Chapter 8: Shattered Glass

I glanced at my phone—1 a.m. already. The whole house was dead quiet, save for the tick of the thermostat.

I told myself, "It’s already 1 a.m., he should be asleep." But the knot in my stomach wouldn’t loosen.

I shoved my phone in my pocket, thinking, "Forget it, no more group messages tonight. Hugging my husband to sleep is more important." Maybe, just maybe, it’d make up for the disaster of a night.

I didn’t even make it halfway across the room before something hard and heavy struck my cheek. I yelped, stumbling back, stars dancing in my vision.

I pressed my palm to my stinging face, blinking through sudden tears. On the floor, my phone glinted in the low light—he’d thrown it at me. Dead center.

No question about it. The cracked screen told the story.

I didn’t need a detective to know who’d done it. Only Mason had that kind of aim when he was angry.

I shouted, more out of disbelief than pain. "Are you nuts?"

"I don’t think I did anything to you, did I?" My voice came out shrill. The room seemed to shrink around us.

Each word made the ache worse, but I couldn’t stop. The sting in my cheek matched the sting in my pride.

But Mason’s anger boiled over. He kicked the covers away, stomped across the room, and started flinging books, pillows, anything his hands landed on. The clatter echoed down the hallway.

It was only a matter of seconds before the chaos brought everyone running.

My stepdad barrelled in, coat half on, hair wild, and glared at me. "It’s the middle of the night, why aren’t you sleeping? Stirring up trouble again?" His tone left no room for argument.

Mom followed, wringing her hands in the doorway. "Tess, what’s going on?" Her voice was small, already pleading.

I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh. What could I even say? This was normal now.

There was no way to sum it up—no neat answer, no simple reason. It was just a mess, through and through.

My mind flashed back to those early weeks in the Carter house. I’d been so eager to win Mason over, fetching whatever he wanted—snacks, toys, even the TV remote—before he could even ask.

But once, I brought him the wrong cereal. He didn’t hesitate—just hurled his fork at me in front of everyone. It bounced off my cheek, leaving a red welt and a silence that stretched on forever.

I turned to Mom, desperate for backup, but she looked away. My stepdad slammed his palm on the table: "Eat when you eat, don’t mess around. Our family rule is no talking at the table. Maybe you didn’t know since you’re new, but remember it from now on."

His words rang in my ears, final and cold. No room for my side of the story.

No one listened. So I swallowed my pride and apologized, forcing out the words even as my cheeks burned.

I realized then that nothing I did ever shifted the scales. Two years in, and I was still the odd piece in their family puzzle.