“Oh dear, did I wake you? I’m so sorry!”
I smiled and sat at the kitchen counter.
“Mom, make us some fresh coffee. And if you’re going to make noise, make enough to wake me properly every single morning.”
We both burst out laughing.
On the shelf behind us sat the repaired ceramic vase, filled with fresh flowers.
We never tried to hide the cracks.
Those cracks had become proof of what we survived.
Through mutual acquaintances, I later heard that Brandon had been forced to move into Lucas’s small spare room while struggling with his mounting debts.
There was a certain irony in it.
The financial burdens he had once expected me to carry had finally become his responsibility.
For seven long years, I believed being a good wife meant tolerating disrespect, sacrificing my boundaries, and forgiving things that never should have been forgiven.
That night, when I saw the bruising on my mother’s face, the illusion finally shattered.
