Chapter 4: Breaking Point

After divorcing her ex-husband, Natalie brought Emma back to Ohio. A divorced woman with a child and no one to rely on, she asked me for help finding a place and a job…

Her apartment was small, tucked behind Main Street, with creaky floors and a view of the parking lot. I helped her paint the walls, Emma handing us rollers, laughter bouncing off the bare rooms. It felt like a new start—for her, and for me. I told myself I was just being helpful, but each visit lingered longer than the last.

At first, I was careful about boundaries—I was married, after all. But soon, I found myself slipping back into the old rhythm with Natalie, just like high school. Her vulnerability made me want to protect her forever.

She’d call late at night about a leaky faucet or a flickering light, her voice uncertain. I made excuses to come by, fixing things that barely needed fixing. Her loneliness seeped into me, and I told myself I was just being kind. But deep down, I knew the line was blurring.

I brushed off my wife’s suspicions, saying I was just helping an old friend. But I spent more and more time with Natalie, and less and less at home. My wife’s calls went unanswered, my excuses stacking up. “I’m working late,” I’d tell her.

The lies came easier than I ever thought possible. I’d stay out, watching Natalie cook dinner, helping Emma with homework, telling myself I’d leave after one more episode. My wife’s texts went unread. I promised myself I’d make it up to her—later.

Until my wife caught us together in the office parking garage, her heartbreak exploding into anger. She slapped me—twice—and screamed so loud it echoed off the concrete.

I’ll never forget the look in her eyes—the betrayal, the rage. She’d driven all the way downtown in her pajamas, her hair wild, eyes rimmed with tears. The first slap stung, but the second one felt like it split me open. Natalie shrank back, and I felt the whole world closing in.

“Who is this woman? Derek Carter! Why did you lie to me!”

Her voice rang out, echoing off the concrete pillars. I couldn’t answer. Natalie clung to my arm, her presence both a comfort and a wound.

The contrast between my furious wife and the frightened Natalie in my arms made my head spin. A thought crept in: Why couldn’t I just leave and be with Natalie?

I hated myself for even thinking it, but the thought refused to leave. The possibility hung in the air, thick as fog. I saw the pain in my wife’s eyes and realized how far I’d strayed. But the pull toward Natalie was just as real.

But I quickly dismissed the idea. My wife, despite my dead-end job, had insisted on marrying me. Her father helped me with connections and money, and we had Ryan. How could I abandon her for a fleeting temptation? First love is just that, and I had already crossed the line.

I remembered the day Ryan was born, my wife’s hand gripping mine, her laughter in the delivery room. She believed in me when no one else did. I owed her everything. The guilt was suffocating, but I tried to bury it beneath rationalizations and half-truths.

I went home, knelt before my wife, swore I’d break it off with Natalie, and begged for forgiveness. She cried for hours. In the end, she agreed to try again, but covered her face and muttered, “How could I have been so blind to fall for you…?”

Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they cut deeper than any scream. I promised her—again and again—that it was over. I wanted to believe I could be the man she deserved.

But she couldn’t resist her own heart. She still loved me. I apologized to Natalie, deleted her contact, but I didn’t block her. I tried to go back to being a good husband and father. Our family was quieter now, but still together.

I told myself it would fade. The phone calls stopped, the late nights at Natalie’s ended. The house settled into a tense calm—silent dinners, polite conversation, the air waiting for another storm. I tried to rebuild, but cracks showed everywhere.

But then, while tidying up the den, my wife found the 365 love letters I’d written to Natalie in high school. She got so upset, her heart just gave out, and my son and I rushed her to the hospital. But on the way, Natalie called me. Her voice was trembling, pitiful:

I remember the stack of letters, yellowed and tied with a blue ribbon. She’d torn open the box, read one, then another, her face going pale. She clutched her chest, gasping. We barely made it to the car. As I drove, my phone buzzed—Natalie’s name lighting up the screen. My hands shook as I picked up.

“Derek, can you come over? Someone’s knocking at my door, I’m home alone, I’m scared.”

Her desperation sent a chill through me. I pictured her in that little apartment, clutching Emma, peering through the peephole. The memory of recent break-ins in town made it worse. For a split second, I almost turned the car around.

I caught Ryan’s eyes in the mirror—raw, terrified. He clung to his mother’s hand, whispering, “It’ll be okay, Mom.” I steeled myself, torn between two lives. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear myself think.

“Sorry, I have something to do. Lock yourself in your bedroom and call 911.”

My voice shook, but I tried to sound firm. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The traffic lights ahead blurred in my vision.

I kept driving to the hospital, my hands shaking on the wheel, torn between two lives. Every second felt like a lifetime.

City lights streaked past. I kept one eye on the road, one on the rearview. Ryan’s breathing was ragged, his mother barely moving. I felt like I was driving through molasses, the hospital still too far away.

“Ah…Derek, I’m scared…”

A scream came from the phone.

“Derek, don’t you want me anymore? If something happens to me today, will you remember me forever, sob sob…”

Her crying echoed in my ear, mixing with the panic in the car. I gripped the wheel tighter, torn in half. The guilt and fear pressed down, making it hard to breathe.

Through the phone, I could even hear the pounding on Natalie’s door. Every bang struck my heart.

I pictured her cowering behind the locked door, the pounding echoing in her tiny apartment. I tried to push away the urge to turn back, forcing myself to focus on the family who needed me in that moment.

“……”

I slammed on the brakes, pulled over, and opened the rear door. “Ryan, take your mom out. I’ll call a rideshare for you. You take her to the hospital first, I’ll come right after.”

Ryan’s eyes widened in confusion and fear. I forced the Uber app open with trembling fingers, fumbling as I ordered a ride to the hospital. I couldn’t meet his gaze. It was like handing off my whole world to a stranger, but I did it anyway.

“Please, Ryan. It’ll be okay. I’ll be there soon,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I prayed he’d forgive me—one day.

“You’re going to see that woman again? The one whose life is in danger now is your wife!”

Ryan’s voice cracked, rising to a shout. I flinched, feeling the full weight of his accusation. He was right, and I hated him for it, even as I hated myself more.

“It’s complicated, Ryan. Your Aunt Natalie needs help, too. I’ve already called a car for you and your mom. Please, just take care of her.”

We were at a standoff for three minutes. Seeing that I was determined not to drive, Ryan numbly carried his mother out of the car.

He cradled her gently, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. I watched him struggle down the sidewalk, the rideshare headlights washing over them. I wanted to call out, to take it all back, but the words stuck in my throat. I watched them disappear, my heart hammering with regret.

“Is the car really coming soon?”

Ryan’s voice, hoarse and barely audible, drifted back to me as he half-dragged, half-carried his mother. I mumbled a shaky "Yeah," but I didn’t believe it myself.

I was anxious, ignored Ryan’s increasingly cold gaze, got in the car, and sped off with a heavy heart. As I drove, the guilt twisted inside me. I rationalized, told myself she’d pulled through worse before. Still, a gnawing sense of doom clung to me all the way to Natalie’s apartment.

I rushed to Natalie’s place, knocking anxiously. She opened the door and threw herself into my arms, her scent familiar and comforting. It turned out to be a false alarm—a drunken neighbor had knocked on the wrong door. Natalie and I hugged, swept up in the relief and the rush of something lost and found again. The phone, tossed on the floor, buzzed again and again. For a while, nothing else existed.

Until Natalie undid my belt and knelt down. Suddenly, my phone rang, breaking the mood.

The ringtone was jarringly loud in the quiet room. I glanced at the screen, dread filling my chest. It was Ryan.

“Mom didn’t make it. She passed away five minutes ago.”

His voice was flat, almost clinical. For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. Then reality hit, stealing the breath from my lungs. I stared at the ceiling, unable to move, the world tilting on its axis.