HER REVENGE AFTER DIVORCE

CHAPTER 001

The only thing you could hear was the espresso machine humming to itself and the slight scrape of a chair against the wooden floor. The streets of New York were blanketed in a pristine layer of white snow that fell steadily outside. I leaned slightly against the window, pretending to clean a stubborn smudge that didn’t actually exist, and my breath fogged the glass.

People my age walked down the street out there, their laughter muted by the thick panes of glass. Outside they stopped in a group, bundled into scarves and coats and carrying armsful of paper bags from the bakery next door. Another girl pressed a muffin to her face; her eyes widened, announcing the muffin to her friend in a way that may or may not have been a joke. Their voices filled with warmth and joy; they laughed.

I didn’t know I was staring until one of them looked up and made eye contact. I embarrassed myself quickly, turning away and concentrating hard on the counter that I was wiping down. Regret gnawed at my chest and tightened. It could’ve been me out there. I could have been at a cafe with friends, laughing, living life, being an 18-year-old. I should have been there, not here, scrubbing counters and serving drinks for tips.

I didn’t have a choice, it wasn’t like that. I needed this job. I needed the money. My own family had made it clear they wouldn’t lift a finger for me, so no one else was going to give me a dime.

I sighed and put the cleaning cloth into my apron pocket. A door chimed softly, and I was, and always would be, straightening automatically at the entrance of the elderly man who had come into the room with a polite nod. I turned to prepare it, moving on autopilot, and he ordered a simple black coffee.

Almost soothing was the steady rhythm of my work until I felt the faint buzz of my phone against my leg. I looked back at the back room and froze. My boss had a strict rule: no phones during work hours.

I already knew who it was, though. Mom.

My hand hovered over my apron pocket, I hesitated. The buzzing stopped, but my heart didn’t. I told myself not to answer. I told myself to let it go to voicemail. The thought of what might happen if I didn’t pick up was enough to make me pull out the phone and hit ‘accept.’

“Hello?” I spoke quieter than I meant to, barely above a whisper.

“Why the hell did it take you so long?” I jumped at the sound of her voice, sharp and slicing right through the warm hum of the coffee shop.

“I’m at work,” I said quickly, my voice low. “I’m not allowed to use my phone during shifts, my boss doesn’t let us.”

She snapped, “Oh, so now you’re too busy to answer your own mother?” “Unbelievable. You think your job is so important? Pouring coffee like some... some servant?”

“Mom, I—”

She barked, “Don’t talk back to me, Sarah!”

I held the phone tighter, flinching.

“You’re such a disappointment.” In that stupid little coffee shop, you’re wasting your life. Look at Lilith. She’s studying, she’s getting ready to go to college, she’s making something of herself. And what are you doing? Cleaning up after strangers, wasting your time. Pathetic.”

Her words hurt like a punch to the gut, but I ignored it and didn't say a word. There was no point arguing. There never was.

“Well? Say something!” she demanded.

I bit my lip, and chose my words carefully. “I’m trying, Mom. I’m trying to save up for—”

“Shut up. Just shut up. She interrupted, “I don’t want your excuses.” You always have excuses. If you’d put half as much effort into your studies as you do into this ridiculous job, you’d be worth something. No, you’ve got no ambition, but no. No drive. You’re just... useless.”

They stung more than I wanted to admit. I looked around the shop, making sure no one was looking. I gripped the phone with my hands shaking slightly.

“I’m listening! Why would you think I’m not?” she snapped.

“Yes, Mom,” I said softly.

“Answer me when I talk to you then!”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “What did you say?”

“I said, come home. Now.”

I didn't get a chance to respond before the line went dead.

I just stood there, staring at the screen, her words echoing in my head for a moment. A lump rose in my throat, but I shoved it down and shoved my phone back into my pocket.

I went back to scrubbing the counter with the cloth again, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t breathe, my chest was tight.

The door chimed again, and I made myself look up, pasting on the fake smile I’d been wearing for the past year. Two young people walked in, their cheeks pink from the cold. Two lattes and they picked a corner table, laughing quietly as they shrugged out of their coats.

My hands worked quickly, but my mind went fast. Why did she want me to come home? What was she going to say this time?

As they passed the bedroom of their son, Jimmie laid sleeping, the coffee shop grew busier as the afternoon had stretched on. Customers came in more and more, and I threw myself into my work, hoping the rush would keep me from feeling the sinking feeling in my stomach.

But it didn’t.

Her words played over and over in my head, even as I gave out drinks and wiped down tables. Disappointment. Pathetic. Useless.

I knew she didn’t mean it. Not really. That’s what I told myself, at least. I tried to ignore it, but the hurt didn’t go away.

When my shift was finished, the sun had already fallen below the horizon, creating what was left of a pinkish and orangey sky. Soft and steady, the snow was still falling. I wore my coat and scarf from the back room, looking the poorhouse under my hands.

All of the chatter earlier was gone; it was all quiet now on the streets, quiet except for the muffled crunch of boots on snow. I walked, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, my breath puffed out in little clouds.

I didn’t want to go home.

But I had no choice.

I turned the corner onto my street and my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out, half expecting another angry call from Mom, my heart sank. But it wasn’t her.

It was an unknown number.

I frowned and hesitated before answering.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I stopped walking, my breath catching in my throat. I was straining to hear something—anything—on the other end of the line, and yet the cold seemed to seep into my bones.

“Who is this?” My voice trembled slightly as I asked.

The call ended, the line clicked.

My heart beat faster, and I glanced at the screen.

Something wasn’t right.