chapter 3

Paper Cuts for a Birthday*

Sandra wiped her tears with the back of her hand, smearing salt and mascara across her skin, before her fingers found her phone. The screen lit up her face in the dark.

Happy birthday to you, young miss. We all miss you.

A small, broken sound escaped her. Her lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. More like her mouth remembering how. Thank you. I miss you too, she typed back, each letter heavier than the last.

She was still on the floor. The marble was cold enough to bruise. It felt right. If she stood up, she’d have to admit this was her life: twenty six years old, curled on expensive tile, bargaining with God about why loving someone felt like a crime.

Why is Ryan so cruel to me? Is it a crime to want him to look at me like I’m human?Her fist came down once, then again, dull thuds against the floor. The sobs she’d caged for three years broke loose, ugly and loud.

This is the worst birthday gift I’ve ever received.

Then she saw it. Tucked half under the side table, catching the hallway light. Gold. Shiny. Too pretty to be anything kind.

She crawled. Her knees scraped, but she didn’t feel it. She picked up the envelope like it might burn her. Her name was on the front in Ryan’s sharp, impatient scrawl.

Inside: papers. Thick. Official.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. Effective in three months. The end date of their contract. The expiration date on her.

She hugged them to her chest, because what else could she hold? It’s really over,” she whispered to no one. Just three months left. He hates me enough to wrap my eviction in gold and call it a birthday present.

The tears came again. She didn’t let them fall. She dragged her sleeve across her face, stood on legs that didn’t feel like hers, and climbed the stairs. One step. Then another. Up, always up, to the room where she slept alone.

Ryan wore a path into the sitting room rug. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like if he moved fast enough, he could outrun whatever was chewing at his ribs.

Sandra came in with a tray. Steam curled from the bowl fish soup, his favorite before Jasmine rewrote his tastes. She set it on the dining table without a sound. . Three years had taught her how to be invisible.

She turned to him. Your breakfast is served. I hope you eat it before it gets cold. Her voice was calm. Rehearsed. The voice of a woman who’d swallowed a thousand rejections and learned to keep them down.

Can you get this out of here?He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at the food . This is the only thing you’re good at in this house. Serving food all day. Not contributing anything reasonable to my life.

The words landed exactly where he aimed them: in the soft parts she tried to hide.

Something shifted. Maybe it was the divorce papers upstairs. Maybe it was turning twenty-six on her knees. Maybe she was just tired of being a ghost in her own marriage.

She turned to face him, fully. Gathered the shreds of herself into something that resembled courage.

may be worthless in your eyes,she said. Each word scraped her throat raw. “But can’t you show me some love? Even for a minute, I would be glad. Even a lunatic is shown some love. Am I more worthless than a lunatic? Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. I know it’s just three months left. But can you at least regard me as your wife once? Just once.

Ryan stopped pacing. He stared. Not angry. Not disgusted. Just… thrown. Like he’d picked up a familiar book and found new words inside. This was the first time he’d heard her voice without an apology in it.

And who dares to ask for love here?

Jasmine’s voice cut through the air, sweet and venomous. She glided in, dropped her designer bag on the chair Sandra had just pulled out, and kissed Ryan like she was branding him. Hello, sweetie. Then she turned, eyes glittering. “What’s going on here? Seems I heard some hopeless fool asking for love. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

She stepped closer to Sandra, perfume thick as a slap. Even a dog is worth more than you. You’re nothing but a wretched pig from a wretched family. What makes you think you deserve a touch from him? She laughed, high and careless.

Sandra’s brows drew together. Her hands fisted at her sides, nails carving half-moons into her palms to keep from shaking. A heat she hadn’t felt in years climbed her spine.

One more word about my family, Sandra said, her teeth locked so tight her jaw ached, and I will slap your mouth shut.

Jasmine blinked. Then she grinned, delighted. Wow. You’ve got nerves.”

Her hand rose, manicured nails aimed at Sandra’s face. Sandra caught her wrist mid-swing and held it. Squeezed. Three years of yes sirb and sorry ma’amand l ’ll clean that right up lived in that grip.

Ouch t hurts! Jasmine gasped, twisting, but Sandra didn’t let go.

Ryan was there in two steps, yanking Sandra’s fingers off Jasmine like she was a rabid thing. He didn’t ask if Jasmine was okay. He just moved, and then

Smack

Smack

Left cheek. Right cheek. Sandra hit the floor, the room spinning. When her vision settled, Mrs. Clara stood over her, hand still raised, breathing hard like she’d run a race.

How dare you hurt my son’s wife? Clara hissed. l can see you’ve been given a free hand in this house. It gave you the guts to defend yourself boldly.”

Sandra touched her cheek. The skin was on fire. But the burn inside was worse the one that said you will always be trespassing in your own life.

ENOUGH!!

Ryan’s voice didn’t just fill the room. It cracked it.

Everything stopped. Clara’s hand. Jasmine’s whimpering. Sandra’s heartbeat.

He was looking at his mother, his jaw a knot, his hands clenched white. And when he spoke, it wasn’t loud. It was final.

She is still my legally married wife.

Three pairs of eyes blew wide.

For the first time in three years, the silence didn’t belong to them.

It belonged to her.