Chapter 2

My phone buzzed with a notification—a message in the firm's group chat.

Neville had posted a formal commendation praising Klara.

[For demonstrating exceptional dedication by continuing to work despite a physical injury and refusing to let personal matters interfere with company resources.]

Every word felt like a deliberate jab at me, portraying my desperation over our sick daughter as nothing more than petty emotional blackmail.

Before I could even process it, a voice message arrived from our neighbor, Carmen Fernandez.

"Rita, honey, I was reviewing the security footage and noticed Camille went down to the parking garage looking for Neville tonight. It was freezing out there!

"Neville was sitting in his car, talking on the phone. Why didn't he let the poor girl inside? She was standing in that icy draft for over half an hour!"

The news struck me dumb.

So, Camille hadn't simply suffered a sudden asthma attack out of nowhere. She'd gone looking for her father, only to be left outside in the bitter cold.

A shudder ran through me as I turned to glare at Neville.

Before I could confront him, the doorbell rang. A courier stood outside with a beautifully wrapped package. Inside was a set of high-end aromatherapy candles sent by Klara, along with a gift card tucked beneath the ribbon.

The message read: [Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for taking time out of your busy schedule to help me pick out work clothes. I hope these candles bring you sweet dreams!]

Neville gladly accepted the package and lit one of the candles right in front of me.

"Klara is far more considerate and understanding than you'll ever be," he said dryly.

I didn't bother arguing.

Instead, I quietly returned to the second room and slipped a freshly printed draft of our divorce settlement into Camille's school folder.

This time, no amount of glue could put the broken wish jar back together.

...

The next morning, a notice appeared in the kindergarten's group chat: a mandatory fall parent-teacher conference was scheduled for that afternoon, and both parents were required to attend.

When I walked out of the bedroom with the notice in hand, Neville was sitting at the dining table, sipping his morning coffee.

I started, "You're free this afternoon. Come to Camille's parent-teacher conference."

He set down his mug and pointed at the empty glass jar on the table.

"You don't have any slips left for this month."

"It's only a two-hour meeting."

"If we don't respect the system, what's the point of having the wish jar in the first place?"

With that, he pulled an arcade coupon from his wallet and tossed it onto the table as casually as if he were handing out spare change.

"Consider this special compensation for Camille. I'm extremely busy, and I need to be at the firm."

The sheer absurdity of it left me speechless.

Camille was still recovering from the asthma attack and wasn't supposed to engage in strenuous physical activity. Yet Neville couldn't even remember her medical condition.

"Does the money you earn give you the right to buy your way out of every family obligation?"

Neville rose from his chair, completely unbothered.

"Without my financial support, how else would you afford a life where you don't have to bow to anyone?"

He spoke with such entitlement, as though he alone were responsible for everything our family had. I closed my eyes, remembering what he'd told me six years ago when he first gave me the wish jar.

"This jar is meant to filter out all the mundane troubles of the world. As long as you draw a slip, you'll always be my princess."

It turned out his promises had an expiration date.

My phone buzzed again. This time, the notification was from a legal aid center in my hometown.

[Please attend your scheduled virtual interview tomorrow afternoon.]

Years ago, I'd graduated as one of the top students in my program and landed a promising position as a legal assistant.

I'd given up a full-time job offer to build a home with Neville. Now it was time to reclaim my dignity.

Neville called me that afternoon.

"Where's the keepsake I had made to celebrate Camille's first month?" he demanded impatiently. "Klara's been having a string of bad luck lately, so I want to lend it to her for a little extra protection."

"I sold it."

"What?"

"When Camille was in the ER last night, your card hit its daily transaction limit," I explained slowly. "I sold the keepsake to a scrap dealer to cover the remaining five hundred dollars of her medical bill."

A heavy silence fell over the line, followed by Neville's snort.

"You've really become obsessed with money. It's pathetic."

Before I could respond, a Venmo notification appeared on my screen.

[Neville Murphy sent you $500. Memo: Money for the keepsake. Stop acting like a beggar.]

I locked my phone and went to the parent-teacher conference alone.

With no father beside her, Camille was pushed into a corner by the other children. She kept her head down and whispered, "Mom... does Dad not want me anymore?"

Her words left me heartbroken.

Just then, a broadcast notification appeared in the parents' group chat. It was a livestream of an award ceremony at the elite early childhood center next door.

I tapped the video, and the scene on the screen made my heart sink.

Neville sat in the front row, looking relaxed and smiling warmly, with Klara seated right beside him.

The host made an enthusiastic announcement.

"Special thanks to Mason's aunt and our distinguished guest, Mr. Murphy, for joining us today!"

My blood ran cold as I stared at the screen.

Neville couldn't be bothered to attend his own daughter's parent-teacher conference, yet he'd made a grand appearance for his assistant's nephew.

The irony was almost laughable.