Chapter 8: Three Months

I confront my mother at the café.

Father is in the back with suppliers. Mother is at the register, and when she sees my face, she knows.

"Claire—"

"You stole from me." I keep my voice low, aware of customers. "Thirty-two thousand dollars. From my personal account."

"I didn't steal. I had access—"

"That I didn't knowingly give you." I slam the bank statements on the counter. "You tricked me into signing those forms. Then you took money for three years without telling me."

Her face flushes, but she lifts her chin defensively. "We needed it. The café was struggling, Elena needed help—"

"So you stole from me instead of asking? Instead of letting me decide?"

"You would have said no!" Her voice rises. "You'd gotten so stingy after that loan disaster. We needed the money, and you have it—working that little hotel job, saving everything. What do you even need savings for? You're married to Damien Wolfe."

"That money was mine. I earned it. It was the only thing I had that was actually mine!"

"Keep your voice down," she hisses, glancing at customers. "You're making a scene."

"I don't care." But I lower my voice anyway, old habits. "Did you ever plan to tell me?"

"We were going to pay you back. When the café turns a better profit—"

"You've been saying that for twenty years." I gather the statements. "I removed your access. If you take another penny from me, I'm pressing charges."

"Press charges against your own mother?" She looks genuinely shocked. "What's happened to you? Marriage to that cold man has turned you into—"

"Into what? Someone with boundaries? Someone who doesn't let her family steal from her?"

"We're not stealing. We're family. Family helps each other." She reaches for my hand. I pull away. "Claire, you're being dramatic. It was just money—"

"Just money that I worked for. That I saved. That was supposed to be mine." I head for the door, then turn back. "Did you ever thank me? Any of you? For the money you took, the money I gave, the six years I worked here for free, the life I gave up so you could fund Elena's dreams?"

Mother's face hardens. "You should be grateful we gave you a job. That we supported you when you had nothing. That we found you a husband when no one else would have wanted you."

The words land like a physical blow.

"There it is," I whisper. "That's what you really think of me."

"Claire—"

"I'm done." I push open the door. "I'm filing for divorce in three months. When I do, Damien's money stops. Figure out how to survive without bleeding me dry."

I leave her standing there, and I don't look back.

---

That night, I sit in the guest room and do the math.

Thirty-two thousand stolen from my account. Eight thousand I gave Elena directly. The loan I took out for a hundred sixty thousand—still paying it off, will be for years. Countless small amounts over the years. Money for "emergencies" that were never emergencies. Money for "just this once" that became every month.

Over two hundred thousand dollars of my money, one way or another, given or taken by my family.

And not once—not one single time—did any of them say thank you.

Not when I dropped out of school to work in Father's café. Not when I married Damien to fund their debts and Elena's gallery. Not when I gave Elena my savings. Not when they drained my account for three years.

Instead, they called me ungrateful. Selfish. Dramatic.

They taught me that sacrifice was love. That giving until I had nothing left was what family meant. That I should be grateful for the privilege of being used.

And I believed them.

For twenty-seven years, I believed them.

I pull out my laptop and search for divorce attorneys. Start reading about separation, asset division, contract law. The contract Damien mentioned—I haven't looked at it since I signed it at twenty-two. I dig through files until I find it.

Read it carefully this time.

The contract specifies five years minimum before either party can file for divorce without cause. After five years, either party can file, and there's a settlement—substantial, enough to start over. Before five years, the person filing gets nothing unless they can prove abuse or infidelity.

Damien has been neither abusive nor unfaithful. Just cold. Distant. Emotionally absent.

Not illegal. Just cruel.

Three more months, and I can file. Three more months, and I can walk away with enough money to be truly independent. To never rely on anyone again.

Three more months, and I can finally, finally be free.

I can survive three months.

I survived five years. What's ninety more days?

---

But the universe, it turns out, has other plans.

Two weeks later, I collapse at work.

The hotel manager finds me in the supply closet, unconscious, blood pooling under me.

I wake up in the hospital to a doctor's grave face and the words that will change everything:

"Mrs. Wolfe, I'm afraid the test results show something concerning. We need to run more tests, but we're seeing indicators of a serious condition. Have you been experiencing any symptoms? Fatigue? Pain? Unexplained bruising?"

All of the above. For months. I'd ignored it, too focused on counting down days until I could file for divorce.

"What kind of condition?" My voice sounds far away.

"We need more tests to confirm, but—" The doctor's expression is carefully neutral. "Mrs. Wolfe, I want to be straight with you. This could be quite serious. Do you have family we should call?"

I think about my family. Mother, Father, Elena. The people who took everything and gave nothing. The people who called me ungrateful.

"No," I whisper. "No family."

"What about your husband?"

Damien. My husband who doesn't love me. Who won't even look at me. Who's counting down the same ninety days I am so he can be rid of me.

"He's traveling," I lie. "Don't bother him."

The doctor nods. Doesn't push. "We'll schedule the tests for tomorrow. Try to rest."

After he leaves, I lie in the hospital bed and stare at the ceiling.

Three months. I just needed three more months.

But fate, it seems, has decided I don't even get that.

---

The tests confirm it.

The doctor uses words like "aggressive" and "advanced" and "should have caught it sooner." I stop listening somewhere around "treatment options" because I already know what he's not saying.

I'm dying.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. Months, maybe a year with treatment. Without treatment—less.

"Does your husband know?" the doctor asks gently.

"No."

"You should tell him. You'll need support through this—"

"I'll tell him." Another lie.

But I don't tell Damien. Don't tell anyone.

Instead, I go home to the penthouse, pack a small bag, and leave a note on the kitchen counter:

Gone to visit a friend. Back in a few days.

I drive to a hotel across town. Check in under my maiden name. Sit on the bed and finally, finally let myself fall apart.

I'm dying. And I'm going to die the same way I lived.

Alone. Unloved. Unvalued.

I spent my entire life trying to earn love through sacrifice. And all I got was used.

My family took everything and called me ungrateful. My husband gave me nothing and called it a contract. And I let them. I let all of them.

I pull out my phone. Look at my messages.

Nothing from Damien—he probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone.

Three texts from Mother: Your father needs money for new equipment. Can you send $2000? Claire, did you see my message? I guess you're too busy to help your own father. Some daughter you are.

I delete them without responding.

Look at my bank account. Eight thousand dollars. Everything I have left in the world.

Look at the hospital bills that will start coming. The treatment costs I can't afford. The debt from Elena's loan I'll die without paying off.

I lie back on the cheap hotel bed and laugh. It sounds broken.

Twenty-seven years old. Dying. Broke. Alone.

And somewhere in my head, I hear my mother's voice: "You should be grateful. At least you had a family who needed you. At least you mattered to someone."

But I didn't matter. Not really. I was just convenient. Just useful. Just there.

And soon, I won't even be that.

I close my eyes and wish, desperately, impossibly, that I could go back. That I could do it all differently. That I could find the courage to say no, to choose myself, to walk away before it came to this.

But wishes don't change anything.

And in three months, I'll be dead.

Only I don't know that yet.

I don't know that it's not three months. It's three weeks.

I don't know that Elena is already planning to frame me for theft to cover her own debts.

I don't know that when I'm dying in that hospital bed, my family will stand around me in relief, not grief, and call me ungrateful one last time.

I don't know any of that yet.

Tonight, I just know I'm tired. So tired of trying. Tired of giving. Tired of hoping that someday, someone will finally love me enough.

Tomorrow, I'll go back. Back to the penthouse, back to Damien's cold silence, back to my family's demands.

I'll go back because I don't know what else to do.

But tonight, in this anonymous hotel room, I let myself imagine a different life.

A life where I mattered. Where I was enough. Where someone looked at me and saw something worth keeping.

It's a nice dream.

Too bad I'll never get to live it.