Chapter 1
“I want to file for divorce.”
The words slipped out calm and clear, like they’d been sitting on my tongue for years, just waiting for permission to speak.
There was a pause on the line.
“Ma’am, are you certain? You’ve been married two decades.”
I glanced around the bedroom—the same one I had painted myself, with curtains I stitched by hand, and furniture I’d polished every single weekend like a live–in maid.
The lavender scent of fabric softener still lingered on the sheets.
Everything was spotless. Immaculate. Soulless.
“Yes,” I said again, louder this time. “Please file it right away. I’m leaving this house tonight.”
I ended the call before she could say another word.
The quiet that followed wasn’t empty–it was thick with a strange calm, the kind only a woman who’s spent years putting herself last would understand.
It was the quiet of finality. Of choosing me, at last.
I stared at my reflection. My lips trembled slightly, but no tears came. Not yet.
Instead, my thoughts wandered back to the moment I knew it was all over–that this marriage, this whole illusion of a life, had reached its expiration date.
That evening had been so still.
CIL
The aroma of homemade pasta filled the kitchen. I had spent hours on dinner, wearing a pale blue dress I hadn’t touched in years, foolishly hoping he might notice.
I sat beside him on the couch while he scrolled through documents from work. Eventually, I found the nerve to bring up a trip he once swore we’d take–Milan.
“Milan?” he echoed, chuckling, eyes locked on his screen.
“What’s the point? You’re not exactly in your prime anymore. Let’s not pretend it matters.”
I stood there, frozen, breath caught in my chest like fine glass.
“You made a promise,” I reminded him softly. “You said when life settled down, we’d go. Celebrate. Just us.”
He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his
eyes.
“With what money? You gonna pay for it? Oh, wait–silly me–you don’t make any.”
I blinked, stunned.
“Does it have to be about money? I just wanted… one moment to feel alive. After everything I’ve done–for you, for the kids, for this house-”
He cut me off, his voice sharp.
“Oh, so now we’re a burden? Don’t twist it like I forced this life on you. You stay home. That’s your whole job. What’s so exhausting about that? I bring in the paycheck. All you do is sit around in comfort and complain that it’s not enough.”
Your job.
He always spat out that word like it was an insult. Like being a wife and mother was just some lazy gig anyone could pull off. Like the years I poured into everyone else
somehow didn’t count because I didn’t clock
somehow didn’t count because I didn’t clock in somewhere.
And he wasn’t done.
“You should try being more like Lauren. Look at her–independent, successful, free. She earns her way, goes wherever she wants, and doesn’t ask for anything.”
Lauren.
The girl my parents took in when I was fifteen. The girl who walked into our lives and quietly stole every ounce of affection I thought was mine.
Before I could get a word in, my father walked into the room. Oliver, stern as always, with that same cold look he’d given me all my life.
“She’s right,” he said, sipping his tea like the storm in the room had nothing to do with
him.
“Lauren’s the better woman. Smarter. More
focused. She knows what she’s after.”
Then he looked straight at me.
“You, Penelope… you were born into this family. But sometimes I wonder if that was a mistake.”
I stared at him, stunned silent.
“She’s thriving while you’re still burning dinner and ironing shirts. If I had a choice, I’d call her my daughter. At least she doesn’t need a man to prop her up.”
The room tilted. My chest tightened. But I didn’t say a word. I never did. I’d trained myself to swallow pain so it wouldn’t echo.
But silence didn’t mean I didn’t feel it.
I thought I could endure it. Keep going. Pretend.
But later that night, everything broke.
He had left his laptop open on the dining table. The email app still running. I wasn’t snooping–I swear I wasn’t. But the subject line pulled me in:
“Milan – Wedding Confirmation”
My heart froze. I clicked.
Inside was a stunning itinerary. Elegant script. Gold trim. Venue details. Champagne pairings.
A wedding.
In Milan.
Logan and Lauren.
The guest list? My father. My son. His wife.
My entire family. Everyone but me.
They hadn’t just shut me out–they had replaced me.
And then I heard his voice calling from the Obedroom.
“Penelope!”
I turned slightly, just in time to catch the wrinkled shirt he threw at me.
“You can’t even do that right? What the hell happened to my clothes?”
