slid open and Logan stepped out. The crowd immediately started chanting, “Thanks for the chocolates, Boss!” Brianna looked up at him, her eyes wide and adoring. Logan froze for a second, looking confused, but then his lips curved into an easy smile. “Of course. Glad you guys like them.” “The chocolates are mine,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. The bullpen fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Dozens of eyes locked onto me. Logan’s expression darkened instantly, a flash of panic darting through his eyes. “Chelsea, this is a professional environment. Don’t start making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene,” I said, holding his gaze. “I brought those in to share. I’m getting married next Saturday.” His face turned thunderous. He took three large strides toward me, grabbing my wrist and lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Are you really going to push me like this?” From the corner of the room, one of Brianna’s friends snickered. “Chelsea, we’ve never even seen you on a date. Who are you marrying? Are you just losing your mind because Brianna got Logan and you didn’t?” Brianna’s eyes welled with tears on cue. She bit her lip and whispered, “Chelsea… I know you used to have feelings for Logan, but he never saw you that way. He told all of us months ago that the rumors about you two were just gossip. He said you were just a dedicated employee.” The atmosphere shifted. Suddenly, the looks directed at me weren’t just curious—they were disgusted. I was the pathetic, desperate older woman trying to steal her intern’s husband. I looked at Logan. He looked away, staring out the window, refusing to say a single word to defend me. Eight years. Eight years of drinking client after client under the table to secure his contracts, eight years of pulling his company back from the edge of bankruptcy, eight years of letting him keep me a secret. And now, he wouldn’t even offer me the basic dignity of the truth. “Honestly, Chelsea, Logan and Brianna are married now,” someone else chimed in, emboldened by Logan’s silence. “Continuing to harass him makes you the other woman. That’s going to ruin our reputation with clients?” “Yeah. Trying to steal your own intern’s husband? That’s low.” I looked at the faces of these junior associates—people I had personally trained, whose careers I had built. A wave of confusion and hurt washed over me. I had planned on giving them invitations. I realized now how foolish that was. My fingers tightened around my phone. I raised my chin and looked at the crowd. “Since we’re on the subject, let me introduce you to my fiancé.” I reached to open my photo gallery to show them the picture of Henry and me. Suddenly, a cold hand clamped around my wrist. Logan snatched the phone out of my hand, his face white with fury. “Everyone back to work! Now!” he roared. He dragged me by the arm toward his office. Behind us, I could hear the hushed, comforting whispers surrounding Brianna, and the heavy weight of their judgmental glares burning into my back. The moment we stepped inside his office, he slammed the door shut and ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “I told you, the certificate was a joke! Why do you have to drag everyone into this and make us look ridiculous?” “If it’s just a joke,” I said, my voice dead and cold, “then why didn’t you correct them? Why did you stand there and let them call me a homewrecker?” He faltered for a second, but his defensiveness quickly returned. “Brianna is sensitive, Chelsea. I couldn’t just humiliate her in front of the entire office.” “But you can humiliate me,” I thought. “You can let them trample all over my life.” I reached out and snatched my phone back from his grip, turning toward the door. As my hand touched the brass handle, I paused. I didn’t look back. “You and Brianna are welcome to come to the wedding next Saturday.” As soon as I stepped into the dim, cool air of the parking garage, my phone rang. It was the executive headhunter who had been calling me for months. “Chelsea, regarding the Marketing Director position at the public firm we discussed—they’re willing to bump the starting offer by another twenty percent. Will you please reconsider?” The number she named was at the absolute ceiling of the industry standard. “I accept,” I said, my voice steady. “And I’ll be bringing a ten-million-dollar account with me. I expect the commission structure to reflect that.” On the other end, the headhunter gasped, her excitement vibrating through the speaker. “Oh, absolutely! Leave it to me. I will have the contract drafted immediately!” I hung up and sat in my car, staring at the steering wheel. I opened my messages and scrolled to Henry’s name. “Hold off on signing the contract with Logan’s firm,” I texted him. “Wait for my word.” Logan had said the company was struggling, that I was just “adding to his problems.” But for eight years, I was the one who kept the lights on. This contract with Henry’s firm, Miles Group, was something I had practically begged Henry for. I had taken him to dinner three times, swallowing my pride, to secure the deal that would save Logan’s company from ruin. I started the engine and pulled out of the garage. As the city skyline blurred past my window, it felt like a metaphor for the last eight years of my life—passing by in a flash, leaving nothing but dust behind. I still remembered the first time I saw Logan. He was standing under the oak trees outside my sophomore dorm, waiting to help his sister, Georgia—my best friend—move out for summer break. He was wearing a sharp linen suit, and when he smiled, a tiny freckle near his temple crinkled. I had fallen for him in a single heartbeat. After our college graduation party, after too many drinks, we crossed a line. It felt like destiny. I immediately joined his startup, starting at the very bottom as a low-paid associate. In the beginning, he said we couldn’t go public because he didn’t want people thinking I got my job through nepotism. So, I waited. Once I earned the title of top account executive purely on merit, he said he was worried it would complicate my friendship with Georgia. So, I waited again. I always believed that eventually, he would give me a place in the light. Until I saw that marriage certificate on Brianna’s feed. That was my wake-up call. It wasn’t that Logan didn’t want to get married. He just didn’t want to marry me. I drove back to the apartment we had shared for the last five years. It would take a few days to finalize my resignation, but I couldn’t spend another night in that space. I dragged my suitcases out of the closet. His designer suits and crisp shirts occupied more than half of the wardrobe. I used to tease him about how rigid his style was, suggesting he wear casual hoodies on weekends. He had always dismissed me, saying a CEO needed to look serious. But now, hanging in the most prominent spot of the closet, were three brand-new streetwear hoodies. He wasn’t incapable of change. He just hadn’t wanted to change for me. I began folding my sweaters into the suitcase. Behind me, the front door clicked open. Logan walked in, his brow furrowing as he took in the open luggage on the bed. “Chelsea, there is literally nothing going on between Brianna and me. Can you please stop this childish behavior?” He walked over, reaching for my hand. “The marriage license was a mistake. I’m going down to city hall this afternoon to file for an annulment. Once we sign the Miles Group contract and things stabilize, we can go public. I promise. Okay?” I opened my mouth to say “we’re done”, but he cut me off, scanning the room. “By the way, where did you put the keys to the Maplewood townhouse?” “In the bottom drawer of the nightstand,” I said, a cold chill settling over me. “Are you selling it to cover the cash flow gap?” He blinked, then laughed off the question. “Why would I sell it? It’s just sitting empty anyway. Brianna’s lease is up, so I told her she could stay there for a bit.” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. He had bought that Maplewood townhouse for my birthday last year, whispering that it would be our future home when we finally got married. And now, he was handing the keys to another woman. Oblivious to the way the color had drained from my face, he continued, “Also, once you finalize the Miles contract, transfer the account to Brianna. Her probationary period is almost up, and this deal will secure her permanent position. Don’t worry, I’ll still credit you for the commission.” Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his posture softened instantly. “Hey… yeah, I’ll text you the address. Just have the movers head straight there…” He walked out of the room while speaking, never once looking back at me. The front door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of our silent apartment and let out a soft, bitter laugh. Eight years of my life, my youth, my absolute devotion—and to him, it was worth less than a girl who had been at the company for twelve weeks. I walked out of the apartment with my suitcase, never looking back. I drove straight to my parents’ house. Ever since I had agreed to marry Henry, my mother hadn’t stopped smiling. She opened the door before I could even ring the bell, immediately taking my bag. “I always knew Henry was the one,” she beamed. “We watched that boy grow up. He’s family, Chelsea. Your father and I can finally rest easy knowing you’re with him.” Henry and I had known each other since we were in diapers. Our mothers were best friends, always joking when we were kids that we’d end up married. If I hadn’t met Logan in college, Henry and I probably would have walked down the aisle years ago. I had always known, deep down, how he felt about me. When Logan’s firm began to drown in debt, I was the one who went to Henry, begging him to throw Logan a lifeline with a massive corporate partnership. Henry had stayed silent for a long time, looking at me with a sadness I didn’t understand then, before finally nodding and agreeing. Remembering that now made me feel incredibly foolish. After dinner, I locked myself in my dad’s study to organize my handover files. My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was a text from Logan: “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the screen, then deleted his contact and cleared the chat history. By the time I finished, it was past ten. I lay in my old bed, mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed. The very first post was from Brianna, uploaded thirty minutes prior. The background was unmistakable: the living room of the Maplewood townhouse. Logan was there, his arms slung around his friends as they played drinking games. Empty bottles littered the kitchen island. Her caption: “He kept calling me his “sweet little sister” in front of his friends tonight. Does he think I’m too young for him?” The comments were flooded with heart emojis and teasing remarks about how much Logan clearly adored her. I stared at the photo for a long, quiet moment, then closed the app. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel angry. The eight years of love I had harbored for him had already burned to ash the moment he let his employees call me a mistress. A text popped up from Henry: “Are you free tomorrow? The bridal boutique called. Your dress is ready for the final fitting. Want to go together?” I typed back: “I’d love to.” The next morning, Henry arrived early. My mother practically pushed me out the door, pressing a box of homemade lemon tarts into his hands. Once we were on the highway, I felt a pang of guilt. “Henry, about the contract with Miles Group… I need you to hold off on signing it with Logan’s firm. I’m moving to a new company, and I want to bring that account with me as my signing leverage.” He glanced at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You could always just come work for me.” “I think it’s best we keep church and state separate,” I teased. When we arrived at the boutique, the consultant welcomed us with a warm smile, holding a breathtaking silk gown. “Mr. Miles insisted we adjust the tailoring three times to make sure the fit was absolutely perfect. You’re going to look stunning, Chelsea.” I stood in front of the three-way mirror in the heavy satin gown, completely breathless. Years ago, whenever Logan and I passed a bridal shop and I lingered at the window, he would pull me away, promising that one day he would hire a world-class designer to make me a one-of-a-kind gown. “Don’t rush me,” he’d say. I waited eight years for that promise, only to end up wearing a masterpiece that Henry had quietly commissioned for me. “Should we take a photo for your family?” Henry asked, stepping up behind me. His voice was soft, his eyes shining in the mirror’s reflection. I nodded and handed my phone to the consultant. “Could you take one of us, please?” Henry’s breath hitched, but then his smile spread wide. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms gently around my waist. The photo was beautiful—the lighting caught the silk of the dress perfectly. I uploaded it to Instagram and Facebook, writing: “Next Saturday at The Crestmont Hotel. We’d love for you to celebrate our wedding with us.” Within seconds, my phone began to vibrate wildly. “Oh my god, is that Henry Miles? Chelsea, since when?!” one former colleague commented. “And some people actually had the nerve to say she was desperate for Logan? Henry is ten times the man Logan will ever be!” As I scrolled through the notifications, Logan’s name flashed across the screen.

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On the first Saturday of June, during the annual children’s festival in town, I received a phone call from my future daughter. I smiled into the receiver and asked her, “Sweetheart, are Mommy and Daddy still happy together?” “Of course!” the little voice chirped proudly. “Daddy and Mommy have the best relationship. They never, ever fight. Daddy says Mommy is the absolute love of his life!” I felt a warm blush creep up my neck. I couldn’t believe Toby had said those things in front of a child. Basking in the warmth of her words, I pressed on. “And do you have Mommy’s last name, Winslow, or Daddy’s last name, Garrison?” The girl fell silent for a beat, sounding genuinely confused. “I have Daddy’s last name, Garrison. But my mommy’s last name is Hastings. Her name is Summer Hastings.” I froze. Summer Hastings. My best friend of fifteen years. The very same Summer who, just yesterday, had gotten into a screaming match with Toby over how he treated me—a fight so explosive they had physically locked horns and ended up in the emergency room. 1 My throat tightened, and my hand began to tremble so violently I could barely hold the phone. How was this possible? Summer and I had been inseparable since we were childhood neighbors. She was loud, fiercely protective, and entirely transparent. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was Toby. She called him a pretentious snob who took my devotion for granted. Every time they were in the same room, sparks flew. They clashed so bitterly that Toby and I had nearly broken up multiple times over his relentless complaints about her. The sweet little voice on the line pulled me back from the ledge. “Ma’am? You still haven’t told me when Daddy is coming home to take me to the carnival.” I swallowed the sharp ache in my throat, forcing my voice to remain gentle. “Sweetheart, how old are you?” “I’m six!” Six… If this phone call was real, and the timeline lined up, then right now, Summer was already carrying her. “Clatter.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. A cold shiver rippled across my skin. Yesterday, when we went shopping, I noticed Summer’s dress size had jumped from a medium to a large. I had playfully teased her about gaining weight, completely missing the sudden, panicked flash in her eyes. No. It couldn’t be. “Sweetheart—” I scrambled to pick up the phone, desperate to ask more, when a man’s voice drifted through the receiver in the background. “Joy, who are you talking to?” It was a voice I knew intimately. The voice of the man who had slept beside me for the last four years. “Joy.” It was the name I had chosen only two days ago. That night, I had caught Toby flipping through a baby name book. I had teased him, asking why he was looking at names when we weren’t even married yet. He had only looked down, smiled quietly, and said there was no rush. No rush. Because the baby was never meant to be mine. “Ma’am, I sent you a friend request on social media. Let’s talk more later!” the little girl said. “I have to go to the festival now!” The line went dead. I immediately hailed a cab and rode to the hospital in a daze. Passing the nurse’s station, I spotted Toby’s assistant, who had told me Toby had flown to Seattle the night before on urgent business. Yet, there Toby was, standing outside a private room in the maternity ward. I crept quietly down the hall, stopping just outside the cracked door. Inside, Toby was gently pulling Summer into his arms, his face etched with tenderness. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, Summer. Having to fake these fights just to protect your pregnancy and keep Serena off our scent.” “Once I secure the new contract from Winslow Enterprises, I’ll finally break things off with her,” Toby murmured, kissing her forehead. “I will cherish you and our baby for the rest of my life.” My fingernails dug into my palms, drawing blood as I fought back the tears threatening to spill over. Summer sighed, leaning into his chest. “I hate doing this to her. Serena is my best friend, and the last thing I want is to break her heart. But we have to think about our future. Once you get on track with those new investors you met, introduce a few of them to Serena. It’ll be our way of making it up to her.” My throat felt like it was coated in crushed glass. I couldn’t even manage a sob. The investors Toby had been socializing with lately were all wealthy, cynical men in their late fifties, several of them multiple divorcees. They wanted to set me up with them as “compensation.” I walked slowly into the stairwell, wiped the tears from my face, and dialed my father. “Dad,” I said, my voice tight. “The contracts Winslow Enterprises was planning to hand over to Garrison Holdings—cancel them. All of them.” “And about the overseas branch in Los Angeles? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the position. I want to leave next week.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, my father sighed heavily. “Serena, did you and Toby have another fight?” “I never wanted to give him those projects in the first place. You knelt outside my study for three days and nights, begging me to help his company. Serena, you can’t keep throwing tantrums and using our family business as a bargaining chip in your relationship.” I sat down on the cold concrete step, my fingers brushing against the faint, faded bruises on my knees from that three-day vigil. When I pressed down, it still throbbed with a dull, aching pain. “Dad, I’m serious this time,” I whispered. “I’m boarding the flight next week. I’m done being foolish.” Even my father knew how much I treasured Toby. How could Summer, who had stood by me through everything, not know? That evening, shortly after I returned to the apartment, my phone buzzed. It was the same number. A text notification popped up, displaying a friend request from an account with a bright, bubbly profile picture. An ugly mix of resentment and curiosity coiled in my chest. I wanted to know where it had all gone wrong. I accepted the request. The little girl, Joy, was incredibly talkative, immediately sending a barrage of cute emojis. I stared at the screen, my heart pounding as I typed out a message. “Joy, do you know how your mommy and daddy fell in love?” A long voice note arrived almost instantly, her voice dripping with pride. “Of course! I know their whole love story. Daddy tells me how they fell in love every single night when he tucks me in.” I looked up blankly at the framed photo sitting on the coffee table. It was the very first photo Toby and I had ever taken together. I had chased Toby for three years, from high school through college. At our high school graduation, Summer had playfully shoved me next to him, winking as she urged me to get close for a photo. Toby had initially recoiled, quietly brushing off his sleeve where my shoulder had brushed his. Summer, annoyed by his attitude, had dragged him back and insisted we take a photo together. When she sent me the final image, she had cropped herself out. I was so ecstatic that I stayed awake all night, setting it as my wallpaper—a wallpaper I hadn’t changed in four years. “Joy, I’d love to hear the story. Will you tell me?” “Okay!” came the cheerful reply. “Daddy says he fell in love with Mommy the very moment he saw her at their high school graduation. He says it was love at first sight. They still have their graduation picture framed right next to their bed!” A second later, a photo message popped up. I tapped to expand the image. It was our graduation photo. But the girl standing in the middle—me—had been completely photoshopped out. Beside that frame sat their wedding portrait. It was a moody, gothic-inspired theme. Just two days ago, I had shown Toby a similar concept, telling him how much I loved the dramatic, classic look. He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, merely shaking his head. “Too dark,” he had said dismissively. “It looks like a funeral. Pick something else.” Over the past year, I had proposed over a hundred wedding concepts. Every single one had been shot down. It turned out the style was never the issue. The person was. Joy continued to babble happily, describing how hard Toby had pursued Summer from graduation through college. In her telling, it was a flawless, fairy-tale romance. And I, the woman who had spent seven years of her life loving him, was nothing more than an invisible intruder. A wave of nausea hit me, so violent that I dropped the phone onto the carpet. As I scrambled to pick it up, my finger accidentally brushed the screen, answering an incoming video call from her. Joy froze when my face appeared on her screen. She looked startled, shrinking back slightly. I held the phone up, keeping my voice as gentle as possible. “Joy? What’s wrong, sweetie?” She let out a small breath, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, it’s you, Ma’am.” She paused, then added innocently, “You’re actually so pretty when you aren’t being crazy.” A wire snapped in my brain. “What did you say?” Joy scratched her head, looking genuinely puzzled. “Every time I saw you before, you were always screaming and crying. It was really scary. You used to grab Daddy and tell him you were going to kill him to make him pay for your father’s life.” “Mommy told me to stay far away from you because you were dangerous.” A bone-chilling cold swept through me. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. What did Toby do to my father in that future? Suppressing the tremor in my voice, I forced a smile. “Oh, sweetheart, that was just a game Daddy and I were playing.” I was desperate to ask more, to unravel the horror of what lay ahead, when Toby’s voice suddenly echoed from the hallway. “Serena? Who are you talking to?” Panicked, I immediately disconnected the call. I didn’t answer him. Toby, assuming I was still giving him the silent treatment over our fight from the day before, walked into the living room and set a small jar of organic lavender honey on the table beside me. “I drove all the way to that specialty market in Seattle to get this for you. Stop being mad,” he said, shedding his jacket. “I heard it’s great for your skin.” I stared at the jar, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. Earlier at the hospital, I had seen Summer holding ten jars of the exact same honey, her face glowing with delight. ““Oh, Toby, I only mentioned it once. I can’t believe you actually flew to Seattle just to get these for me!”” The jar he brought me was a tiny, pathetic sample size. We had been together for four years. He remembered a passing whim of Summer’s, but he couldn’t remember that I had a severe honey allergy. My eyes burned. I picked up the jar and tossed it directly into the trash can. “Toby, let’s break up.” Toby’s hands froze on his jacket zipper. A familiar look of irritation clouded his face. “Serena, can you please stop making a scene over nothing?” he snapped. “I have enough stress at the office. I don’t have the time or energy to play mind games and guess why you’re throwing a tantrum every single day.” “Why can’t you be more like Summer? She’s mature, easygoing, and reasonable.” When people are frustrated, the truth slips out. He caught himself, momentarily startled by his own words, before letting out a sharp sigh. It was the first time he had ever praised Summer to my face. For years, they had supposedly despised each other, which was precisely why I had never questioned the tiny, nagging discrepancies in his behavior. Regaining his composure, Toby knelt in front of me, reaching out to pat my head in that familiar, patronizing way. “Alright, Serena. I’m sorry. I apologize, okay?” he coaxed. “Just hang in there. Once we secure the Winslow contract next week, I’ll take you on a nice, long vacation to clear your head.” He wasn’t sorry. He was just terrified of losing the contract. I didn’t argue. That night, I quietly moved my things into the guest room and packed my suitcases, preparing for my departure the following week. In the middle of the night, a sharp, familiar pain flared in my stomach. I groaned, holding my abdomen as I stumbled out to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and my prescription pain relievers. The stomach ulcers were an old souvenir from Toby’s early startup days. Back then, he had to drink heavily to secure clients. I had accompanied him to every dinner, drinking in his place to protect his health. Over time, my own stomach paid the price. I remembered one night, a year ago, when the pain was so excruciating I couldn’t even stand up to reach the nightstand. I had begged Toby to get my medication. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Just bear with it,” he had mumbled into his pillow. “I have a pitch presentation tomorrow. I need my sleep.” I had curled into a ball, sweating and shaking, enduring the agonizing pain alone until morning. By the time I was rushed to the ER the next day, I was semi-conscious. The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Near the entryway, Toby’s shoes were kicked aside haphazardly, as if he had left in a rush. With sleep out of reach, I brought up my phone and opened social media. There, at the top of my feed, was a post from Summer. ““Craving midnight snacks, and a sweet soul delivered. Lucky me~”” The attached photo showed a lavish spread of food from various diners across the city—some from the far north, others from the south. I buried my face in my knees, letting out a hollow laugh. If a man cares, he doesn’t need to be taught. If he doesn’t, no amount of teaching will ever be enough. By Tuesday afternoon, all my luggage had been shipped out. I sat on the empty sofa, staring at the bare walls, feeling completely drained. I had sent several messages to Joy, but none of them went through. Finally, around three in the afternoon, a video call request flashed on my screen. I answered immediately. But as the camera connected, the background behind her made my breath catch. It was a spacious, high-ceilinged office decorated with mahogany and leather. It was my father’s office. My mother had passed away when I was very young, and my father had raised me alone. Fearing I would be lonely at home, he had spent my childhood keeping me by his side in this very room. “Joy, why are you at Winslow Enterprises?” Joy tilted the camera, panning around the room. “What do you mean, Ma’am? This is my daddy’s office.” “And the company isn’t called Winslow anymore. Winslow Enterprises went under a long time ago.” My chest tightened, a cold dread seizing my heart. “Joy… you’re a smart girl. Can you tell me what happened to the old owner? The man who used to sit in that chair?” Eager to show off, she leaned close to the screen. “Oh, Daddy told me about him! The grandpa who owned the company gave all his projects to Daddy.” “But then the grandpa made a big mistake and broke the law. The police locked him up, and he died in prison shortly after.” My blood ran cold. My father was a man of absolute integrity. He would never bend his moral compass for profit, let alone commit a crime. “And then?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Then the company became Daddy’s!” Joy smiled. “Don’t you remember, Ma’am? You used to come down to the lobby all the time, screaming at Daddy to give your father’s life back.” A hot tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the glass screen. My father had never liked Toby. He had warned me repeatedly that Toby was too calculating, too ambitious. He had even resorted to locking me in my room to keep us apart. But in my blind devotion, I had climbed out of a third-story window, shattering my leg in the fall. Seeing my broken body, my father had finally yielded, heartbroken. I had never imagined that my foolish love would eventually cost my father his life. I took a cab straight to my father’s house. When I walked into the dining room, he was sitting alone at the long table, a few quiet dishes laid out before him. The sight of his solitary figure made my throat ache. I walked closer and realized every single dish on the table was one of my favorites—all of them sweet, rich comfort foods. My father looked up, his face instantly lighting up with warmth when he saw me. “Serena! You’re home!” “Sarah,” he called out to the housekeeper, his voice brimming with excitement, “make a few more of the dishes Serena likes!” I sat down, a profound sense of guilt washing over me. “Dad, why didn’t you have them make something you like? You hate sweet food.” My father rubbed his hands together, offering a gentle, almost apologetic smile. “Well, I always hope you’ll walk through the door, but I never know when you’ll have time for your old dad. So, I have them prepare your favorites every day. That way, no matter what day you decide to visit, your favorite meal is waiting for you.” I buried my face in my bowl, tears streaming into my food, salty and bitter. He had waited like this. Day after day, week after week. “Dad,” I choked out, “from now on, I’m going to listen to you. I won’t be foolish anymore.” My father looked at me softly, piling food onto my plate until it was overflowing. Before I left, I warned him repeatedly to be extremely cautious around Toby and to keep a close eye on the company’s internal audits. I returned to the apartment one last time to retrieve my passport and travel documents. As I reached the front door, I found a moving truck parked outside, and workers were hauling boxes inside. The moment Summer saw me, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me. “Serena! Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much!” Behind her, Toby kept a protective hand hovering near her waist, his eyes wide with anxiety. Meeting my gaze, he quickly drew his hand back, clearing his throat. “I was just… making sure she didn’t knock you over. You know how clumsy she is.” Summer laughed, punching his shoulder playfully. Then she turned to me, hooking her arm through mine. “Great news, Serena! I’m moving in with you guys! That way, if Toby ever tries to treat you badly, I’ll be right here to kick his butt!” Toby rolled his eyes with fond amusement. “We’ll see who kicks whose butt. Someone’s going to end up back in the hospital if they aren’t careful.” They began their usual banter. But this time, I didn’t step in to play peacemaker. Watching them laugh together, the last remaining embers of my affection for them died out. I gently slipped my arm out of Summer’s grasp, walked past them to collect my documents from the desk, and returned to the doorway. My voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. “No need. You two can have the apartment.” I turned to leave. Summer grabbed my sleeve, her face falling. “No, Serena, wait! Don’t be mad. If you don’t want me here, I won’t move in. Please don’t be like this.” As I pulled away, Toby stepped forward and abruptly shoved me back. He pulled Summer behind him, glaring at me with utter annoyance. “Let her go, Summer. She’s a grown woman and she’s still throwing these pathetic tantrums. If you want to leave so badly, Serena, then don’t bother coming back.” With that, he slammed the door in my face. I stared at the heavy wood door, the last trace of warmth in my chest evaporating into the cool hallway air. I certainly wouldn’t be back. Tomorrow, I would be on a flight to Los Angeles. It was only a pity that I wouldn’t be in the room to witness his face when the bidding fell through.

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My brother’s new girlfriend was supposed to be so sweet to me. When my parents had to go out of town on business, she volunteered to stay and take care of me. But the moment they left, she saw me crawling on the carpet with my pacifier, playing with my blocks, and she walked over and kicked my tower over. “You’re twenty-two years old,” she sneered. “What are you doing play-acting like a toddler?” “You’re just some charity case, some childhood tagalong they adopted because they felt sorry for you. You think you can just cling to the Bradford family forever?” She grabbed my hair, pulling me down, and shoved my face into the freezing water. I thrashed wildly, desperate for air. “Still acting? Jack is working late tonight, and there’s no one else in this house. Today, I’m going to cure you of this ‘baby act’ once and for all!” I looked up at her, utterly lost, water dripping down my chin. What baby act? When we were children, a heavy cabinet fell on us. I pushed Jack out of the way, and my head was crushed. My brain stopped growing. My mind stayed forever locked at three years old. I really am a baby. … 1 “Amber, Michelle isn’t pretending.” My face was dripping wet as Amber held me pinned against the edge of the bathroom sink. The freezing water crept down my collar, making me shiver violently. “Don’t call me Amber,” she sneered, pinching my cheek. “Do you know what bugs me most about you, Michelle? You’re a grown woman. You’re twenty-two, and you play-act like you don’t understand a single word of English.” “Jack falls for this pathetic act. I don’t.” My face hurt. I whimpered, “But Jack says… Jack says Michelle is his baby.” “Shut up!” “Slap.” My ear rang, a sharp, white-hot sting radiating across my cheek. I covered my face, squeezing my eyes shut to keep from crying out loud. Mom always said to be a good girl when we had guests. But Amber was scary. Scarier than thunder. She picked up my pacifier from the floor. “You actually put this disgusting thing in your mouth?” Panic flared in my chest. “Don’t throw it away! Jack bought it for me.” “Jack bought it?” Her face twisted, darkening with a sudden, ugly rage. “He doesn’t even pay that much attention to me.” Right in front of my eyes, she tossed the strawberry-flavored pacifier into the toilet and flushed. The water roared, swallowing it down. It was gone. I fell to my knees, sobbing at the edge of the toilet. “My pacifier! My strawberry pacifier!” I clutched my wet plush bunny, Barnaby, shaking with heavy, ragged breaths. “It’s okay, Barnaby. You’re still here. You’ll stay with Michelle.” Amber’s shadow loomed over me. I flinched, hiding Barnaby behind my back. “No.” She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “The more you love something, the more I want to break it. I’m going to make sure you realize exactly who runs this house now.” She pulled a pair of silver shears out of the drawer. I shook my head, terror paralyzing my legs. “Please, no. Amber, don’t cut Barnaby.” She crouched down, her voice suddenly dropping into a sweet, coaxing purr. “Then admit it. Admit you’re faking. Say you’re staying with Jack on purpose.” The words were too big. I didn’t understand. I could only shake my head, tears blurring my vision. “Michelle isn’t faking. Jack is my brother.” The sweetness vanished instantly. “You really are a little actress, aren’t you?” “Snip.” Barnaby’s long, floppy ear fell to the floor. I screamed, throwing myself forward. “Barnaby hurts! Barnaby hurts!” “Snip.” His little head tumbled off, and white stuffing exploded across the bathroom tiles like snow. I fell to my hands and knees, desperately trying to scoop the loose cotton back into my arms. “Mom will fix it. Mom can sew him back together…” Amber’s boot came down hard, crushing Barnaby’s hollow body into the wet tile. “Your mother hates you too.” I froze, a piece of white fluff clutched in my fist. “Do you really think their business trip was a coincidence? They wanted to get away from you. They’re sick of you.” “Your brother is busy with work, and your parents have their own lives. Who would want to spend every single day babysitting a useless, brain-dead retard?” I knew that word. “Retard.” The kids at the park used to whisper it when they thought I wasn’t listening. Jack would always pick me up back then, glaring at them, whispering in my ear that they were wrong. He’d say Michelle wasn’t dumb; she was just a little baby who was taking her time to grow up. I bit my lip, my voice trembling. “Liar.” Amber unlocked her phone and waved it in front of my face. The screen showed a photo of her standing next to Jack. She looked beautiful, smiling wide. “See this? I’m his girlfriend. I’m going to marry him and move in here. What are you?” “I’m his sister,” I whispered. “An adopted sister with zero blood relation. It’s disgusting.” She dragged me out of the bathroom by my arm. My knee slammed against the wooden doorframe, a sharp, throbbing ache radiating through my leg. I curled inward, trying to shield myself. In the living room, the castle of blocks I had spent all morning building was scattered everywhere. She kicked a blue wooden block out of the way and aimed her phone camera at me. “Come on, let’s show everyone. Let’s see how well the great, wealthy Bradford family’s little parasite can act.” I hated cameras. Jack told me never to let strangers take pictures of me. I threw my hands over my face. “No! Don’t take pictures!” She grabbed my wrists, forcing my hands down, shoving the lens inches from my face. “What’s there to be scared of? Aren’t you a cute little baby? Babies love photos. Smile!” I broke down, sobbing hysterically. “Jack! I want Jack!” At the mention of his name, her face darkened into pure malice. “You think he’s coming? Let me tell you something, Michelle. Jack isn’t coming home tonight. Your parents aren’t coming home either.” “There’s nobody here but me.” I shook my head, gasping for air. “Mr. Walter is here.” Mr. Walter made me warm milk every afternoon. He always helped me find my little yellow duck hairpins when they slipped behind the cushions of the couch. Amber’s laugh was sharp and triumphant. “I sent that old man to the warehouse across town to pick up some old boxes. He won’t be back for hours.” She grabbed the collar of my pink onesie, her voice dropping to a cold, venomous whisper. “Today, I’m going to strip this stupid baby act right off you. Piece by piece.” She shoved me back into my bedroom. My room was my safe place. It had my strawberry nightlight, my soft pillows, and the glowing plastic stars Jack had taped to the ceiling so I wouldn’t be scared. But the second Amber stepped inside, she flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. “No!” I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around her leg. “Don’t! Michelle is scared of the dark. Turn on the light, please, turn it on!” She looked down at me, her eyes freezing cold. “A twenty-two-year-old afraid of the dark. Who’d believe that?” She reached for my pink plastic cup on the nightstand—the one Mom had filled with warm water before she left. I reached out, my fingers stretching. “My cup…” “Thirsty?” She turned it upside down, pouring the water directly onto the carpet. “Lick it up. You love crawling around on the floor anyway, don’t you? Just like a dog.” I didn’t understand why she was being so mean. I only crawled because my legs were weak. The doctor in the white coat had explained to my parents that after my head got hurt, my muscles didn’t always listen to my brain. Jack didn’t want me to fall and hurt myself, so he bought thick, soft carpets and told me it was okay to crawl. Amber crouched down, her face inches from mine. “Is this how you get him to feel sorry for you? ‘Oh, poor little Michelle, she’s so helpless, she can’t survive without me.’ Every time he says that, it makes me want to vomit.” “Jack loves Michelle,” I whispered, tears spilling over my cheeks. “He does it out of pity. Guilt,” she spat. “But don’t worry. I’m going to free him from you.” She reached for the small, hand-knitted blanket on my bed. I crawled forward, desperate, shielding it with my body. “No, please! Mom worked on that for so long!” Amber didn’t grab the blanket. Instead, she picked up my pink toy smart-watch from the nightstand and thrust it toward me. “Fine. Call your mother.” “You say they love you? Let’s see if they’ll come back to save you.” My eyes lit up. I scrambled to tap the screen, pressing the button with Mom’s smiling picture. “Ring… Ring…” No answer. I tried Dad’s picture. It rang and rang, but the screen just went black. Amber stood over me, her arms crossed, a mocking sneer on her lips. “See? They don’t want you. They’re ignoring you.” “No!” I sobbed, shaking my head. “They’re on an airplane. Mom said they can’t talk on the phone when they’re in the sky.” She snatched the watch from my hand. “They lied to you because they wanted to run away! They’re never coming back!” “Give it back!” I cried, reaching for it. “Jack said I can always call!” With a cruel flick of her wrist, she tossed the watch into my fish tank. There was a soft “plop”, a brief bubble of light, and then the screen died in the water. “You’re bad,” I whimpered. “You’re a bad girl.” Her face contorted. “What did you just say?” I shrank back, terrified. “Bad…” She grabbed me by my wrists and dragged me toward the closet. The heavy wooden doors stood open, revealing a pitch-black cavern. The sight of it broke something inside me. I screamed, thrashing wildly. “No! Not in there! Michelle is scared!” I clawed at the wooden doorframe, my fingernails scraping against the paint until they bent back, white-hot pain shooting up my fingers. But I wouldn’t let go. She pried my fingers off one by one, her grip like iron, and shoved me into the dark closet. “Good. Maybe a little darkness will teach you to stay away from Jack.” “Slam.” The door shut, swallowing me whole. I collapsed into the pile of clothes, crying and pounding my little fists against the wood. “Amber! Please! Open the door! Michelle will be good… Michelle is sorry…” Her muffled, irritated voice filtered through the wood. “You can come out when you admit you’re a liar.” I buried my face in the soft sweaters, choking on the stuffy, warm air. After what felt like forever, the distant, sweet sound of the doorbell chimed. “Ding-dong.” It had to be Mr. Walter! I gathered all the strength in my small body and banged on the door. “Mr. Walter! Help me! Michelle is in here!” Heavy footsteps approached my room. I heard the door open, and then Mr. Walter’s voice, thick with worry. “Miss Amber? I felt uneasy on the drive over. Jack explicitly told me not to leave Michelle alone for too long. Where is she?” I screamed as loud as I could. “Mr. Walter! I’m here! In the closet!” But the closet was deep, and the heavy oak doors muffled my voice into nothing but a faint rustle. “She’s sleeping,” Amber said, her voice smooth and airy. “She wore herself out playing.” “I would like to check on her,” Mr. Walter insisted, his tone firm. Silence stretched for a long, agonizing moment. I held my breath, a tiny spark of hope fluttering in my chest. Then, Amber’s voice turned icy. “Walter, I am Jack’s girlfriend. He trusted me to look after Michelle. If you’re insisting on inspecting the room, are you implying I’m going to hurt her?” “Of course not, miss,” Mr. Walter hesitated, his voice wavering. “Then go back to your duties,” she said sharply. “The old toys in the suburban storage locker are still waiting. Michelle wanted them. If she wakes up and they aren’t here, she’ll have a tantrum. Are you going to take responsibility for that?” Mr. Walter sighed quietly. “I… I will go back and finish loading them.” His footsteps faded away. I pressed my forehead against the cold wood of the door, tears soaking into my collar. Amber opened the closet door. The sudden light burned my eyes. She stood there, looking down at me with a cruel smirk. “Did you hear that? Nobody is coming to save you.” When she finally let me out, my legs were so weak they couldn’t support my weight. I collapsed onto the carpet. She crouched down, tapping my cheek with two fingers. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been extremely patient. If it weren’t for Jack, I would have thrown you out on the street hours ago.” I curled into a ball, shivering. “I want Jack…” “Is that the only word you know?” She rolled her eyes, her phone buzzing in her hand. She turned around and walked out of the room to answer it. I remembered the little red emergency phone in my nightstand drawer. Jack had given it to me. He said if I ever needed him, all I had to do was press the heart button. My knees were scraped, and my legs felt like they were being pricked by a thousand hot needles, but I didn’t care. I dragged myself across the carpet toward the bed. Jack would save me. I pulled open the drawer, my trembling hand finding the plastic phone. I squeezed the heart button. “Ring… Ring…” It picked up on the second ring. “Michelle? Is everything okay?” Jack’s voice was breathless, panicked. My eyes flooded with fresh tears. “Jack…” Suddenly, the phone was ripped from my hand. Amber stood over me, her face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. “You little rat. You’re trying to get me in trouble?” I lunged forward, grabbing her ankle. “Give it back! I want Jack!” Over the speaker, Jack’s voice went dead cold. “Amber? Why is Michelle crying?” Amber hit the speakerphone button, her voice instantly transforming into a sweet, melodic purr. “Jack, honey! She just had a bad dream. I’m putting her back to sleep right now.” “Let me talk to her.” I reached out, sobbing. “Jack!” Amber kicked her leg back, knocking me to the floor. The impact sent a sharp pain through my chest, and I gasped for air. She talked to the phone, her voice smooth. “You know what the therapist said, Jack. The more you baby her when she has these tantrums, the more dependent she becomes. You’re enabling her.” Jack’s voice crackled, dark and dangerous. “The doctor never said to let her cry like that! Give the phone to Michelle. Now!” Amber’s jaw clenched. She stared down at me, then abruptly swiped her finger across the screen, cutting him off. She threw the phone onto the floor, picked up a heavy ceramic vase from the dresser, and smashed it down on the plastic device again and again until it was nothing but crushed plastic and wires. I crawled over the shards of ceramic, trying to save the pieces, my fingertips stinging as they cut open against the sharp edges. “No… Jack won’t be able to find me…” Amber grabbed my wrists, pulling me up, her eyes wide with a manic, boiling hatred. “I hope he never finds you! Do you want to know what I hate most about you?” “You don’t have to do anything. All you have to do is squeeze out a single tear, and Jack drops everything to run to you!” “I’m his girlfriend! I’m the one who’s supposed to be his future!” I shook my head, sobbing. “Jack loves Michelle. Jack loves Amber too…” “Stop pretending!” She threw me back down. “You use this brain-dead act so nobody can ever hold you accountable. The Bradfords adopting you was the worst mistake they ever made.” “They are sick of you. They hate you. They begged me to teach you how to behave.” “No!” I choked, struggling to breathe. “Mom and Dad love me! You’re lying…” She reached down, her fingernails pinching the tender skin of my inner arm, twisting it hard. I screamed from the blinding pain. “Michelle isn’t lying! I’m not!” “Tell me you’ll stay away from Jack.” “Jack is my brother!” Amber’s hand flew to my ear, pulling it back until I shrieked. “Let me tell you a secret, Michelle. Jack loves me now. He’s sick and tired of carrying around a brainless anchor.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a long, silver sewing needle. “I’m going to make sure you remember this. I’m going to teach you that calling his name won’t save you anymore.” She drove the needle deep into my forearm. “Ah!” My entire body spasmed. “Don’t you ever call him your brother again! You manipulative little bitch, using a fake baby routine to get pity. Just die!” She kept screaming, her face unrecognizable, plunging the needle into my arms over and over. “Michelle isn’t… it hurts… Jack, it hurts…” I rolled on the floor, thrashing, desperate to crawl away, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. She grabbed my collar and dragged me down the hallway. I saw the door at the very end, and my whole body froze. Years ago, behind that door, it had been so dark. Something heavy had fallen. There was screaming, and crying, and blood. I grabbed the metal banister with both hands, locking my fingers. “No! Not there! Michelle won’t go!” Amber pried at my fingers. “Perfect. A little dark basement is exactly where bad girls learn to be quiet!” She kicked the basement door open. The darkness inside felt like a monster opening its mouth to swallow me. “Get in!” I pulled back, weeping. “No! Amber, please! Michelle will be good! I won’t look for Jack anymore!” Amber paused, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across her lips. “Then say it. Say Jack isn’t your brother.” I stared at her, tears dripping from my chin. “But… Jack is my brother.” “Then rot.” The smile vanished. She raised her foot and stomped hard on my fingers. My grip broke. My body tumbled down the wooden stairs, hitting one step, then another, rolling down into the dark. My forehead slammed against the concrete floor at the bottom. Something warm and thick began to trickle down my face, sticking my eyelashes together. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. The basement fell into absolute, suffocating darkness. I curled into a tight ball in the corner, my voice a tiny, broken whisper. “Jack…” No one answered. “Mom…” Only the cold silence of the concrete. My head throbbed, my arm burned, and my stomach twisted with hunger. My throat felt like it was on fire. After a long time, I heard light footsteps above the ceiling. I dragged myself to the bottom of the stairs, tapping weakly on the bottom step. “Amber… Michelle is hungry…” A faint, mocking laugh came through the floorboards. “I just finished the strawberry cake Jack ordered for me.” Every time Jack worked late, he brought me a slice of strawberry cake. I swallowed hard, my mouth watering. “Can Michelle have a bite? Just a tiny bite?” “No. Do you want to know what Jack told me before he left?” I pressed my ear against the gap under the door. “What did Jack say?” “He said you’re too much of a burden. He said he wants to get married and have a real family, and he can’t spend his whole life playing nursemaid to a vegetable.” I banged my head against the door, crying out. “Jack wouldn’t say that! Jack promised Mom he would always take care of Michelle!” “You don’t believe me?” A recording of Jack’s voice crackled from her phone outside the door. “…Is she crying? Amber, just keep her quiet, I’m stuck here…” The words didn’t make sense, but I heard “keep her quiet.” Amber’s voice cut back in. “Hear that? He told me to keep you quiet. He’s not coming for you.” My heart felt like it had been dropped into a bucket of ice. “Jack is busy…” “Stop making excuses, Michelle,” she sneered, her voice dripping with triumph. “You’re not a baby. You’re just a nuisance nobody wants.” I stopped talking. Nuisances didn’t get strawberry cake. Nuisances weren’t allowed to call for their brothers. The basement was freezing. I wrapped my arms around my knees, softly humming the lullaby Mom used to sing to me. Halfway through, loud, frantic banging echoed from the top of the stairs. “Miss Michelle? Are you in there?” It was Mr. Walter! His voice sounded terrified. I scrambled up the steps, throwing my weight against the door. “Mr. Walter! Michelle is here!” The sound of keys jingling echoed from the other side. “Don’t worry, Miss Michelle. Walter is here. I’m opening the door right now.” The key slid into the brass lock. “Click.” The latch moved. But a split second later, Amber’s voice shrieked through the hall. “Walter! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Walter’s voice trembled with rage. “Miss Amber, why did you lock Miss Michelle in the basement?” “She ran down there herself!” Amber yelled back. “If you open that door now and she runs out in a manic state, are you going to be responsible for whatever she breaks?” Mr. Walter kept turning the key. “I don’t care! Miss Michelle cannot be kept in the dark!” Amber let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Walter, your son works in the logistics department at Bradford Enterprises, doesn’t he?” “If you interfere with my business today, I will make sure he is blacklisted from every firm in the city by tomorrow morning.” “I’m going to count to three. Walk away, and pretend you saw nothing.” The sound of the keys stopped. The silence outside was heavy and terrifying. Panic seized me. I pounded on the door with both hands, slamming my forehead against the wood. “Mr. Walter, don’t go! Please let Michelle out!” Outside, Mr. Walter’s voice was barely a whisper. “Hold on, Miss Michelle… just a little longer. Someone will come.” His slow, heavy footsteps drifted away. Mr. Walter was gone. Nobody was coming. My arms lost their strength. I couldn’t bang on the door anymore, and I didn’t have the breath to sing. It was so dark, and the shadows were turning into monsters. I don’t know how much time passed. Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the driveway, followed by the sound of heavy, desperate running. Amber’s voice rose in a high, panicked squeal. “Jack? What are you doing here?” An instant later— “CRASH!” The basement door was kicked open, splintering against the wall. A blinding, beautiful flood of light poured down the stairs, making my eyes sting. In the center of the light, a familiar silhouette came crashing down the steps. He was running so fast, stumbling, as if he believed that if he didn’t reach me in that exact second, I would disappear forever. His voice was cracked, raw, and completely broken. “Michelle!”

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