Family Reunion? Thanks, But No Thanks

"Brad is only five, Mabel," Quentin said, casting a cold glance at me. "You think a kid can be happy without his mom?"

I thought back to five years of Brad acting like I was an extra in his life, not his mother.

I sighed. "He's got you. That's enough."

Quentin closed his laptop, his fingers drumming the desk—a telltale sign of his irritation.

"Why are you suddenly bringing up divorce?" he asked.

Then, like a lightbulb moment, he added, "Wait... is this about the soup being salty yesterday?

"Mabel, people's tastes change. If I offended you, I'm sorry, okay? I've just been slammed lately. It's not like I've had the energy to think about your feelings—"

"I get it," I cut him off. My voice was flat, my face even flatter.

I didn't care anymore.

"The papers are ready," I added. "You just have to sign. Shouldn't take long."

No house. No money. No custody battle. Clean and simple.

"Mabel," Quentin said, softer now. His brows pulled together. "I wasn't blaming you. I meant my apology yesterday..."

Yeah. He still thought this was about the soup.

...

Yesterday at lunch, I set the table, plated Quentin and Brad's food, and poured them each a bowl of creamy shrimp soup.

Mid-meal, Quentin took a call.

Big deal? Yeah, actually. The Lambert family practically worships their mealtime rules—no phones at the table, no interruptions. Quentin, of all people, was their high priest.

I knew I shouldn’t ask, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Who was it?” I said.

He turned to me with that detached Lambert stare. "You're overstepping," he said, like I'd just asked for his bank password.

Let's be real: I married into this family because I fit their checklist. Emotional connection? Not part of the job description. Even having Brad was just another box to tick.

After seven years, I could read Quentin's moods like the back of my hand.

He was annoyed. I apologized.

Then he sipped the soup, frowned, and tossed out, "Too much salt."

Cue Brad, who didn't miss a beat. He dumped his untouched soup like it was poison.

"Grandpa says high salt is bad," he said, his voice as flat as his expression when our eyes met.

He hadn't even tasted it.

The self-mockery hit hard, wrapped in a nice bow of sorrow.

I weighed every ingredient to perfection. Too salty? No. High salt? Please.

Quentin walked off without finishing. Brad trailed after him.

And there I was, sitting alone at the table, staring at plates. The exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks.

...

I dropped the divorce papers on Quentin's desk and said flatly, "I'm serious."

He stared at them, his jaw tight.

Brad happened to walk in.

Quentin said, "You should explain this to Brad first."

Brad stood there, watching me with an icy gaze. He had inherited Quentin's temperament perfectly. Maybe it was a Lambert thing.

I walked over and ruffled Brad's hair. "I won't be around as much anymore. You'll need to be independent, okay? If I'm too busy, just go to Grandpa. He'll take care of you."

My voice wavered, just enough to betray the reluctance I'd buried deep.

I crouched down and hugged him.

I couldn't help but remember how tiny he'd been when he was born—barely fitting in my hand. I'd been the one to carry him, feed him, raise him.

Even if he never warmed up to me, I'd made my peace with it.

The Lamberts would make sure their little heir never lacked a thing.