Chapter 2

“Just our nanny.”

Those words cut through me like a rusty saw, scraping raw against my eardrums even in the soft afternoon breeze.

Once his waving classmates run off, I step out from behind the oak tree.

The smile drops right off Tom’s face the second he sees me. There’s a flash of panic in his eyes, but it vanishes in a heartbeat—replaced by plain, unmasked disgust.

“Why are you even here?” He doesn’t even call me mom. He ducks behind Lyra instead, muttering like he’s humiliated to be seen with me. “Look at you—your clothes are all ratty, your hair’s a mess, your lips are chapped. I told you I didn’t need you to pick me up. You’re so embarrassing.”

I freeze right there, nausea twisting in my gut. This frumpy old maternity dress I’m wearing? I’ve been putting off replacing it just to save up for his stupid expensive horseback riding lessons.

Ever since I got pregnant with the second baby, the morning sickness has been so brutal I haven’t had the energy to read him bedtime stories every night or take him to the science museum on weekends like I used to. Ever since Lyra moved in, she’s been all smiles—playing video games with him, buying him ice cream, talking shit about how I’m “too strict” right to his face.

It’s fine, I tell myself. He’s only eight. He can’t tell the difference between someone buttering him up and someone who actually loves him. He just goes with whoever makes him feel good.

“Oh, don’t be mad, Grace!” Lyra giggles behind her hand, slinging an arm around Tom’s shoulders.

That voice. It’s her. The woman Jack was on the phone with this afternoon.

She flicks her fresh French manicure, tone smooth and entitled like she already runs this house. “Jack called me specifically to pick Tom up, actually. Said he had that big work thing tonight, and you’re three months along now—you shouldn’t be pushing yourself running around. Don’t worry about picking Tom up anymore, okay? I’ve got it from here.”

“Yesss! Lyra’s the best!” Tom cheers, wrapping his arms tight around her waist and shooting me a petty, triumphant look.

I don’t even remember driving home. I push open the front door, and all that greets me is dead silence.

Under the crystal chandelier in the dining room sits the eighth anniversary dinner I slaved over all morning, pregnant and aching. The premium Wagyu’s oozing bloody juice, the Boston lobster’s gone dull and lifeless, and that nut-free chocolate cake I baked from scratch? It looks like a sad, ironic plastic prop now.

Cold seeps into my bones, slow and sharp.

The wall clock hits 9:30 p.m. when the smart lock finally beeps.

The door swings open, and it’s like some twisted, garbage sitcom. Jack, Lyra, and Tom walk in laughing and joking like they’re the real family.

Jack freezes for half a second when he spots me sitting on the couch in the dark. Then he walks over and presses the laziest, most half-assed kiss to my forehead.

“Work thing ran late,” he lies, like he doesn’t even care if I believe him. “Ran into Lyra and Tom on the way back, so I gave them a ride. Don’t overthink it.”

Lyra marches straight into our master bathroom to shower.

Fifteen minutes later, she walks out in that fancy designer white button-down she loves—Jack’s shirt, way too big on her, hanging just long enough to cover her thighs, her wet hair reeking of that cedar body wash Jack uses exclusively, the one I know better than my own perfume.

She saunters into the living room like she owns the place and plops right down in the middle of the couch—my spot, the one I always sit in to watch TV. Tom crawls right over to her immediately, curling up in her lap like it’s where he belongs, the two of them huddled over a tablet together like they’re the ones who live here.

I grip the hem of my dress so tight my knuckles go white, forcing my hands to stop shaking. I stare straight at Tom, voice cold and steady.

“Tom. Dad says he’s taking you to summer camp next month. Is that true? ”