The smell of roasted pistachios filled the car—sweet, smoky, and warm. They were Nelson’s favorite, and our son’s, too. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers stained dark as I peeled them one by one, a small, domestic ritual of love. Then, a voice drifted from the backseat. It was Parker, my twelve-year-old son. His voice was still high, still innocent, but the words he spoke were sharp enough to draw blood. "Mom, Dad and Auntie Chloe have been together for two years now. We gave you so many hints. How did you never notice?" My hands froze. I looked up, my eyes meeting Nelson’s in the rearview mirror. His expression was terrifyingly calm. There was no guilt, only a flicker of irritation—the kind you feel toward a persistent fly. "I didn't want to be this blunt," Nelson said, his voice as cold as a winter morning in Chicago. "But then you went and tried to set Chloe up on a date. Do you have any idea how hard she cried today?" He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "Honestly, Jocelyn? You’re pathetic." The word felt like a poisoned needle driven straight into my heart. I sat there, paralyzed, the blood in my veins turning to ice. I forgot how to breathe. "Divorce or a legal separation," he added casually, as if he were choosing between coffee blends. "Pick one." I looked down at the peeled pistachio in my hand. The irony was a bitter taste in the back of my throat. ... I stared at him, my eyes burning, my mind a fractured mess. Parker huffed from the back, his tone dripping with redirected anger. "Mom, say something! Dad gave you a choice. You’re not as young or as pretty as Chloe—are you dumber than her, too?" A sob caught in my throat, jagged and raw. It felt like my vocal cords were being shredded. "There you go again, crying," Parker groaned. "You're so weak. It’s embarrassing. I hate taking you anywhere." He leaned forward, his face twisted in a sneer I didn't recognize. "By the way, that Parent-Teacher conference last week? It wasn't canceled. I just had Chloe go instead of you." A dull roar started in my ears. I turned to look at him, unbelieving. Parker was in the seventh grade. In all those years, I had never missed a school event. I remembered that night—I had been so excited I couldn't sleep. But that morning, I’d woken up with a violent allergic reaction. My face was swollen, my throat closing. I’d swallowed a handful of pills, desperate to get to the school on time. Parker had seen me struggling, seen how sick I was. He’d looked me in the eye and told me the meeting was postponed. I thought he was being a caring son. Now, I realized the timing was too perfect. Seeing my face go ghostly pale, Nelson decided to strip away the last of the lies. "You’re right to wonder," Nelson said. "I slipped those allergens into your breakfast. Don't blame the kid; he just followed my lead. It wasn't enough to kill you, Jocelyn. Just enough to keep you in bed." Not enough to kill me? I let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. They didn't know. They didn't know that by that evening, the "mild reaction" had turned into a nightmare. I’d been burning with fever, vomiting until I was dry-heaving blood, unable to even reach for my phone. If I hadn't managed to crawl to the door and alert a neighbor before I blacked out, I’d be a memory by now. And while I was fighting for my life, my husband and son were at the pier, watching the Fourth of July fireworks with Chloe. The next morning, when they finally came home, Parker had just laughed at me. “Mom, you’re so frail. You’re only thirty-five, but you act like a grandma.” My heart felt like it was leaking lead. When we got home, Nelson sent Parker to his room. For a split second, I thought he might apologize. I thought I might see a spark of the man I married. Instead, he looked at my tear-streaked face with a complicated, weary gaze. "Look, we don't have to divorce," he said. "But once Chloe has the baby, you’ll have to help raise it. Treat it like your own." The words hit me like a lightning strike, splitting me open from head to toe. "What?" I whispered. "Chloe is pregnant. Two months." I did the math instantly. Two months ago. The week my mother died. Nelson looked past me, his voice airy, unburdened. "I know, I know. You were a mess back then. When you called me crying, I knew you needed me. But Chloe... she was so clingy, so sweet. I couldn't bear to leave her side." A scream tore from my lungs. I lunged forward and slapped him with everything I had left. "You monster!" Nelson took the hit. He slowly turned his face back to me, his dark eyes void of any warmth. "I'm a monster? Maybe. But you're no saint, Jocelyn. Let’s not forget you’re the one who slept with another man while we were married." Outside, a sudden crack of thunder shook the house, the flash of light illuminating my horrified face. It had been five years. I thought I had buried it. I thought I had survived it. But hearing him say it so casually, so cruelly, tore the wound wide open again. In the early days of Nelson’s startup, he was drowning. No investors, no connections, nothing but debt. One night, he came home wasted, crying, and begged me to deliver some "urgent documents" to a potential partner at a high-end hotel. I had a bad feeling. I didn't want to go. But Nelson had snapped. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "Do you have any idea what I've sacrificed this year? Why are you being so selfish? It's just a delivery! Don't you want a future for Parker?" So, I went. And I walked into a living nightmare. I don't remember leaving that hotel room. I just remember stumbling into the street, clutching my torn clothes, trying to find a police officer. But Nelson found me first. He threw his arms around me, sobbing, pleading. "Jocelyn, please. I’ll never look down on you. Please, don't report it. The 'compensation' he gave is enough to save the company. It’ll pay for Parker’s private school. If you go to the police, we lose everything." My screaming stopped then. In that moment of absolute agony and despair, I thought of our son. I thought of our future. I thought of everyone but myself. Nelson’s company succeeded. Parker got his elite education. And I broke. I spent two years spiraling, cutting my own skin just to see if I could still feel something other than shame. It took me years to stitch my soul back together, only for Nelson to decide I was "dirty." I lunged at him again, grabbing his collar, my voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage. "It was rape, Nelson! I did it for your company! You are the last person on this earth who gets to judge me!" Nelson’s eyes flickered. His lips parted as if he were about to say something—maybe a confession, maybe a plea. But then, his phone buzzed. It was Chloe. He answered instantly. Within seconds, he was grabbing his keys, heading for the door. I felt something inside me snap, piece by piece. I chased him, clawing at his coat. "You can't leave! Are you even human? You’re my husband!" Nelson’s eyes were pitch black. He didn't say a word. Suddenly, Parker rushed out of his room and shoved me. I hit the floor hard. "Mom’s having another episode!" Parker shouted, his face full of disgust. "Dad, let’s go! Auntie Chloe is waiting!" And just like that, they walked out. They didn't look back. The neighbors, hearing the commotion, came over to "comfort" me. "He’s probably just busy," one said, patting my hand with pitying eyes. "Men get stressed. They have lives we don't understand." Late that night, I stared at my phone like a zealot. Chloe had posted a story. A photo of a five-star hotel suite, a marble bathtub, and two hands—hers and Nelson’s—intertwined. The caption read: Thank you for always being there for me, no matter what. The taste of copper rose in my throat. My hands shaking, I dialed his number. I expected him to decline it. But he picked up. Through the receiver, I heard his voice, muffled and distant, talking to her. "You don't understand... it’s so much pressure being with her," Nelson was saying. "She was just a kid when she started following me. Then she had the baby, she got bullied because of me, she even took a knife for me... now, every time I look at her, I just feel exhausted. I wish she’d just left me years ago so I wouldn't have to look at that face every day." The phone slid from my hand, hitting the hardwood with a thud. A sharp pain radiated through my skull. I reached up, my fingers tracing the jagged, seven-centimeter scar hidden beneath my hair. The scar I got for him. We were in our early twenties. He had made money too fast and pissed off the wrong people. When the knife swung toward him, I didn't think. I just threw myself in front of him. When I collapsed, Nelson went feral. He fought like a man possessed. He held me in a pool of blood, crying like a child. "Jocelyn, why are you so stupid? Why did you take it for me? Don't you dare die. God, take me instead. Please, take me instead." Maybe God was listening, or maybe I was just too stubborn to leave. I survived. But sitting on that floor now, I felt more dead than I did then. I sat there until the sun began to bleed through the curtains. I stood up, moved to the kitchen, and picked up a paring knife. I stared at the blue veins in my wrist, measuring the distance. The front door kicked open. Nelson walked in, his face dark with fury. He didn't even notice the knife in my hand. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Why? Why would you do it?" My brain was a fog of sleep deprivation and grief. "What are you talking about?" I rasped. Parker ran in behind him, his eyes red. He slammed into me. "Auntie Chloe’s house caught fire! If she hadn't been with us last night, she would have burned to death!" I fell back onto the floor, stunned. But then Parker let out a piercing scream. I looked up, terrified, and saw blood dripping from Parker’s hand. In the chaos, he had landed right on the knife I was holding. My heart hammered against my ribs. I scrambled toward him, my vision blurred with tears. "Parker! Let me see, baby. I didn't mean—it was an accident—" Nelson backhanded me so hard I spun across the floor. "You crazy bitch! You actually tried to hurt your own son? You're a monster, Jocelyn! Get out! Get the hell out of my house!" Parker was sobbing, clutching his hand. "Get out! I hate you! You're evil! I want Chloe!" I stood there, frozen, looking at the two people I had sacrificed my life for. They looked at me with such pure, unadulterated loathing that I started to laugh. It was a high, thin sound that didn't feel like mine. "You want me to go?" I laughed harder. "Where am I supposed to go, Nelson? I gave you everything. I have nothing left." Nelson’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. As I raised the knife toward my own throat, Nelson lunged. He caught the blade with his bare hand, blood blooming between his fingers. "You're insane," he hissed, his voice trembling. "You've finally lost it." I shoved him away, my heart full of venom. "You want a divorce? Then let me die! Why are you stopping me?" He was afraid of me staying, yet terrified of me dying. "What are you afraid of, Nelson?" I sobbed. "Do you still love me? Or are you just afraid of the guilt?" Before he could answer, Chloe burst through the door. She rushed over, throwing herself in front of Nelson and Parker like she was protecting them from a wild animal. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, playing the role of the martyr to perfection. "Jocelyn, it’s my fault. Beat me, hate me, do whatever you want—just please, don't hurt them anymore." I watched them. Nelson and Parker moved in unison, shielding her, guarding her against me. They were a family. I was the intruder. "It’s not your fault, Chloe," Nelson said, his voice softening as he looked at her, then hardening as he turned back to me. "What do you want, Jocelyn? Money? A house? Just say it. I’ll give you anything." He paused, his jaw set. "If you won't sign the divorce papers, fine. But when the baby is born, I'm bringing it here. You will raise it." He didn't care. He knew my history. He knew how my own father had abandoned my mother for a mistress and a secret son. He knew we had spent nights huddled under a bridge, starving, while my mother worked three jobs and endured harassment just to keep us alive. When I told Nelson that story years ago, he had held me and wept. "I will never let you suffer again, Jocelyn. I swear. It’s just us. Forever." Nelson walked away then, taking Parker and Chloe with him. He was the one who promised to protect me. And he was the one who destroyed me. I lost my mind for a while. I called him hundreds of times. When he blocked me, I sent thousands of texts—screaming, cursing, then apologizing, begging him to come home. I had spent fifteen years building my world around him. Without him, I was a ghost. “I’ll haunt you, Nelson. I hope you both die in a wreck. I hope you rot.” “Nelson, please... come back. I’ll accept the baby. I’ll pretend I don't know. Just come home.” I spent three days in a daze, barely eating, drifting between mania and exhaustion. On the fourth day, I cleaned myself up. I needed to talk to him one last time. A calm conversation. A final plea for sanity. But as I got into my car, Nelson appeared out of nowhere. He ripped the door open and dragged me out by my hair. "Ah! What are you doing?" I screamed as I hit the pavement. Nelson’s face was a mask of primal rage. "Chloe is missing. You did it, didn't you?" I stared at him, bewildered. "What? No, I’ve been—" His eyes darted to the backseat of my car. He lunged inside and pulled out a bundle of fabric. He threw it at my face. It was one of Chloe’s silk blouses. It was drenched in blood. "Why is Chloe’s clothes in your car? Why is there blood on them?" he roared. I stared at the bloody silk, my heart leaping into my throat. "I don't know... I haven't left the house in three days—" "Enough!" Nelson’s voice was thick with loathing. "I regret every second I spent being 'soft' on you. My mercy is what put Chloe in danger." He grabbed my wrists and bound them tightly with a heavy nylon rope. I struggled, terrified, as he looped the other end around the trailer hitch of his SUV. "What are you doing? Nelson, stop! Call the police if you think I did something!" "The police are already looking!" he spat. "But she’s still gone. If you won't talk, Jocelyn, let’s see how much skin you’re willing to lose before you tell me where she is." He got into the driver’s seat and shifted into gear. The car started to move. I was forced to scramble to my feet, running to keep up. But I hadn't eaten in days. Within a minute, my legs gave out. I hit the asphalt hard. "Stop! Nelson, please! Stop!" The coarse road tore through my clothes, through my skin. The pain was white-hot, a jagged line of fire along my side. I felt something warm and wet blooming between my thighs. Nelson didn't stop. I stopped screaming. There was no air left. Just the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires and the sound of my body being erased by the road. Finally, the car came to a halt. Nelson sat there for a moment, then climbed out. "Stop faking it, Jocelyn. I was barely going ten miles an hour. You’re just trying to get—" He stopped dead. The trail of blood behind the car was bright, visceral red. And I was lying there, a broken doll in a pool of scarlet that was far too large.
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