The Discarded Wife & Mother

Sera's POVThree times this week, my eight year old had very unusually called me Sera instead of Mommy. Each of those times, Vivienne was in the room, smiling that patient smile that irritated me so much. She is really becoming irritating to me, I must do something about her presence around my son and husband. Let me focus on work for now…The Monet was fake. I knew it the second Mrs. Whitmore's perfectly manicured fingers lifted the gilt frame, and the light hit wrong. Everything about today felt wrong. My wedding ring caught on my glove as I reached for my loupe, and I wondered if Jonathan even remembered what day it was. Eight years. Eight years since we'd said forever, and here I was, holding my breath while society's finest pretended not to watch me work."Sera, darling, you simply must tell me your secret," Mrs. Whitmore cooed, her voice like honey over broken glass. "How do you manage it all? The career, the husband, that adorable little boy of yours?"I kept my eyes on the pain

Sera's POVThe lasagna was getting cold. I watched the steam disappear from Oliver's untouched plate while he bounced in his chair, clutching something behind his back. Thursday dinners used to be sacred. Just the three of us. But tonight, like every Thursday for the past two months, we were four."Oliver, sweetheart, you need to eat something before it gets cold." I reached across to cut his portion into smaller pieces."But Mommy, I want to show everyone my picture first!" His eyes sparkled with that special kind of excitement that only eight year olds could manage. "Miss Peterson said it was the best one in class!""After dinner, buddy." Jonathan didn't look up from his phone. "You know the rules."Vivienne placed her hand on Jonathan's arm. Just a touch. Light. Like a butterfly landing. "Oh, but he's so excited. Maybe just a quick peek?"Of course. Of course she'd say that.Jonathan's face transformed. The stern father melted away, replaced by someone I barely recognized. "Well, if

Sera's POVThe study door clicked shut behind me. 11:47 PM. The house had gone quiet an hour ago. Jonathan's snoring drifted through the walls. Even that sounded content.I opened my laptop. The Excel icon stared back at me like an old friend. Numbers. Beautiful, honest numbers."Alright. Let's see what we're really working with."The bank statements loaded first. Checking. Savings. Investment accounts. All joint accounts, because we were partners. Equal partners. That's what we'd said.I started with Jonathan's trust fund paperwork. The Blackwood family fortune. Old railroad money, he'd told me. Generations of wealth. The reason he could pursue "passion projects" while I worked.The document opened. Legal language swam before my eyes, but I found what I was looking for. The distribution date."March 15, 2034."I counted on my fingers. Once. Twice. Three times because my brain wouldn't accept it.Ten years. Ten more years before Jonathan could touch a penny of his family's millions."T

Sera's POVThe doorbell had still been ringing when I opened the study drawer and pulled out my phone. I blinked at Jonathan in the doorway like he had sprung from a photograph I did not remember taking."You came by," I said.He stepped inside with that practiced, casual smile. "Saw the courier. Figured I would talk to you. Oliver was worried.""You came to talk?" I held the planner photo up between us like proof and he stared at the circle he'd made in red ink as if it were a smear. "About this?"He looked at the planner, then at me. "Is that—""Your handwriting."He ran a finger down his jaw. "I thought we agreed to handle things civilly.""Handle things civilly by rewriting custody on a planner?" I closed my hand over the paper until it creased. "You didn't even tell me there was going to be a hearing.""I didn't want to worry you with lawyers and—" He hesitated, searching for the word. "Logistics.""Logistics," I echoed. It landed like a stone. "Jonathan, our son is eight. Not lo

Sera's POVThe interview room smelled of stale coffee and printer ink. Detective Rivera pushed a stack of papers toward me like he was offering a bridge."Sit," he said. "You look like you haven't slept.""I haven't," I answered. My voice sounded small against the metal table.Rivera folded a sheet and slid it closer. "We pulled Hartman's registration first thing. License was active, but the clinic address—""It was a P.O. box," I finished. My fingers found the edge of the table. "Like the one I saw on the envelope in his briefcase.""Yes." Rivera tapped the page. "P.O. Box 4317. Listed under a company called Meridian Family Services. Company officers are shell names. No physical office. Postal box only."My stomach turned. "So the clinic didn't have a real street address?""Not one tied to him," Rivera said. "But here's the thing." He pushed another paper across. "We hooked the P.O. box to mail receipts. Those receipts led to a bank ledger. Follow the ledger."I leaned forward. The l