Chapter 6: Out of Place

The next day, Grandpa Carter called and told me to go to the office.

He rarely asked me for favors, so I knew it was important.

He wanted me to grab a file and give it to his assistant.

I nodded, nerves prickling—Jason’s office was off-limits, always.

But I remembered, Jason never allowed me in the office.

The door was always locked. My hand shook as I reached for the knob.

I hesitated.

My heart pounded—I didn’t want another fight.

Grandpa Carter urged me, saying the file was urgent and the assistant was already waiting at the door.

His voice was insistent, almost pleading.

After thinking it over, I went to get the file.

I tiptoed inside, found the file quickly, and avoided touching anything else.

Before leaving, I put everything in the office back the way it was.

I checked twice, careful not to disturb a single paper or photograph.

But the fact that I’d gone in was still discovered by Jason.

Of course he knew—he always knew. My phone buzzed with a string of angry texts before I’d even left the house.

His phone was connected to the office’s security camera.

He’d installed it himself, paranoid about anyone entering his sanctuary.

He rushed back from the studio, his face dark and angry.

He burst through the door, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

"You can’t go in. Not allowed."

His voice was sharp as broken glass, echoing down the hall.

His mood was like a thunderstorm tearing through the room.

I shrank back, knowing better than to argue.

Because I went to the office for a file, he even had the whole office deep-cleaned.

He called a cleaning service, ordered them to scrub every inch. I watched in disbelief as they hauled out rugs and curtains.

I stared at him blankly, voicing the doubt in my heart.

For once, I couldn’t swallow my questions. I needed an answer.

"Why can’t I go in?"

My voice shook, but I stood my ground.

Lately, Jason often invited Sarah over to hang out at home.

She breezed in and out, at home in a way I never was. I heard her laughter echoing from the office, the piano keys tinkling in harmony.

They talked about music in the office, sometimes for a whole day.

I listened from the hallway, every note a reminder of what I’d never have.

Why could Sarah go in, but not me?

The unfairness of it burned—a pain deeper than I expected.

"And I’m not dirty. Why do you have people clean the office?"

I tried to keep my voice steady, but the words wobbled.

His face grew even colder.

He stared at me, jaw tight, as if I’d committed some unforgivable sin.

"She’s not like you."

The words felt like a slap.

"She gets music. She’s a soulmate."

He spat out the word as if it explained everything.

"You don’t understand. If you go in, it’s dirty."

He said it with finality, the wall between us taller than ever.

All these years, I was used to his blunt way of speaking, and instantly understood what he meant.

He’d always been this way, but it never stopped hurting.

When he got upset, I always tried to calm him down first.

Usually I’d murmur apologies, retreat, make his favorite snack. Not this time.

But this day, even knowing he was angry, I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him like before.

Something inside me snapped—maybe it was years of exhaustion or the echo of my own dignity.

I closed my eyes. “Jason, the way you talk really hurts.”

I let the words hang between us, finally voicing the pain I’d buried for so long.

At that moment, my blood sugar crashed; I staggered and took a step back.

The room spun, spots dancing in my vision. I grabbed the doorframe for balance.

But I happened to be standing at the office door.

The cold doorknob pressed into my palm, grounding me as the world tilted.

The door wasn’t closed, and with that step back, I accidentally stepped into the office.

I tripped over the threshold, landing just inside. Jason’s eyes went wide with rage.

Jason thought I was provoking him.

His hands shook, breath coming in short bursts. I knew that look—he was about to snap.

His eyes went cold, veins standing out on his forehead.

He pointed at me and said a bunch of harsh things, finally boiling it down to three lines.

"Go away."

His voice thundered in my ears.

"This is my house, not yours. Get out."

He spat the words like venom, each one pushing me further away.

"Don’t show up in my home again."

The echo of the Smith house—every rejection wrapped into one moment.

These words—it wasn’t the first time I’d heard them.

Old wounds reopened, the pain as fresh as it was at fifteen.

When I first moved in with the Smiths, my half-sisters said the same thing to me.

I remembered crouching on the cold tile, wishing someone—anyone—would claim me as their own.

Back then, I hid under the covers and cried quietly.

I’d muffle my sobs with a pillow, counting the hours until sunrise.

I thought, one day, I’d have a home of my own, one that nobody could throw me out of.

I dreamed of a kitchen where I could bake bread, a porch swing where I’d read in the sun. My place. My family.

After marriage, I fooled myself into thinking this big house with Jason was my home.

I decorated the guest room, planted flowers by the mailbox. I tried—God, I tried.

Even if it couldn’t keep me safe from the world, at least it was my place.

But today, he shouted himself hoarse that the house was in his name, the money was from his family, and this wasn’t my home.

The walls closed in. I felt like a guest who’d overstayed her welcome.

He told me to get out, and fast.

He glared until I packed my things—just a suitcase and a backpack, everything else left behind.

Emotions surged, a sense of helplessness nearly drowning me.

My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my suitcase. I kept telling myself not to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent.

I stood in the driveway, suitcases at my feet, the world spinning away from me.

I hung my head and counted the years.

I tallied them like rosary beads, each one heavy with longing and loss.

Since meeting Jason at fifteen, it had been ten years.

A whole decade spent hoping, waiting, surviving.

At fifteen, because of the engagement, I had five decent years.

Those years felt like a borrowed dream—never truly mine.

At twenty, I married Jason and carefully looked after him for five years.

Each day, I measured my worth by his moods, my happiness by his silence.

Five years later, I’d paid back the Carter family’s kindness.

I owed them nothing more. The debt was settled.

I was tired of these days.

Exhaustion settled in my bones—a bone-deep ache that wouldn’t fade.

I wanted a divorce.