Chapter 2: Breaking Point

The moment I stepped out of Thirdie's office, the heavy glass door clicked shut behind me, and that sound felt like a fracture inside my chest. My breathing came shallow, my throat burning, as though I'd swallowed shards of glass.

He tried to speak.

"Kat, let me explain—"

But I couldn't let him. My hands had clenched so tightly on my bag that my knuckles turned white, and I had shaken my head before he could finish.

"Don't," I had said, my voice sharper than I intended. If I let him explain, if I let myself hear the softness in his tone, I might have broken right there in front of him. I couldn't afford that. Not anymore.

So, I cut him off, turned my face away, and gathered every last shred of pride I had left.

His eyes had followed me, dark and steady, heavy with something I refused to name. He didn't chase me. He didn't reach out. He only watched in silence as I walked to the door, each step like walking barefoot across shattered glass.

Now, out in the lobby, I kept moving fast, ignoring the greetings of the staff, ignoring the whispers behind me. My heels struck the polished marble floor with a rhythm too loud, too frantic. I wanted to get away before anyone noticed the tremor in my hands.

By the time I pushed through the glass doors of the building, the world outside was already blurred by sheets of rain. It had been falling for long hours, maybe but I hadn't noticed until now. The city looked washed out, cold, the gray sky pressing low against the rooftops.

The rain struck me the moment I stepped onto the street, soaking my blouse, plastering my hair against my skin. I didn't lift my umbrella. I didn't even bother to shield myself. What was the point? I was already drowning, but not in water.

It was him. It was this ending. It was the way he said the word divorce so calmly, as though he'd rehearsed it, as though my heart wasn't shattering with every syllable.

And the cruelest part was that I had been the one who refused to listen, the one who walked away before he could explain.

But if I had stayed, if I had heard him what difference would it have made?

Nothing could wash away the truth. Not even the endless rain.

The driver dropped me at the penthouse building. The tall glass tower rose against the gray sky, shining with money and prestige. For three years, this had been called my home, though it had never really felt like mine. Not once.

When the elevator doors opened on the top floor, I stepped out into the quiet private hallway. My shoes squelched softly against the carpet, leaving damp marks. The keycard in my hand shook as I pressed it to the sensor. The lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open.

Warmth and the familiar faint smell of vanilla greeted me. And standing right there in the living room was Nana Maria.

"Señorita Kathalina," she gasped, clutching her chest. Her kind old eyes widened as she hurried toward me. "Aya, Dios mío! Why are you all wet? Did you walk through the rain?"

I gave her a small smile, tired and brittle. "It's fine, Nana. Don't worry about me."

She frowned deeply, reaching for a towel from the side cabinet. She had always been like that hovering, caring, scolding gently like the grandmother I never had. She had been my mother-in-law's most trusted helper, and sometimes she came to check on me and Thirdie, to make sure we were eating well, living well. Or maybe to report back to his mother. I never minded. She was kind, and her presence made the big, cold penthouse feel less empty.

But today I couldn't let her fuss over me. I accepted the towel politely, dabbed at my wet hair, and said,

"Really, Nana, I'm fine. Please don't trouble yourself."

Her worried eyes searched mine. She wanted to ask more, but maybe something in my expression stopped her. I turned away, heading straight to the bedroom I had been using.

The room looked exactly as it always had.... perfectly arranged, barely lived in. My side of the closet was almost empty compared to his. My things fit into one corner, a handful of dresses, shoes, and scarves. Most of the items in this room were gift.... expensive clothes his mother picked out, bags and jewelry Thirdie had given on anniversaries or birthdays. I stared at them for a long moment. Then I turned away.

I didn't want them.

I didn't want to carry anything that smelled of this life, this marriage that had always been half a performance. So, I only packed what I truly owned a few pieces of clothing I had bought myself, my worn notebook where I used to scribble thoughts, and the little framed photo of my mother from years ago. That was it.

It all fit into one small travel bag. Three years of marriage, reduced to almost nothing.

When I finished, I zipped the bag, looked around the room one last time, and let out a long, shaky breath. My chest hurt. Not because of the things I left behind, but because of the memories I was walking away from. Memories of silent dinners, awkward mornings, stolen glances that I used to think meant something. And maybe they meant something to me, but not enough for him. Never enough.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the hallway.

The living room was quiet. The faint smell of garlic and onion drifted from the kitchen Nana Maria must have gone to prepare something. For a moment, I thought of calling out to her, of saying goodbye. But my voice stuck in my throat. What would I even say? That I was leaving for good? That the marriage she tried to keep warm had turned to ashes?

Instead, I kept walking.

I reached the elevator, pressed the button, and descended floor by floor until the ground level opened before me. Then I walked through the lobby and out into the city again, carrying my bag like a stranger.

Outside, the rain softened to drizzle. I stood in the waiting area, where the building kept a small space for taxis to pull up. My hands were trembling as I clutched the strap of my bag. My mind was blank and noisy at the same time. Part of me wanted to cry, part of me wanted to scream, part of me wanted to disappear.

That was when my phone rang.

I glanced at the screen, frowning. It was a number I recognized as the private nurse who had been caring for my mother. My stomach dropped. My thumb trembled as I swiped to answer.

"Hello?" My voice cracked.

"Señorita Kathalina?" The nurse's tone was urgent, heavy with worry.

"Please, you must come to the hospital right away. Your mother... she may not last much longer."

For a heartbeat, everything around me froze. The rain. The traffic. The people rushing by. My heart stopped, then slammed hard against my ribs.

"No," I whispered. "No, she was stable yesterday. She—she can't—"

"I'm so sorry. Please hurry."

The line went dead.

My knees nearly gave out beneath me, but just then a taxi pulled up. I waved frantically, and the driver stopped. I yanked the door open, threw my bag inside, and gave the hospital's address with shaking lips.

The ride was a blur. The city lights smeared across the window like tears. My hands wouldn't stop trembling, clenching and unclenching in my lap. My chest ached so badly it felt like my ribs might crack.

Please, let me make it on time. Please, God. Just let me see her one last time.

But when I burst into the hospital, running through the antiseptic corridors, I already knew. The silence told me. The look on the nurse's face told me.

And when I pushed open the door to my mother's room, the stillness of her body, the way her chest no longer rose and fell, the faint smile frozen on her lips... that told me everything.

I was too late.

My bag slipped from my hand and thudded softly on the floor. I walked forward on wooden legs, staring at her pale face, at the lines of pain that were finally gone. She looked peaceful. She looked free.

But I wasn't.

I fell to my knees beside the bed, clutching her hand. It was already cool. My tears spilled hot and fast, blurring my vision until I could barely see her.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered.

"I should have been here. I should have—" My voice broke.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I knew this day would come. Stage four brain cancer had no miracle. I had tried to prepare myself for months, telling myself I would be strong, that I would accept it. But nothing could have prepared me for the raw, suffocating pain of losing her for real.

And now, on the same day I lost my marriage, I lost the only parent I had left.

I pressed my forehead against her hand and let the grief swallow me whole. The hospital room blurred into nothing but darkness and sorrow.

Hours later, I was still sitting there when the nurse gently touched my shoulder.

"Señorita," she said softly, her eyes kind but full of pity.

"She went peacefully. She wasn't in pain. That was her last wish......to go without suffering."

I nodded, unable to speak. My throat burned, my chest felt hollow, my body exhausted.

I wanted to scream, to blame someone, to tear the universe apart for being so cruel. But I just sat there, broken and silent.

Because what more could I do?

The two people I had loved most....one by choice, one by blood had both let go of me today. One by death. One by divorce. And I was left here, fragile, vulnerable, and alone.

And for the first time in years, I realized I truly had no one left to lean on.