#4

Chapter 4

**Cynthia's POV**

Everyone had left, I felt so drained but resting wouldn’t give me as much joy as seeing my son and kissing him goodnight. I just wanted to hold onto him, feel his warmth, feel alive again. Just something to forget the hurt I feel inside.

I approached Amber’s room quietly, not wanting to startle him if he was already asleep. But as I drew closer, I heard his voice..

"Aunt Anna, guess what happened today!"

I froze, my hand halfway to the doorknob, well... Anna is being very deliberate about taking everyone I love from me. Isn't it just too late to be on a phone call with Amber?

"Mom wouldn't let me have ice cream this morning. She said it was too early and I hadn't finished my breakfast. But you would've let me, right? You always let me do what I want."

My heart skipped a beat, as much as I wanted to walk away so as not to ruin the little joy I had left, I was also curious to know what he talked about with Anna.

"She's so annoying," Amber continued, his voice taking on that petulant tone I'd been hearing more and more lately. "She makes me go to bed early, she picks out my clothes, she won't let me play games on weekdays. And today…" He laughed, "…today she said she had a headache and wanted Dad to leave work and take her to the hospital. Can you believe it? She's so dramatic. Dad didn't even believe her either. It was kind of hilarious watching her try to get attention."

The world tilted beneath my feet. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself.

Hilarious. My dying was hilarious to him.

"Oh, it's almost ten o'clock." Amber's voice dropped to a whisper, taking on a conspiratorial edge. "Mom will come to lock my phone soon. She always does. She's like a prison guard."

Another pause. Then, softer, almost wistful:

"I wish she would just... go away. Or die or something. Then you could be my mom instead. You're so much better than her. You're pretty and fun, and you actually care about what I want."

My chest constricted so tightly I couldn't breathe.

"Good night, Aunt Anna. Love you too!"

The call ended. I heard the rustle of blankets as Amber settled into bed, probably hiding his phone under his pillow the way he always did.

I stood there in the darkened hallway, trembling. The child I had carried for nine months, through morning sickness so severe I'd been hospitalized twice. The baby I had labored eighteen hours to bring into this world. The boy I had nursed through colic and ear infections and nightmares. The son I had sacrificed my dreams for, my education, my entire identity.

He wished I was dead and he was laughing about it with the woman who was sleeping with my husband.

I don't know how long I stood there. But it was long enough for my legs to go numb. Finally, I turned away from his door and walked mechanically toward the master bedroom.

Ethan was already in bed, still wearing his dress shirt with the top buttons undone, one arm draped over his eyes.

"Ethan." My voice came out raw, barely above a whisper.

He didn't move. "What now, Cynthia?"

The casual dismissal in those three words nearly broke me.

"I need to talk to you." I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for support. "Please."

He sighed. "It's late. I have an early meeting tomorrow with the Bennett account. Can this wait?"

"No." The word came out stronger than I expected. "No, it can't wait."

He finally moved his arm, glancing at me with irritation creasing his forehead. "Fine. What is it?"

"I'm sick." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm room. "I went to the hospital today. They ran tests. Ethan, I have a brain tumor."

For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes, then it was gone, replaced by skepticism.

"Cynthia." He sat up, running his hand through his hair. "Can you please stop making trouble? Do you have any idea what a brain tumor patient actually looks like? They're... they're sick. Really sick. You're standing here perfectly fine, giving me this melodramatic speech…"

"I'm not fine!" My voice cracked. "I've been telling you for weeks that something's wrong! The headaches, the nausea, the dizziness…you all just kept telling me to take an aspirin and stop complaining!"

"You're always complaining about something." He swung his legs off the bed, standing to face me. "Last month, it was back pain. Before that, you were convinced you had some kind of vitamin deficiency. Now it's a brain tumor? What's next, Cynthia?"

The words hit me like slaps.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Where were you today?" I asked quietly. "When I called you. Where were you really?"

His jaw tightened. "I told you. I was busy."

"You weren't busy." My voice hardened. "You were having tea in a café with Anna and Amber."

The silence that followed was deafening. He tried to avoid my eyes, and I wanted to push further to make him at least feel a little remorse.

"I saw you, Ethan. I saw both of you. Outside the obstetrics ward." My voice rose despite my best efforts to control it. "I heard Anna tell you she's pregnant. So I'm asking you directly, as your wife…is that child yours?"

This time, he stared at me with a very unreadable expression, then he looked away like I was talking trash.

He didn't deny it or feel any remorse; he didn’t do any fucking thing except stand there, silent and damning.

Before I could utter another word, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the tension like a knife. We both looked at it.

Anna flashed across the screen.

Of course it was.

Ethan hesitated for just a second, then grabbed the phone and answered.

"Anna?" His voice immediately softened, all the irritation and coldness evaporating. "What's wrong?"

I watched him transform before my eyes. "Don't worry, I'll be right there." He was already moving, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "No, it's fine. I'm leaving now."

He ended the call and finally looked at me.

"We'll talk when I get back."

"Ethan, please…"

"Listen." He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. His voice was flat, emotionless. "If it weren't for Anna's parents, we'd both be dead."

I knew this fact already, he'd thrown it in my face a hundred times over the years.

"Perhaps if you hadn’t tricked my father into loving you so much for him to think you were some kind of saint, some perfect daughter-in-law material, so he'd force me to marry you... we wouldn’t be here doing this"

"That's not true."

"Well, congratulations, Cynthia. You got exactly what you wanted. A husband, a home, a life you never could have had otherwise. You should be grateful. You should be content with that."

Each word was a nail driven into my heart.

"We'll talk when I get back," he continued, then walked out.

The bedroom door closed with a soft click.

I stood there, listening to his footsteps descend the stairs. The front door opened and shut. His car engine started, then faded into the distance.

Silence swallowed me whole.

My son wished I was dead.

My husband was rushing to another woman who was carrying his child.

My mother-in-law had made it clear a thousand times that I was a burden, a mistake, a curse my father-in-law had inflicted on them and I was dying.

Six months left, and I was spending them in this house that had never been a home. With people who would probably celebrate when I was gone.

My eyes drifted to the wall opposite the bed. There, in a simple frame, hung a poster I'd bought years ago at a street market. The Eiffel Tower at sunset, golden light washing over the Seine, the city of dreams spread out below.

Paris.

I had wanted so desperately to go to Paris when I was young. The École de Cuisine, one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world. I'd been accepted on a full scholarship, but Ethan had refused to let me go.

"It's too far," he'd said. "What if something happens? No. Choose a local school."

In obedience, I had swallowed my dreams and enrolled in a mediocre culinary program thirty minutes from his parents' house, where I learned basic techniques I already knew and graduated with a certificate I never used.

If I only had six months left, I wouldn't spend them here. I wouldn't die in this house, in this life that had slowly suffocated me. I would go to Paris. I would see the city I'd dreamed of. I would walk along the Seine at sunset. I would eat croissants in sidewalk cafés and visit the Louvre, and maybe I would even enroll in a cooking class.

I stood there for a moment, looking around the bedroom. Eight years of my life had been spent in this room, and I couldn't think of a single happy memory.

Then I walked down the hall to Amber's room.

The door was still closed. I opened it carefully, letting the light from the hallway spill across his sleeping form.

He looked so small beneath his blankets. So innocent. Clutching the stuffed bear I'd sewn for him when he was three, back when he still hugged me goodnight and told me he loved me.

When had that stopped? When had I become the enemy?

"Goodbye, Amber," I whispered.

He didn't stir.

I closed the door softly and walked back downstairs. My suitcase felt lighter than it should, considering it held the remaining pieces of my life.