Chapter 4

By the time I finally made it home, Pierre was stepping out of the kitchen with a bowl of soup.

I glanced at him but didn't bother asking why he'd suddenly decided to cook. After all, just last month, on my 30th birthday, I'd begged him to make me a simple dinner.

He'd refused without a second thought.

"I don't know how to cook."

...

A rare flicker of awkwardness crossed his face as he tried to explain himself.

"Charlotte and Byron got soaked in the rain. I was worried they'd catch a cold, so I made some soup. There's still some left in the pot. Do you want any?"

I looked toward the kitchen. From where I stood, I could see that the pot held little more than floating strands of spicy ginger in cloudy, soapy-looking water.

"No, thanks," I replied quietly.

Before Pierre could say anything else, Byron snorted. "Dad didn't make any for you in the first place! He promised that all his love belongs to Aunt Charlotte and me."

Even though I'd already told myself I no longer cared about them, the familiar sting in my chest was impossible to ignore.

Only then did Pierre finally notice how wet and disheveled I looked.

"What happened to your feet?" he exclaimed. "How did you get hurt?"

He hurried into the living room to rummage through the first-aid kit. But after being abandoned in the middle of a torrential downpour, I had little desire to accept his sudden concern.

I was just about to tell him it was nothing when a prickling, burning sensation spread across my feet, as though a swarm of ants was biting into my skin.

Instead of examining the wounds, Pierre wrinkled his nose in disgust and covered his mouth and nose. He then began frantically spraying rubbing alcohol around me.

"Charlotte has a delicate immune system. If your feet get infected, you'll bring all kinds of germs into the house. And if she gets sick, I'll be the one stuck playing nurse!"

Each word struck like a sledgehammer, smashing whatever remained of my heart.

I stood frozen as he sprayed disinfectant around me three times, rubbed alcohol over the floor five times, and finally tossed a sterile, hazmat-style suit at my feet, as though I were some kind of biohazard.

Charlotte sat nearby, sipping her soup in delicate little mouthfuls. She even clinked bowls with Byron, the two of them sharing a quiet moment of triumph.

After finishing her soup, Charlotte suddenly seemed to remember something. She darted into the bedroom and returned carrying several of my cameras.

"Doris, could you lend me one of your cameras? I want to take some high-end aesthetic shots on the flight tomorrow."

Those cameras weren't ordinary possessions to me. They'd accompanied me across nearly the entire Northern Hemisphere. Each one held a piece of my life, and some were irreplaceable.

"No," I said without hesitation.

Charlotte's smile faltered, and tears started to well up in her eyes.

Pierre shot me an irritated look. Before I could react, he snatched all the cameras from my hands and shoved them into Charlotte's arms.

"If you want them, just take them. I can always buy her new ones."

Charlotte's tears disappeared as quickly as they'd come. Beaming with delight, she threw her arms around Pierre before turning her attention to the cameras.

Finally, her eyes settled on the newest-looking camera in the pile.

"I'll just take this one," she murmured sweetly. "If I take all of them, Doris will be heartbroken."

Pierre chuckled. "Aren't you always so considerate?"

I stared at the camera resting in Charlotte's arms.

The initials of Pierre's name and mine were still engraved on its body. It was the wedding gift he'd given me all those years ago, back when he'd supposedly understood how much photography meant to me.

Apparently, he'd forgotten all about it. But perhaps that was for the best. At least, I wouldn't have to decide what to do with it myself.

Byron shot me a malicious grin. Then, as though deliberately trying to destroy whatever remained of my patience, he shoved the other cameras off the coffee table.

They crashed onto the hardwood floor with a heavy, sickening thud. Their casings shattered, and memory cards scattered in every direction.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Then I dropped to my knees and frantically gathered the broken pieces, pressing the power buttons again and again in the desperate hope that at least one camera might still work.

But none of them turned on. And so, all my dreams, my passions, and the work that had once defined my life had been reduced to a pile of broken junk by the very people who should have cared about me most.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I collapsed against the edge of the coffee table, the pain leaving me too weak to even stand back up.

Pierre responded with an exasperated sigh. He nudged my shin with his foot, as though I were merely an inconvenience blocking his way.

"It's just a few broken old cameras. Do you really have to throw a pity party? If you're done acting, get up and pack your bags. Our flight leaves at nine tomorrow morning."

He turned and led Charlotte and Byron back to their bedroom, leaving me alone with the wreckage.

I lay on the ice-cold hardwood floor for a long time. Eventually, I forced myself to sit up, then slowly pulled myself to my feet.

From the bedroom, Byron's spoiled, whining voice drifted through the door.

"Aunt Charlotte and Daddy are going to sleep with me tonight!"

I looked at the broken cameras scattered across the floor. After everything that had happened, I finally understood that there was nothing left for me to salvage here.

I retrieved my backup phone, connected it to the printer, and printed out a divorce agreement. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I signed my name and placed the document squarely on the desk.

Soon, the bedroom lights went out.

Behind that closed door, the three of them settled down for the night, not sparing a thought about where I was or whether I was all right.

I gathered my identification documents and walked out the door.

A home that had never truly been mine, a husband who no longer belonged to me, and a child who had long since stopped treating me as his mother—I was leaving them all behind.