Chapter 4

By the time I got home, Eleanor was coming out of the bedroom with a bowl of chicken soup in her hands.

My heart sank. I did not ask why she had suddenly decided to cook.

Last month, on my 30th birthday, I had begged Eleanor to make me a bowl of my favorite ribs. She had refused without the slightest room for negotiation.

"I don't know how to cook," she had claimed.

A rare flicker of awkwardness crossed Eleanor's face, and she hurried to explain herself. "Oliver and Gigi both got soaked. I was worried they'd catch a cold, so I made some chicken soup. There's more in the pot. Do you want some?"

I glanced toward the kitchen. All that remained in the pot were a few shreds of chicken coated in pepper floating in watery dregs.

"No."

Giselle let out a disdainful snort and exposed the truth without hesitation. "Mom never made any for you in the first place. She promised her love would only ever belong to me and Uncle Olly."

Even though I kept telling myself I no longer cared about Eleanor, I could not stop the ache that spread through my chest.

"How did you hurt your hand?" Eleanor's breath caught for a moment before she went to the living room and rummaged through the first aid kit.

I still had not forgiven her for leaving me behind in the pouring rain, and I had no desire to accept her kindness.

Just as I was about to tell her I was fine, a sharp, prickling pain shot through my wrist, as if ants were biting into my skin.

Eleanor covered her nose and mouth in disgust, then liberally sprayed me with disinfectant. "Oliver isn't in good health, and you're filthy. You must have brought all kinds of germs home. If he gets sick, I'll be the one stuck sitting by his bed and taking care of him."

Every word struck like a hammer blow and shattered what remained of my heart.

I stood frozen as Eleanor doused me with disinfectant three times, followed by alcohol five times, before she tossed a set of sterile clothes at me.

Oliver took small, smug sips of his chicken soup and clinked bowls with Giselle in a toast. Then he suddenly rushed into the bedroom and returned with several cameras. "Bro, give me a camera. I want to get some shots on the flight tomorrow."

Those cameras had traveled with me across nearly the entire Northern Hemisphere. They were treasured companions I could not bear to part with.

"No."

Oliver's mouth turned down in a wounded pout, and he looked to Eleanor for help.

Eleanor shot me an impatient glare before shoving all the cameras into Oliver's arms. "If you want them, take them. Worst case, I'll just buy your brother more."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased with himself.

A calculating gleam flashed in his eyes as he pointed to the newest-looking camera in the bunch. "Elle, I'll just take this one. If I take all of them, Bro will be upset."

Eleanor smiled. "That's just how kind you are, Olly."

I stared at the camera in Oliver's arms. Our initials, mine and Eleanor's, were still engraved on the body.

She had forgotten. It was the wedding gift she had given me when we were newly married.

Then again, perhaps it was for the best. Someone else had taken it off my hands, which meant I would not have to throw it away myself.

Giselle flashed me a wicked smile and shoved the rest of the cameras off the table with all her strength.

They hit the floor with a series of heavy, sickening crashes. The cameras shattered into pieces, and even the memory cards came loose.

My mind went blank.

I crouched down and gathered the scattered parts, pressing the power buttons over and over, but not a single camera would turn on.

My dream and my passion had been reduced to a pile of scrap by the people closest to me.

The room spun violently around me. I struck the edge of the table, and the pain drained what little strength I had left. I could not even get back to my feet.

Eleanor sighed in exasperation and nudged my leg with her foot. "It's just a few broken cameras. Do you really need to put on such a pathetic act? When you're done performing, get up and pack. The flight's at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning."

With that, she took Oliver and Giselle back to the bedroom to rest.

I lay on the cold floor for a long time before I finally managed to force myself up.

Giselle's sweet, wheedling voice drifted from the bedroom. "Uncle Olly, Mommy, sleep with me tonight."

I looked at the wreckage scattered across the floor, pulled out my spare phone, connected it to the printer, and printed a divorce agreement.

After I signed it, I left it on the table.

The bedroom light went out. No one cared whether I was there.

I gathered my documents and slipped out without a sound.

This was not my home. Eleanor was no longer my wife, and Giselle was no longer my child. I did not want any of it anymore.