Chapter 2

The moment the front door clicked shut behind me, I drew in a deep, liberating breath of fresh morning air.

Pulling out my phone, I dialed Chloe's number.

"Chloe, you free today? Lunch is on me—that new dim sum place downtown."

Chloe's voice practically squeaked through the speaker like she'd won the lottery.

"Oh my god, Claire! You're finally coming out of hiding!

Ever since you started dating that guy, you completely dropped off the face of the earth. Yes, absolutely, I'm heading out right now!"

No sooner had I hung up than a string of texts from Mark flooded my screen.

"Claire, what is your problem?"

"Mom's blood pressure is through the roof because of you. Come back right now and bring her favorite expensive fruit basket to apologize."

"Stop being so childish. Mom's health is delicate. Why can't you just compromise? She's my mother!"

Reading those texts, I nearly laughed out loud.

Across two lifetimes, the only weapon he ever had was that pathetic moral guilt trip: "She's my mother."

In his eyes, I wasn't a partner; I was an unpaid maid hired to wait on his mother hand and foot.

A tool wasn't allowed to have feelings, wasn't allowed to complain, and certainly wasn't allowed to fight back.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and hailed an Uber.

At the dim sum restaurant, the shrimp dumplings were plump and translucent, the spare ribs savory and tender.

I ordered an entire spread of dishes, crowding the tabletop.

In my previous life, I had pinched every penny just to save up eight hundred dollars for an industrial-grade air purifier for Gertrude, refusing to even treat myself to an iced latte.

"Claire, what's wrong?" Chloe asked, studying my face. "Your eyes are red."

"Nothing," I said, popping a dumpling into my mouth. "Just the spicy chili oil."

After lunch, we spent the entire afternoon window shopping and trying on clothes.

While I was in a dressing room trying on a gorgeous dress, Mark called repeatedly. I didn't pick up once.

Finally, he sent a text: "Mom says she refuses to eat unless you come home and cook. Her stomach can't handle missing meals. Are you really trying to starve her to death?"

I texted back: "She won't starve. If she's hungry, I'll order her DoorDash."

Then I switched my phone off.

By the time I returned to the apartment, dusk had already settled over the city.

I pushed the door open to find the living room brightly lit.

Gertrude was sitting on the couch, her face as pale as a sheet of paper.

The second she saw me walk in carrying shopping bags, she sprang up from the sofa, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

"You actually dared to come back! No breakfast, no lunch, no floors scrubbed, dishes piling up in the sink, and you were out gallivanting around shopping all day!"

She snatched the shopping bags right out of my hands, dumping my new dresses, shoes, and sets of oil paints all over the coffee table.

"Look at this junk! Whose money do you think you're throwing away? Mark worked his fingers to the bone to earn this! You're out living the high life while he has to eat cheap takeout! Do you have any shame as a wife?!"

I looked at the professional oil paint tubes scattered across the glass table.

"Mom, that's my own money. Money I earned from selling my paintings."

"Selling paintings?" she sneered with utter contempt. "Scribbling those useless doodles counts as making money? The moment you married into the Miller family, you became our property! Your money is the family's money! Spending it behind our backs—did you clear it with Mark? Did you ask me?"

I let out a soft laugh.

"My money is my money. The Miller family's money is the Miller family's money. Mom, you worked as an educator for thirty years—don't tell me you don't understand the basic legal definition of separate personal assets?"