Chapter 2
My cheek was still burning, Herbert's words thundering in my ears like a storm that wouldn't pass.
The grandfather clock in the living room struck two in the morning as he roughly shoved Dora's clothes into the suitcase, each movement sharp with finality.
I shook myself out of my shock, anger suddenly surging through my veins like wildfire.
"Herbert, have you lost your mind?" I pressed my hand against my stinging cheek, my voice trembling. "You want to divorce me over some cookies?"
"What the hell is wrong with you two? What's so terrible about me making cookies for my daughter?"
He didn't even turn around, just kept cramming things into the suitcase, his movements growing more violent by the second.
"Herbert! Look at me!" I grabbed his arm. "Is there someone else? Is that why you're looking for an excuse to dump me?"
He jerked his arm away so hard I stumbled backward. The disgust in his eyes made my blood run cold. "Don't touch me."
"You think I'm stupid? You've been coming home later and later, not answering your phone..."
"Enough!" He finally spun around, looking at me like I was something diseased. "Jacey, you make me sick."
His words hit me like a physical blow. I couldn't believe this was coming from the man I'd married, the man who once promised to love me forever.
Desperate, I turned to Athena, hoping for some shred of support from someone who'd known me for years.
"Athena, please say something! We've known each other for so long - you know what kind of person I am!"
Athena slowly set down what she was holding and turned to face me. There were tears in her eyes, but beneath them lay something far worse - pure revulsion.
"Jacey, I have so many regrets." Her voice was barely a whisper, each word cutting deeper than the last. "But my biggest regret is supporting Herbert when he decided to marry you in the first place."
"What do you mean? What did I do?" I was practically on my knees, begging. "Please, just tell me!"
She looked at me with the kind of pity you'd show a dying animal, her voice soft as a death sentence: "If I were you, I'd find somewhere to end it all. The world would be better off without you."
She turned away, grabbed her suitcase, and walked toward the door with Herbert. The front door slammed shut with such force that the house seemed to shudder around me.
I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor, my mind spinning with fragments of what had just happened. Why? Why did they all look at me like I was some kind of monster?
What could I have possibly done that was so unforgivable?
If I had done something wrong, I'd face whatever consequences came my way - even death. But I refused to die in ignorance, not knowing what crime I was supposedly guilty of.
No matter what it took, I was going to find the truth.
The next afternoon, I dragged my exhausted body toward the police station, determined to get answers.
On the way, I decided to test something with a friendly-looking middle-aged woman walking her dog.
She smiled sweetly when I showed her the photos of the cookies, even commenting on how cute the teddy bear shapes were.
But the moment I said, "I made these cookies for my daughter," she shoved me to the ground and started kicking me, calling me a freak.
A man who initially tried to intervene heard me sobbing, "I just made cookies for my daughter," and his face went stone cold. He delivered a vicious kick to my ribs before walking away.
Even a police officer walking by told me I deserved it and ordered me to stop disrupting public order.
Despite the bruises and the humiliation, I'd learned something crucial: it wasn't the cookies themselves that caused the reaction. It was specifically the act of me making cookies for my daughter.
Even people who wanted to help me would instantly turn violent the moment they heard those words.
But why? What was so wrong with that simple statement?
The cookies were just ordinary butter cookies. I hadn't added anything strange or harmful. They were made with love, the way any mother would make them for her child.
Confused and battered, I limped toward the 19th Precinct in Manhattan, hoping the police could finally give me answers.
The station's heavy glass doors required all my remaining strength to push open. The duty officer behind the front desk immediately noticed my condition and hurried over.
"Ma'am, you need medical attention. What happened to you?" Officer Torres, a young man with kind eyes, steadied me as I swayed on my feet.
In the interview room, I sat across from two officers and recounted everything that had happened.
They listened intently, shock and disbelief written across their faces.
"This kind of mass behavioral anomaly is definitely unusual," Officer Torres frowned. "If there's some kind of external influence involved, this could be very serious."
The older Officer Rodriguez nodded in agreement. "We need to see the actual evidence before we can proceed with an investigation."
Torres said, "Ma'am, we assure you we'll handle this case with complete objectivity and professionalism. Please provide us with those cookie photos, and we'll analyze them carefully."
I felt an immediate sense of relief, tears even welling up in my eyes.
At last, someone believed me! Someone was actually willing to help me find the truth!
With trembling hands, I handed over my phone, my heart full of hope that they could help me find answers.
