Emily

"Jason likes her. And she’s my friend," Malcom replied simply, not even looking up from his screen. He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world—that his ex-girlfriend should be the primary architect of our son’s life.

Now, sitting in the same room, the silence is deafening.

"Yes, Monica, you don’t have to worry about anything. And thank you—thanks for today," Malcom says softly into the phone. His voice has a cadence I haven’t heard in months. It’s light. It’s appreciative. It’s *alive*.

The call drops.

I heave a sigh of relief. Most times they'd talk far into the night, not today apparently.

His phone dings. My relief is short lived.

I watch from the periphery as he sends and replies to messages, a small, involuntary smile plastered on his face. My husband is texting his first love after spending the entire day with her and our son.

We are three feet apart on the same sofa, but it feels like we are worlds apart, separated by a chasm I no longer have the strength to cross.

Ever since Monica Storm returned six months ago, my careful routine hasn't just ruptured. It has fractured.

In our circle, her name was always whispered like a legend.

She was the woman Malcom was supposed to marry. I was the nobody—the woman with a "runway body" fit to be an escort or a mistress, but never the wife of an influential Grayson man. I didn't have the Ivy League degree or the pedigree. I just had a face that looked good on a billboard and a heart that was too easily bruised.

To the world, I was a home-wrecker.

A drunk mistake had given us Jason. He wasn’t planned.

Malcom hadn’t been in love with me. When his family discovered I was carrying their heir, they had pressured him relentlessly. They didn't want their kids born out of wedlock.

There was no real proposal, just sudden wedding preparations and a cold ring fitting where Malcom had looked at me and said, “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

The words still burned. Get a baby and secure yourself a diamond ring. That was how the world saw our story. I hated thinking of Jason as a “mistake,” because he was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me. But the label stuck.

I thought he would divorce me the moment Jason was born. But then, word came that Monica had married someone else abroad. A semblance of peace settled over us.

Malcom was an attentive father. He was a decent husband—affectionate during my high-risk pregnancy, staying by my side through the night terrors and the complications. For a few years, I let myself believe that the love he had for our son had finally extended to me.

But the past six months have proven that I was just a placeholder.

The other night, I tried.

I dressed in a silk slip, the kind that used to make him linger in the doorway. I put on a soft, floral perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring. I waited for him in the bedroom, my heart racing with a desperate hope.

He walked in, glanced at me for less than a second, and then picked up his phone.

"You're still up?" he asked, his voice flat. He didn't even notice the perfume. He didn't see the effort. He just climbed into bed, turned his back to me, and stared at his screen until he fell asleep.

The rejection wasn't loud. it was a quiet, steady erosion of my soul.

I gave up everything for this.

These days, the only creative outlet I had left was designing. Late at night or while Jason did his homework or slept, I would scribble sketches and send them off. My team handled the rest. It was the only piece of my old self I could keep without risking my son.

Because Jason’s health had always come first. He was a sickly baby, fragile and prone to complications

We tried nannies once.

I remember the nanny we had briefly—the one who overlooked a simple instruction while I was away for just four hours.

Jason had ended up in the ER, his tiny body struggling for air. The Graysons would have skewed me alive if anything happened to their precious grandson. They already blamed me for the accident during my pregnancy. They thought I was reckless with their legacy.

I had seen what happened to other mothers. One maid had been charged with negligence after a child was left permanently crippled. The mother’s anguished screams still haunted me — how she blamed herself for not being present. But no punishment or money could undo the damage done.

I refused to let that be my story. So I poured everything into my son and my marriage. I stayed available at his every beck and call. I told myself that one day, when he was older and healthier, he would appreciate everything I had sacrificed.

But the words from earlier ring in my ears: *“She’s not the first person to have a baby, is she?”*

Maybe Malcom is right. Jason is older now. He’s healthier.

I look at my sketchbook on the nightstand, hidden under a stack of Jason’s medical journals.Maybe it's time to see if the life I put on hold still has a place for me.

​I am probably just being emotional.

​It’s a mantra I repeat as I move through the kitchen, the next morning, the words looping in my mind like a prayer. It was probably no big deal. The tension, the coldness, the way Jason spoke to me—it was all just a phase. Soon, the dust would settle. Monica would fade back into the background, and we would return to our quiet, predictable routine.

​That morning, I stand in front of Malcom, my fingers steady as I help him smooth his tie.

​He is so handsome it hurts to look at him sometimes. He has that roguish edge, a sharpness in his jaw and a depth in his eyes that Jason inherited perfectly. I fell in love with those features long ago, and despite everything, I am still in love with them now.

​I finish with the silk knot and let my hands linger on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart through the expensive fabric of his suit. I look up, searching his face, desperate for a spark of the man who used to hold me when the world felt too heavy.

​"Aren’t you forgetting something?" I whisper, leaning in just a fraction.

​Malcom hesitates. For a heartbeat, his gaze meets mine, and I think I see a flicker of recognition. But then, his expression shifts, turning into something brittle and distant.

​"Does it matter?" he asks, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Jason’s not even here to watch it."

​The words are a bucket of ice water. Before I can find my voice to reply, he spins around, grabs his tablet from the counter, and strides out of the house. The front door clicks shut with a finality that leaves the foyer feeling cavernous.

​I stand there, my hands still raised in mid-air, grasping at nothing.

​He was right. Our routine had always been a performance. Every morning, like clockwork, he would plant a brief, tender kiss on my forehead. We did it for Jason. We wanted to give him a normal, happy home. We wanted him to grow up seeing affection so that love and expression of affection wouldn't feel like a foreign language to him.

​But as the years passed, the performance had bled into reality.

​Malcom’s kisses had started to linger. He would hold me a few seconds longer than was strictly functional for a "happy family" display. Some mornings, his hand would travel secretly, a playful grope or a quick tickle that made me gasp and laugh while Jason was busy with his cereal. What started as acting had become real. We had adjusted to each other, our bodies and lives weaving together until the seams were invisible.

​We were perfect. We were happy.

​But as I stare at the closed door, I realize that the "performance" wasn't just for Jason. It was the glue holding Malcom to me.

​The silence in the house is heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I look down at my wedding ring, the diamond glinting under the hallway lights.

​He didn't even try to fake it today.

​The realization settles in my gut, cold and heavy.

“Mom… what’s an illegitimate bastard?”

Jason’s question came out of nowhere one lazy afternoon while he sat at the dining table doing his homework. I was folding laundry nearby and the words hit me like ice water. I gasped sharply, nearly dropping the shirt in my hands.

“Jason!” My voice came out higher than I intended. “Where did you hear that word from?”

He looked up at me with those innocent yet far-too-perceptive eyes, Malcom’s eyes. “Simon’s grandma came to school today. She and his mom had a big argument outside the gate. She called Simon that. Everyone heard it.”

*Heavens.* Could people not be more careful with the things they said around children? I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. Jason was only seven, but he was sharp. Scarily intelligent. There was no point lying to him — he would only dig deeper until he found the truth.

I knelt down beside his chair so we were eye-level. “Sweetheart, that’s a very bad word. It’s cruel and hurtful, and no one should ever use it. It’s not something nice people say.”

That’s not it," he says, his small brow furrowing with impatience. He looks so much like Malcom in that moment it makes my chest ache. "Simon said it’s because his dad got married to someone else and not his mom. He said it means you don't belong."

My throat tightened. I could see the wheels turning in his young mind, connecting dots I had desperately hoped would stay hidden for a few more years. I took a slow breath and chose my words carefully.

“An illegitimate child… is a child whose parents weren’t married when they were born. Some people use it as an insult, but it’s not the child’s fault. It’s complicated adult stuff. But it doesn't change who the child is. It doesn't make them any less loved or important."

Jason was quiet for a moment, processing. Then his small face twisted with sudden realization.

“So… how do we avoid it?”he asked his voice dropping by an octave.

“Well,” I said gently, “mom and dad have to be married before the baby comes.”

His expression changed instantly. His brows drew together, and his mouth turned down. Without warning, he pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and bolted from the room.

“Jason!”

I followed him quickly, heart hammering. He had climbed onto the window seat in the living room, curling into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

“It’s all my fault!” he cried, voice cracking. “I would have been illegitimate too, wouldn’t I?”

“Jason…” I whispered, moving closer but stopping when he flinched.

“That’s why Dad married you, isn’t it?” His words tumbled out faster, laced with pain. “He didn’t want to be separated from the woman he loved, but he had to because of me. Because he didn’t want me to be like Simon! "

The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face. Where had he heard these things? Who had been feeding my child these poisonous ideas?

“Jason, come down from there right now,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady even as my hands trembled.

“I wish I’d never been born!” he shouted, tears spilling down his cheeks. “That way Dad could be with the woman he loved! Monica! She’s the one he really loves, right? If I wasn’t here, he wouldn’t have had to marry you!”

I stood frozen in horror, staring at my seven-year-old son as he broke apart in front of me.

*What had they been feeding my own child?*

The woman he loved. Monica. The words echoed in my head like a curse.

“Jason, please…” My voice broke as I took another step toward him. “You are so loved. You are wanted. Never doubt that.”

But he turned his face away, pressing it against his knees, and whispered again, “I wish I’d never been born.”

****

You and Monica must have said something," I told him, my voice barely a whisper, though it felt like a scream in the stillness.

"You acted in a way that was improper. You let him see it. My heart was shattering, Malcom. It’s shattering now."

​I looked at him, searching for a flicker of guilt, but his face was a mask of cold indifference. There had to have been nuances—stolen glances, a lingering touch, a certain softness in his voice when he spoke to her that he never used with me. There must have been something that showed they were still in love.

This whole time, I had been deceiving myself, building a home on a foundation of lies.

​My heart was hurting with a physical, stabbing intensity, and I couldn't even cry. I had no one to turn to.

To the world, this was well-deserved. I was the girl who had "trapped" a Grayson. Even Malcom’s sister had cornered me at the last gala, whispering with a sharp, venomous smile that my time was "rounding up for good."

​"Oh, please stop it! Just stop it!" Malcom roared, slamming his palm against the mahogany desk. The sound made me flinch. "You just want to pin this on Monica. You want to blame her for every single thing that goes wrong in this house."

​"Where else could he have picked it up from if not you?" I shot back, my voice rising. "My son is spending most of his free time with his father and his father’s ex-girlfriend. Where else would a child hear that he was a mistake? That his father belongs with someone else?"

​"Anywhere!" Malcom spat, his eyes flashing with a cruel light. "It’s not really a secret, is it? Half of Knoxx City knows the truth. I bedded you by mistake, Emily. This marriage was what you wanted because you knew my family. You knew the Graysons would never let their own blood be born out of wedlock. You played your cards, and you won the ring. Don't act the victim now."

​"Malcom," I whispered, the name feeling like ash in my mouth.

​He didn't look back. He didn't take it back. He just turned to his monitor, dismissing me as if I were a servant who had overstayed her welcome.

And now it seems my own son has decided to play matchmaker between me and the woman my husband should have married. He talked about her constantly, dragging Malcom into conversations about "how pretty" she looked or "how fun" their walks were. I was being erased from my own family, one memory at a time.

​Until Friday night.

​"Can you not come back home early tomorrow, Mom?"he asked, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

My heart soared. For the first time in weeks, warmth bloomed in my chest. Tomorrow was my birthday. He remembered.

After everything, my little boy still wanted to do something special for me. A surprise, perhaps. Cake? A drawing? Maybe even a small family dinner where things felt normal again.

I smiled softly and brushed his hair back, my voice gentle. “Okay, sweetheart. I won’t come home early. I promise.”

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and snuggled deeper under the covers.

I kissed his forehead, hope flickering weakly inside me for the first time in a long while. Maybe this was the turning point.

Maybe my son was trying to make things better in his own childish way.

I was sadly, painfully mistaken.

​I went to bed that night with a smile, dreaming of a birthday where I was finally seen again. I didn't know then that the surprise Jason was planning wasn't the kind a mother ever wants to receive.

I woke up with a quiet, fragile hope blooming in my chest that morning.

Neither Malcom nor Jason had wished me a happy birthday.

But I told myself it didn’t matter. Surely they were saving their affection for the evening surprise. Jason’s poorly hidden excitement had been obvious — the way he kept glancing at his father, the whispered conversations that stopped the moment I entered the room.

They had even gone shopping the day before. I had seen the bags they tried to smuggle into the house when they thought I wasn’t looking. My heart had felt lighter than it had in weeks.

I spent the entire day at The Grayson Luxe, one of the family’s upscale hotels in the city. I booked a quiet corner suite, spread out my sketches across the large desk, and worked on new designs while occasionally checking my phone.

Every hour that passed made my anticipation grow. I imagined walking into a warmly lit home, Jason running to hug me, Malcom pulling me close, maybe even a small cake with my favorite flowers. After everything we’d been through lately, this felt like a much-needed turning point.

By evening, I could barely contain my excitement. I drove home with butterflies in my stomach, carefully applying a fresh coat of lipstick in the rearview mirror before pulling into the driveway. The house lights were glowing warmly. Soft music drifted out. My smile widened as I stepped inside.

Mom? What are you doing here?!"

​The voice wasn't a cheer. It was a sharp, furious demand. I stopped in the foyer, blinking at Jason. He was dressed in a tiny suit, his hair slicked back, looking every bit a Grayson. But his face was contorted with anger.

​"I’m sorry, honey," I said with a small, nervous chuckle. "It was just getting late. I thought maybe we could start the party a little early so you could get to bed on time."

​"You weren't supposed to be back yet!" he yelled, stomping his foot.

​"It’s fine, Jason," I tried to cajole him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "I’m here now. Just what are you hiding? Where is your dad?"

​I laughed lightly, expecting him to break into a smile and reveal a cake. Instead, a voice drifted from the living room—a melodic, sophisticated sound that turned my blood to ice.

​"Oh, Malcom, it’s absolutely perfect! Thank you so much for this."

Monica.

She was here. In my house. On my birthday.

The hearty sound of laughter spilled out from inside my own house. It was warm, carefree, and completely foreign. I stood frozen in the foyer, the cold draft from the open door biting at my heels.

I reached for Jason, desperate for some anchor, but he jerked away from my touch almost instantly.

He stepped back as if my presence itself was a physical inconvenience, an obstacle in the way of his perfect night.

My breath hitched sharply. The festive lights blurred through the sudden sting of tears I refused to let fall.

“Jason?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

“You didn’t remember?”

You mean you forgot tonight was your mother's birthday?

The question hung between us, heavy and painful.

My heart twisted violently.

“Was that why you sent Mummy away? For Monica?” I whispered.

*Please say no. Please tell me she just stopped by unexpectedly. Please tell me this wasn’t a calculated move.*

“Yes!” he all but roared, his small face flushed with a frustration that made him look like a stranger.

“I know you don’t like her, that’s why I wanted you away from the house! So we could have a nice dinner without you ruining it!”

I blinked, stunned into a hollow silence. My own son had deliberately kicked me out of my home on my birthday to make room for his father’s ex-girlfriend.

Why couldn't you just stay away like I asked?" looking at me crossly.

​The air left my lungs. I looked past him through the transparent large glasses and watched as Malcom raised a glass of champagne to Monica.

They looked like a portrait of a perfect family. And I was just the intruder standing in the hallway, clutching a coat I had no place to hang.

Before I could respond, Malcom raised his head and seemed to finally spot us.

He appeared in the doorway holding a glass of wine, looking annoyingly relaxed.

"Dad, mom's here." he said pointedly.

Monica stood just behind him, elegant even in casual clothes a soft cream sweater and perfectly fitted jeans that made her look effortlessly beautiful. Her hair fell in loose, glossy waves, shimmering under the warm chandelier light.

She was stunning in that natural, untouched way I could never quite achieve anymore.

“Emily, you’re here,” Malcom said, as if only just

registering my existence.

Monica offered a polite, practiced smile.

“Emily,” she said softly, her tone borderline pitying. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

*So soon.* As if she were the hostess and I was a guest who had arrived before the party was ready.

As if this was her sanctuary. My throat closed up, the air in the foyer suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.

"You guys are having dinner." I whispered.

Malcom finally looked at me.

“She was feeling a little down,” Malcom continued casually, gesturing toward Monica with his wine glass.

“Jason said a nice family-style dinner would cheer her up. She’s always wanted something like this, you know? Especially since her family isn’t here right now.”

“Yes!” Jason chimed in eagerly, looking up at Monica with a raw, open adoration that I hadn't seen in years. “And I helped plan everything! I picked the flowers and the music!”

"You did, didn't you." I whispered while I nodded softly, swallowing the bitter, metallic lump in my throat.

No one seemed to remember what day it was.

They just had to have a heartwarming dinner for Monica tonight.

The perfect family dinner in my home, at my table, with my husband and my son arranged for the woman who should have been a distant memory.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind me being here,” Monica said sweetly, giving me a gentle smile that somehow made the betrayal feel sharper. She looked radiant. Even without trying, she glowed with the kind of confidence and grace that came from never being told she wasn't enough.

I suddenly became painfully aware of my own appearance, the dress I had carefully chosen this morning, the time I’d spent on my hair and makeup.

It all felt loud and desperate next to her effortless appeal. I found myself unconsciously straightening my posture, tugging at the hem of my dress.

“We’re about to have dinner,” Malcom said, checking his watch. “You should join us.”

Jason let out a loud, annoyed huff, clearly disappointed that I hadn’t taken the hint to disappear into the night again.

He didn’t want me there. Neither of them did. I was the dark cloud on their sunny parade.

I forced an uneasy smile, even though my stomach was hollow with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. “No, thank you. I’m… not very hungry.”

I hadn't eaten all day, trying to save my appetite for the special dinner I thought we were having. But right now, the very thought of food made me feel sick.

Malcom shrugged, already turning back toward the dining room. “You're already here. You should just join,” he muttered, his tone making it clear it was an obligation, not an invitation.

“Yes,” Monica insisted, her hand lightly touching Malcom’s arm in a gesture of such casual intimacy it felt like a slap. “Please, Emily. Stay.”

Being holed up in my room would send a bad message to our guest. It would make me look bitter, jealous, and small, exactly what they already thought of me.

If I went upstairs, I was the "difficult" wife.

I took a deep breath, smoothing my dress one last time.

“Fine,” I whispered.

​“I’ll just go freshen up,” I murmured, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Just give me a minute, please.”

I walked past them up the stairs, my hand gripping the railing for support. Each step felt heavier than the last. When I reached our bedroom, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to gather the scattered pieces of myself.

Malcom and Jason had made this woman dinner.

I couldn’t remember the last time Malcom had cooked for me. Not once since my pregnancy, when he had been attentive and almost tender.

Those days felt like they belonged to another lifetime.

Now, he was downstairs playing happy family with Monica, laughing with her, letting our son adore her while I sat up here trying not to fall apart on my own birthday.

I moved to the mirror and stared at my reflection. My eyes were slightly red, but I dabbed them carefully and touched up my makeup.

I smoothed down my dress and ran a brush through my hair, even though part of me wondered why I was still trying. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, refusing to look as broken as I felt.

As I descended the stairs a few minutes later, their voices drifted up from the kitchen, warm and carefree.

“Why can’t you be my mummy?” Jason asked, his tone filled with innocent hope.

"Jason." Malcom cautions.

Oh, Jason… I whispered inwardly, my heart clenching painfully.

Monica’s hearty laughter floated through the air warm, melodic, and excruciating to hear.

“But why not? I mean Steve has two mummies,” Jason insisted.

"And no, they're not a couple. So why can't I have two?"

I knew exactly who he was talking about, a classmate whose parents had divorced and whose father had remarried . Jason speaks about it like it’s a dream, a goal to be reached.

​I remember his words from the foyer just minutes ago: Why couldn't you just stay away like I asked?

I wish you were my mummy,” Jason mutters, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper.

My hands trembled on the banister as I froze mid-step.

“You’re nice and pretty, and you make the best food. And you’re so funny, too. You don't make me take medicine or eat gross things.”

God. Wow. The words are small, but they feel like a serrated blade across my chest. I have spent seven years being the "bad guy" so he could be healthy.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to hold myself together as the pain bloomed sharp and deep.

It couldn't be that deep right?

But it was. I stood there listening to my son openly wished for another woman to take my place. A woman who I was sure didn't even know his blood type.

Happy birthday, Emily, I thought bitterly, a hollow laugh trapped in my throat. A very happy birthday indeed.

***

***

I had to force my legs to move, but I stood there a heartbeat longer, paralyzed by morbid curiosity.

My son was essentially holding auditions for a new mother.

Malcom’s voice drifted from the kitchen, gentle and warm in a way he hadn’t been with me in months. “Well, Monica has a family of her own, honey. That’s not possible.”

*And if she didn’t?* The thought pierced me. If Monica had never married abroad, would Malcom and I even be together right now? Or had I always been nothing more than a temporary fix for an unplanned pregnancy?

“I’ll always be here for you, Jason. You know that,” Monica replied, her voice sweet like honeyed poison.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pinned on a hollow smile, and finally stepped into the dining area.

“Dinner smells delicious,” I muttered.

The table was beautifully set, a perfect family-style spread of glistening roasted chicken, vibrant salads, and expensive artisan bread. The kind of meal I used to slave over for hours. It screamed effort.

Tonight, Malcom had done all this, assisted by my son.

Just for her.

​I took my seat at the far end the spot that used to be Malcom's, I felt like a discarded relic. Malcom had moved to the side, positioning himself between Monica and Jason. They formed a tight, intimate triangle of easy conversation, leaving me anchored at the head of the table like a spectator at my own life.

Conversation flowed easily around me — stories of Monica’s travels, her latest projects, her exciting life. Jason stared at her with open adoration.

Malcom looked at her like a man rediscovering light. It was hard to swallow my food while watching my son and husband gaze at another woman with such obvious affection.

“Oh, Malcom, you’re exaggerating,” Monica laughed lightly. She turned to me with that practiced, pitying smile. “But tell me, Emily, how have you been? Malcom mentioned you still do a bit of… sketching from home?”

The word sketching felt like a deliberate slap.

“It’s going quite well, actually,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “And it’s not sketching, Monica. It’s called fashion design. Haute couture. Several of my collections have been featured on international runways.”

Malcom cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with my tone. Monica blinked, then smiled indulgently.

“That’s really cute,” she said, already turning back to Malcom. “It’s so important to have a little hobby to keep busy when you’re a stay-at-home mom.”

*A little hobby.*

I froze mid-slice. Before I could respond, Jason jumped in excitedly.

“Monica is helping me with my art project!” he announced proudly. “She says my perspective is ‘avant-garde.’ Right, Monica?”

“That’s right, champ,” she cooed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Jason hated that. But I watched as my son leaned into her touch happily, the same touch he had snapped at me for countless times.

My eyes landed on a small elegant gift box on the table. I reached for it the same moment Monica did. She let out a soft, tinkling laugh and pulled it toward herself.

“Oh, Malcom gave this to me,” she said brightly, holding it up. “A little gift. He has the best taste.”

A gift. He found the time to buy her a gift, but hadn't managed a single "Happy Birthday" for his wife.

The pain lodged in my throat like glass. I stood up abruptly. “Excuse me.”

Later that evening, after Monica had supposedly left, I tried again.

“Jason, come let's do your homework.”

“Monica already helped me,” he replied flatly, not even looking up.

“Oh… Well, goodnight then.”

“Dad, can I go to Monica’s place after school?” Jason asked. “She’s helping me with my art project.”

“Okay, son,” Malcom answered without hesitation.

“I can help him,” I cut in. “There’s no need to send him over there. I’m right here.”

What do you know about art, Emily?" Malcom said sharply. "Monica is well-traveled. She understands aesthetics."

​"Right. I’m too much of an illiterate to understand a third-grader's project," I chuckled bitterly. Malcom gave me that familiar pointed look, the one that said I was being "too much."

That was when I finally snapped.

“You invited her over today. Do you even know what day it is?!” My voice cracked. “Did you even remember?”

​"What are you talking about?" Malcom snapped. "What is making you nag so much?"

“My birthday,” I whispered, the words barely audible as all strength left me.

He stared at me, lips parting, then pressed them together in mild guilt. Jason simply looked between us, unbothered.

I let out a small, jagged laugh. "And I just had to be greeted by your ex in my home, listening to the plans you all made. Like some happy family."

The silence was deafening.

“Mom’s just upset we forgot her birthday,” Jason whispered to Malcom, his voice void of remorse or sympathy, as if I was being unreasonable.

Just then, I heard heels clicking behind me. Monica stepped into view, jacket in hand. She had clearly been standing there the whole time, listening.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, voice full of pity. “I left my jacket… Happy birthday, Emily.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I spun around and walked upstairs without another word.

Minutes later, the bedroom door burst open. Jason stormed in, face twisted with anger.

“Monica’s upset!” he yelled. “She said you don’t like her and now she won’t come over anymore! Because of you, I can’t go to her house either! She doesn’t want to see us again!”

“Jason!” I snapped.

“Go to your room. Right now.”

"Why do you always..."

"Jason!" I interrupted.

I couldn't take another moment of my son mentioning what he felt was my inadequacy.

He glared at me for a long second, then slammed the door on his way out.

I sank onto the bed, exhausted.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Malcom asked from the doorway, arms crossed.

I stared at him in disbelief.

“You yelled at our son like that over nothing,” he continued dismissively.

“Overreacting?” I whispered.

“Look, I’m sorry we forgot your birthday. I’ve been swamped at work. These things happen.”

“I would never forget something like that,” I said quietly.

“Yeah, well… you stay home. You’re not out there dealing with real pressure. As a stay-at-home wife, you have time to keep track of these things.” He let out a light chuckle, as if it was a harmless joke.

“Homemaker,” I corrected softly.

“I make this home, Malcom. You think it’s just a few chores that leave me with nothing to do?”

He didn’t respond. The comparison hung heavy in the air — me versus the brilliant, radiant Monica with her thriving career.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, stepping closer. “I’ll make it up to you.”

​"Right," I said, looking at Malcom and not recognizing the man standing in front of me.

"If you can make time for me between your outings with her. Or the next gala."

​I ran my hand through my hair. I swore I wouldn't let it get to me, but it was. The photos of my "family" with Monica were everywhere. But the final insult came the next afternoon.