Chapter 4

My defiant attitude made Michael lose it.

With a sharp crack, the glass in his hand shattered under his grip, blood welling between his fingers.

"Amanda, who do you think you're talking to? Apologize now!"

"This is my family's home, not a place for your tantrums!"

The boy who once adored me had become this condescending man, looking down at me from his high horse. And sadly, I was the one lying in the dust.

I touched the blood on my cheek. Warm. Real.

"Your sister threw a teacup at my face," I said quietly. "And you want me to apologize."

"She barely grazed you—"

"Barely grazed?" I laughed. The sound was so hollow it silenced the room. "Michael, if Olivia had a scratch this size, you'd have driven her to the emergency room by now."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because he knew I was right.

Sarah stepped forward, pointing at me with a trembling finger. "You ungrateful—"

"I'm leaving." I cut her off. "And I'm taking the divorce papers with me."

I turned to Noah one last time. My little boy was clutching Olivia's sleeve, watching me with wide, confused eyes.

"Mommy loves you," I said softly. "Even if nobody in this room believes it."

Then I walked out.

Behind me, I heard Sarah hissing at Michael: "If you don't get her under control, I will."

And Michael, in a voice I barely recognized: "She'll come back. She always does."

But this time, he was wrong.

I drove to a hotel. Checked in with cash. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

The pills were wearing off. I could feel the familiar darkness creeping in—the weight on my chest, the voice that whispered I was worthless, that Noah was better off without me.

I took my medication. Double dose.

My phone buzzed. Michael.

[Come home.]

Then, five minutes later:

[Your stuff is still here.]

Not "I'm sorry." Not "Are you okay." Not "I shouldn't have let Sarah throw things at you."

Just: your stuff is still here. Like I was a tenant who forgot her luggage.

I turned off my phone and slept.