The next morning, sunlight poured through the kitchen windows, not cold or distant like usual, but warm–almost kind. I was sipping my tea when my phone rang.
It was Lorenzo.
“Joyce!” he said, voice bubbling with excitement. “You won’t believe it–we’ve sold three of your paintings already. One woman asked if she could commission more.”
My lips parted. “Wait–really?”
“Really. And I’m telling you, we haven’t even had the exhibit yet. Come by the gallery. Let’s celebrate.”
I laughed, for real this time. It felt strange in my own mouth. Like a song I hadn’t sung in years. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
When I arrived at the gallery, Lorenzo greeted me with that boyish grin he’d always had. “Still wearing the same perfume,” he teased.
“And you’re still wearing those ridiculous shoes.”
We walked through the space, stopping in front of my work. People had bought my art. My colors. My pain. My survival on canvas.
“You know,” Lorenzo said, nudging me lightly, “you’re glowing. Being without that man suits you!”
I laughed again, softer this time. “You always were dramatic.”
“No. Really.” He leaned a little closer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you like this since college.”
There was a moment between us–light and nostalgic, like an old melody drifting back after years of silence. And in that second, I allowed it. I allowed the warmth, the way his hand brushed mine. And I didn’t feel guilty.
For the first time, I felt seen. And I was thankful. I hugged him before leaving, whispering, “Thank you. For never forgetting who I was.”
But when I got home, the smile slid right off my face.
The driveway was full of cars. I stepped inside and froze.
Boxes. Luggage. Noise. My home–th
was full.
one that had just started to feel like mine again-
Bradley. My son. His wife. Majne. Even my father was there, walking straight to the kitchen like he owned it.
“Where the hell were you?” he barked. “Where’s the food? We expected you to have dinner ready.”
Before I could respond, Maine’s voice chimed in sweetly, “It’s okay, Uncle. I’m already cooking now.”
Bradley turned to me, his tone smug. “See that? Your cousin’s too nice. She came with us on the business trip, helped us close deals, and now she’s cooking your dinner.”
My Husband of Twenty–Five
Five Years Married My Cousin
1/3 9.81
19:53 Sal. 24 Mayas, stepped in an
- 8.
Boxes. Luggage. Noise. My home–the one that had just started to feel like mine again was full.
Bradley. My son. His wife. Maine. Even my father was there, walking straight to the kitchen like he owned it.
“Where the hell were you?” he barked. “Where’s the food? We expected you to have dinner ready.”
Before I could respond, Maine’s voice chimed in sweetly, “It’s okay, Uncle. I’m already cooking now.”
Bradley turned to me, his tone smug. “See that? Your cousin’s too nice. She came with us
dinner.” on the business trip, helped us close deals, and now she’s cooking your
“I didn’t know you were coming back today,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“And what’s with the makeup?” he sneered, eyes narrowing. “Do you not see yourself in the mirror?”
My son, standing behind him, snorted. “Mom, you look like you’re trying too hard. What’s with all this makeup? Maybe ask Maine to fix it for you. She knows what looks good.” My hand twitched slightly at my side, but I smiled. “I’ll prepare something now. Sorry.” “Where have you even been?” Bradley pressed again. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Just out for a walk,” I replied quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.
I could feel Maine watching me, probably feeling sorry. Or pretending to.
I started preparing the food in silence, slicing vegetables, boiling water. Maine stood beside me, still moving around like she lived here.
“I said I got it,” I told her.
“It’s fine, Joyce,” she replied with a soft laugh. “Let me help.”
“No, it’s not fine.” My voice was sharper now. “This is still my kitchen.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move. We reached for the same pot at the same time, and that’s when it happened.
The bowl of hot soup tipped–splashing onto both of us. I gasped at the sting, the scalding heat biting into my skin.
But before I could even blink, the room flooded with movement–and not toward me.
“Are you okay?!” Bradley shouted, rushing to Maine.
“She’s burnt!” my son cried, grabbing ice.
“I’m-“I tried, but no one listened. No one looked my way.
They were all around Maine, crowding her like she was some fallen saint.
Then Bradley turned to me, eyes wild.
“You fucking useless woman!” he barked. “She’s trying to help, and you hurt her?! Apologize to her. Right now!”
19:53 Sat 24 MAY
“Where have you even been?” Bradley pressed again. “You didn’t answer my question.
“Just out for a walk,” I replied quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.
I could feel Maine watching me, probably feeling sorry. Or pretending to.
I started preparing the food in silence
slicing vegetables, bolling water. Maine stood
beside me, still moving around like she lived here.
“I said I got it,” I told her.
“It’s fine, Joyce,” she replied with a soft laugh. “Let me help.”
“No, it’s not fine.” My voice was sharper now. “This is still my kitchen.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move. We reached for the same pot at the same time, and that’s when it happened.
The bowl of hot soup tipped–splashing onto both of us. I gasped at the sting, the scalding heat biting into my skin.
But before I could even blink, the room flooded with movement–and not toward me.
“Are you okay?!” Bradley shouted, rushing to Maine.
“She’s burnt!” my son cried, grabbing ice.
“I’m-“I tried, but no one listened. No one looked my way.
They were all around Maine, crowding her like she was some fallen saint.
Then Bradley turned to me, eyes wild.
“You fucking useless woman!” he barked. “She’s trying to help, and you hurt her?! Apologize to her. Right now!”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My arm throbbed from the burn, my chest from the ache, but none of it compared to the heat rising behind my eyes.
He didn’t ask if I was okay.
Not one of them did.
They just saw Maine–the glowing, sweet savior–and me, the burden. The mistake. The nuisance who had the nerve to exist where she no longer belonged.
I looked down at the red patch on my arm, the soup dripping from my sleeve. I blinked once, twice.
And then, I did the only thing they expected of me.
I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
But this time, the words didn’t come from guilt.
They came from exhaustion.
From a woman who was done begging to be seen.
Charter 8
