Chapter 5: The Family That Never Was

The next morning, my parents message me.

My mother writes: "It’s not that we’re heartless and won’t let you come home for New Year’s, but if you beg Derek to remarry you, we’ll let you come home for the holiday."

Her words sting, but the passive-aggressive tone is as familiar as the whirr of the old ceiling fan in my childhood bedroom.

When I was divorcing Derek, my parents were the first to object.

Because as long as I was married to Derek, even if he didn’t like me, for the sake of the marriage certificate, he would still give my family some financial support.

In their eyes, marriage was just a contract for survival, not love. They measured my worth in alimony and gifts, not happiness.

The Mallory family is rich and powerful—one gesture from him could revive our business.

Mom would daydream out loud about Derek investing in Dad’s latest scheme—some new franchise or real estate flip. It was always just out of reach.

If I divorced him, we’d lose this golden ticket.

So during the divorce cooling-off period, my parents barged into my apartment countless times, trying to persuade me not to go through with it.

They’d show up unannounced, banging on the door with grocery bags and half-baked excuses. My neighbors started gossiping in the elevator.

When I wouldn’t budge, my father slapped me and called me ungrateful, saying a divorced woman would never marry again.

The slap was loud, but the echo in my chest was worse. I stared at the cracks in the tile while he ranted about "ruining the family name."

Yet two days ago, I stubbornly finalized the divorce with Derek.

Just like five years ago when we got the marriage certificate, Derek made me wait alone at the county clerk’s office for hours before strolling in, late as always.

He said nothing, signed, then got into his expensive car and drove off, showing no emotion at all.

His car splashed water all over me as it sped through a puddle.

I bit my lip, forcing back the tears.

The cold water soaked through my coat. My hands went numb, my breath fogging in the cold. The groceries slipped from my grip, apples rolling across the porch. I knelt to pick them up, hands shaking. Years of grievances surged up. Tears streaming down my face, I looked at my own parents.

"What about me? Haven’t I done enough?"

The words came out in a whisper. They didn’t even look at me.

Ignoring their scolding, I turned and left.

I walked through the snow, head down, groceries forgotten. My boots left shallow prints that disappeared by morning.

At that moment, I’d already decided to end my life.

I suddenly wondered, if they found out I was dead, would they regret what they’d done to me?

I pictured them standing in the funeral home, my mother wringing her hands, my father red-eyed. But then, I remembered how easily they’d replaced me with money and expectations.