Chapter 4

Jennifer's POV

I pushed through the front door. The living room was trashed.

Takeout containers everywhere. The Persian rug stained with sauce and juice. Dirty clothes piled on the couch. Empty wine bottles cluttering the coffee table. Three days without their "housekeeper," and they couldn't handle basic living.

I ignored it all and headed straight for the basement.

Tomorrow was the competition deadline. I needed "Wings of Rebirth." My only shot at getting out.

I pushed open the storage room door. My blood went cold.

The worktable was empty. The floor was covered with broken balsa wood, shattered acrylic panels, crushed miniature trees. Six months of work—piece by painstaking piece—reduced to garbage.

Ryan was stomping through the wreckage with his toy plane, shouting: "BOOM! BOOM! The monster's destroying the castle!"

Amanda stood there with her wine glass, smiling at him. "That's it, sweetie! Stomp harder!"

Christopher stood beside them. Not stopping him. Looking proud.

"What the hell are you doing?"

All three of them froze.

Ryan saw me and his face scrunched up. "Oh. You're back. Aunt Amanda said there were monsters hiding in this junk and I should help kill them."

Junk.

I walked over, knelt down, picked up a piece with shaking hands. The main dome—took me a week to get the structural angles right. Now split clean in half.

"Jennifer, when the hell did you get back?" Christopher frowned. "Where have you been? The house is a complete disaster. Ryan's clothes haven't been washed. Is this how you think motherhood works?"

I held up the broken piece, staring at him. "This was my competition model. You destroyed it."

"Oh my God, seriously? Don't be so dramatic." Amanda set down her wine glass, face crumpling into hurt. "Look, I just thought Ryan was bored, okay? So I brought him down here to play. I figured it was just some craft project you were fooling around with. I mean, come on—you're a stay-at-home mom. What are you doing entering architecture competitions anyway? It's kind of embarrassing, honestly."

"Jennifer, it's cardboard and wood." Christopher walked over, moved in front of Amanda protectively, looked down at me. "Jesus, why are you making such a big deal out of this? Amanda was just trying to keep Ryan entertained. I'll give you a couple hundred bucks—go buy more stuff and make another one."

A couple hundred bucks. Make another one.

I stared at the wreckage. Then I laughed. Knelt down and started picking up pieces. One by one. Carefully.

Six months. Over a hundred and eighty days. Working until three, four in the morning. My hands covered in glue burns and cuts.

"Jennifer, what are you doing?" Christopher sounded irritated. "Oh for God's sake, stop playing the victim and go make dinner. Amanda hasn't eaten well these past few days—"

"Shut up."

My voice was calm. Christopher went still.

I kept picking up pieces. The dome fragments. Broken wood strips. The miniature garden—every single tree I'd spent two weeks on, all crushed.

"Mommy, you're SO LOUD." Ryan whined. "I'm not done playing! This stuff is just junk anyway—"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

I whipped around, voice sharp.

Ryan stumbled back, tears instantly welling up.

"Jennifer!" Christopher rushed over, scooped up Ryan. "What the hell is WRONG with you? Look—you scared him!"

"Scared him?" I stood, cradling the broken pieces. "He destroyed six months of my work and I can't even say something?"

"So WHAT? It's just a damn MODEL!" Christopher's voice went ice cold. "Ryan's a KID. He doesn't get what this stuff means. You're his mother—can't you have a little goddamn patience?"

"Doesn't get it?" I looked at Ryan. "He's seven. Seven years old. Old enough to point at me in front of everyone and call me 'the help,' but somehow not old enough to know you don't destroy other people's things?"

"Jennifer, oh my God!" Amanda suddenly stepped forward, looking wounded. "How can you talk to Ryan like that? He's just a little boy! This is all my fault, okay? I'm the one who brought him down here. If you're gonna blame someone, blame me—don't take it out on him."

She came closer, crouched down like she was going to help pick up pieces.

"Don't TOUCH it!" I shielded the wreckage. "Don't touch my stuff!"

"Jen, I'm just—I'm just trying to help—"

"I said DON'T!"

I shoved her. Amanda stumbled, hit the edge of the worktable. A jagged piece of acrylic was on the floor. Her palm came down right on it.

Blood immediately seeped out.

"Amanda!" Christopher dropped Ryan, rushed to her. "Your hand! Jesus Christ, Jennifer, have you completely lost your MIND?"

Amanda clutched her hand, tears streaming. "It's okay, it's okay. She didn't mean it, Christopher. I just... I wasn't being careful..."

"Wasn't careful?" Christopher turned on me, pure rage in his eyes. "Jennifer, look what you DID! Over a pile of TRASH, you actually hurt Amanda?"

"I didn't—"

"MOMMY'S THE BAD ONE!" Ryan suddenly screamed. "Mommy pushed Aunt Amanda! Mommy's BAD! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

His voice echoed through the basement, each word slamming into my chest.

I looked at him. At that face—exactly Christopher's. At those eyes, full of hate.

"Ryan..."

"DON'T!" Ryan shrieked. "I HATE you! Why are YOU my mom? Why can't it be Aunt Amanda? She's so NICE and you're so MEAN! I wish you would just DIE!"

Something inside me—the thing I'd held together for seven years—snapped.

No anger. No hysteria. No tears.

I slowly stood, looked at the pieces scattered everywhere. Then I opened my hands. Let everything fall.

"You're right, Christopher." My voice was eerily calm. "It's just junk. Not worth the fight."

Christopher blinked, clearly not expecting that. He relaxed a little. "Good. Finally. Now help bandage Amanda's hand, then go make dinner. Her stomach's acting up—make something light, okay?"

"Sure."

I turned and walked out. Went upstairs. Back to the master bedroom.

Pulled my suitcase from under the bed. Opened the closet. I left the expensive dresses Christopher bought, left all the jewelry. Just grabbed a few professional outfits from before I became a full-time wife, my passport, my diplomas, all my design sketches.

Everything fit in one small carry-on.

Turned out in this multi-million dollar apartment, everything I actually owned could fit in twenty inches.

I walked to the vanity, opened the drawer, pulled out the divorce papers I'd drafted three months ago but never had the guts to sign.

I signed them. Clean strokes. Done.

Then I slipped off the diamond ring I'd worn for seven years and dropped it in the drawer with the papers.

Outside, Ryan and Amanda were laughing. Christopher's voice, gentle and coaxing.

Their perfect little family.

I wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom, through the hallway, to the front door.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

The moment I pushed through that door, Manhattan's cold wind hit me—sharp with winter—and I felt awake. Free.

The home that was never mine. The husband and son who never really belonged to me. Done with all of it.

The whole world, wide open. Just for me.