Chapter 3Drawing Straws with My Cheating Husband

The moment the nurses left, I turned the heavy deadbolt on the private room door.

Outside, the muffled thudding of fists and Brenda’s muffled shrieks vibrated against the wood, but I didn't move an inch.

Sophie turned her little head toward me, her voice raspy and thin.

"Mommy... why won't you let Daddy and Grandma and Auntie Alyssa come in?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, gently brushing the damp curls from her forehead.

"Because they made poor choices, baby. Anyone who tries to stop Mommy from making you feel better has to stay outside."

Sophie stared at the ceiling, processing my words with the eerie seriousness only sick children have.

"Auntie Alyssa pinched my eyes," she whispered softly. "It hurt."

She paused, swallowing hard. "And when I told Daddy I was cold... he gave my blanket to Auntie Alyssa. Daddy doesn't love me, does he?"

Her words hit me like a physical blow.

How could I explain a mother's failure to protect her child? How could I explain that the man who gave her half her DNA cared more about a mistress’s comfort than her survival?

Outside, Keith’s fist hammered against the door frame.

"Megan! Open this damn door! We're her family—you have no right to lock us out!"

A pause, followed by his desperate, sickening plea: "Let’s just draw for it, okay? If we pull the short stick, you open the door. Let fate decide!"

"Fate." He still thought I was the same broken, guilt-ridden girl he married.

Brenda’s voice followed, screeching through the crack of the door. "Megan! Have you forgotten how your selfishness put your own parents in the ground? Now you're trying to kill our family's granddaughter too? God won't forgive you for this!"

My hand jerked violently as I poured hot water from the kettle into a paper cup. The scalding liquid splashed across the back of my hand, immediately raising angry red blisters.

I didn't make a sound.

For five years, they had used my parents’ graves as a leash around my neck.

And for five years, I had stayed silent, carrying the weight of a tragedy that wasn't mine to bear.

The day after our wedding, during the traditional family dinner, our kitchen had been overflowing with food. But in a moment of childish nostalgia, I had casually mentioned how much I missed the almond pastries from the old bakery across town. It was raining. My parents insisted on driving out to get them—a sweet, indulgent gesture for their newlywed daughter.

On the highway, an eighteen-wheeler hydroplaned across the median.

My parents never made it back with the pastries. I never got to serve them tea as a married woman. I only received a call from the county coroner.

That was the day Keith developed his "paralysis."

He told me he was terrified of making decisions. He told me my impulses were dangerous, that my desires brought ruin. And his family took the cue, branding me an omen of misfortune.

When my firm offered me a high-paying partner-track position in Chicago, Alyssa told me a married woman belonged at home. Keith made us draw toothpicks. I lost. I stayed.

When I got pregnant and wanted to keep my career, Alyssa told me the stress would harm the baby. We drew toothpicks. I lost. I handed in my resignation and became a stay-at-home mother.

I had spent years believing the universe was punishing me for my parents' deaths.

Until tonight. Until I saw his thumb snap that wood in the dark.

It was never fate. It was a noose they had tied together, tightening it every time I tried to breathe.

I looked down at the blistering skin on my hand, and for the first time in five years, I smiled. A cold, razor-sharp smile.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years—my former senior paralegal.

"Caleb," I whispered into the receiver. "Draft a petition for dissolution of marriage. Full custody. Immediate effect."