Chapter 2

That evening they came home from work and dropped two takeout containers on the coffee table without breaking stride.

Gary loosened his tie as he talked.

"Alright, enough of the attitude."

"Brought you some braised pork — your favorite. Still warm."

I opened the boxes. A few pieces of meat. Half a container of leftover rice.

These were clearly what they hadn't finished at some dinner out.

And they'd brought it home like they were doing me a favor.

Old me would have reheated those leftovers and eaten them for lunch the next day.

But instead, I picked up both containers, walked to the front door in full view of them, and dropped everything — containers and all — straight into the hallway trash.

"Leftovers belong in the trash. Simple as that."

Gary's face went red. His pointing finger was shaking.

"Laura! Have you lost your mind?"

"If you want out, just say so. Stop playing these little games!"

I looked at him, and I let the corner of my mouth curl.

"You're right. I do want out."

"I don't want any of this. Not for one more day."

My throwing out the food must have actually rattled them, because the next two days were quiet.

Gary seemed to realize this was different from my usual complaints. He softened a little.

On the third evening, he came home carrying a gift box.

"Honey, I was out of line this past week. Work's been brutal."

"Don't take it to heart."

He set the box on the table and slid it toward me.

"Had a buddy track this down. Latest model. A peace offering."

Looking at that ribbon-tied box, I felt something stir inside me.

All these years, he had never once given me a real gift. He couldn't even remember our anniversary.

Was this it? In what might be the last chapter of my life, had he finally changed? Had he finally learned to care?

My hands trembled as I pulled the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.

Maybe a scarf. Or perfume.

But when I saw what was inside, my fingertips went cold.

A blender. A high-end one, gleaming under the light.

Gary was already explaining its features.

"High-powered motor. Perfect for smoothies, soups. Doesn't even leave chunks."

"Make our morning routine so much easier."

"And you can make Marcus fresh juice."

Of course.

This was his peace offering. This was him caring about me.

It was just a way to make me — this machine he lived with — run more efficiently.

I stared at that blender, and then I started laughing. And then I started crying.

Gary watched me with unease, brows pinched.

"What's funny? You don't like it?"

"Like it? Why wouldn't I like it?"

I wiped my eyes and pushed the blender back into his arms.

"But it's way too nice for someone like me."

"A worn-out housewife who only knows how to cook? I don't deserve it."

"Why don't you save it for that new intern at your office."

Gary's expression collapsed. He jumped to his feet.

"What are you talking about?! There is nothing going on between me and Lily — nothing!"

"Stop making things up!"

Honestly, I didn't know any Lily. I was fishing.

But the way he reacted told me my instincts were right.

Not that it surprised me. A woman who was aging and always sick — I'd stopped being interesting to him a long time ago.

Gary shoved the blender onto the couch, ego bruised.

"You're unbelievable."

"Sitting at home all day has scrambled your brain!"

He grabbed his jacket and slammed out the door, leaving behind nothing but silence.

Not long after, Marcus came home lugging a dry-cleaning bag with his interview suit.

He didn't ask why the apartment felt like a cold front had moved in.

Didn't ask what happened between me and his dad.

First words out of his mouth: "Mom, where's my white dress shirt? I need it for my second-round interview tomorrow."

I sat on the couch without moving, the unlabeled pill bottle in my hand.

"In the laundry hamper."

My voice was flat.

Marcus stared at me like I'd said something absurd.

"In the hamper? Mom, you know that shirt can't go in the machine. It needs to be hand-washed!"

"My interview is first thing tomorrow. If you don't wash it tonight, you expect me to show up in a dirty shirt?"

He was scolding me.

I looked up at my son — this boy I had spent twenty-four years protecting from every sharp edge in the world — and felt my heart split open.

"You have two working hands. You're twenty-four years old."

"You can't wash one shirt?"

"It's your interview, not mine."

"If you want clean clothes, wash them yourself."

Marcus grabbed his bag off the floor and hurled it down again, pointing at me.

"Mom, are you seriously losing it?"

"You've been making everyone's lives hell for two days straight — isn't that enough?"

"It's one shirt. One. Why does everything have to be such a big deal with you?"

Something turned over in my stomach, and a hot, metallic taste rose in my throat.

I didn't want him to see me fall apart. I pressed my hand over my mouth and lurched into the bathroom.