PART 1
“I want a divorce.”
Zachary left the fork suspended halfway to his mouth and looked at me as if I had spoken in another language.
“What did you say?” he asked, his forehead furrowing in complete disbelief.
I hugged Chloe, our four-year-old daughter, even tighter against my chest.
“I want to divorce you,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady.
Tristan, the son Zachary had with his first wife, immediately broke into a bright smile. “Well, get a divorce, Dad! That way Charlotte can leave and you can go back to my mom.”
Zachary glared at him from across the table. “Eat your food and stop talking.”
But Tristan, thirteen years old and filled with the confidence of someone who had never suffered consequences, merely chuckled. “That would be better. If that mean woman leaves, my mom could come back to live here.”
That mean lady.
I had been married to Zachary for five years, and Tristan had never called me Mom. He didn’t even bother to call me Charlotte. To him, I was just “hey,” “that one,” or, when he was angry, “the mean lady.”
Zachary never corrected him.
That night it had all started with a simple chicken leg.
The last one was resting on the serving platter in the middle of the table. Tristan had said he was full and had stopped eating minutes ago. Chloe waited a few seconds before reaching out to take it.
She managed to take a single small bite.
Then Tristan stretched out his fork and shouted, “I still wanted that! I told you I wasn’t finished!”
Zachary looked up from his phone, his eyes narrowing instantly. He didn’t even ask what had actually happened. He opened his messaging app and removed me from the family group chat.
It was the twenty-eighth time he had done it.
“You know Tristan loves chicken,” Zachary said, leaning back in his chair. “Since he’s not your biological son, you should be even more careful not to make him feel left out.”
I looked at him, completely failing to recognize the man I had married five years ago. “And what about Chloe?”
“She’s little,” Zachary replied dismissively. “She needs to learn to share with her older brother.”
Chloe shrank back into my arms, trembling softly.
Zachary sighed with heavy impatience. “Stop making a big deal out of nothing. Get Chloe to apologize to Tristan. If she behaves herself these next few days, I’ll let you back into the family chat.”
That broke something deep inside me.
I remembered when Tristan was eight years old and would wake up crying in the middle of the night because he missed his mother. I used to sit next to his bed for hours until he fell asleep.
I remembered that early morning when he had a fever of almost 104 degrees and Zachary was out of town for work. his mother said she couldn’t come over. I left Chloe, who was just a baby, with my neighbor and spent the entire night in the emergency room holding Tristan’s hand.
And now I was just the unfair stepmother.
“Zachary,” I asked softly, “have you ever truly considered me part of your family?”
He frowned, exasperated. “Not that again?”
“His mother has been divorced from you for six years and she has never been removed from the family group chat,” I said, my voice shaking. “You drag me out of it every time she, Tristan, or your parents are upset with me. Tell me something: who is your actual wife?”
His expression changed, hardening slightly. “She is in that group because she’s Tristan’s mother. It’s purely for convenience.”
I laughed, even though my eyes were burning with unshed tears. “Of course. Convenience gives her a permanent place, while I have to earn mine every single week.”
Chloe slipped out of my arms. Before I could stop her, she ran toward the trash can in the corner of the kitchen.
