PART 2
My alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning. For five full years, that hour meant jumping out of bed, making breakfast, ironing school uniforms, waking Zachary and Tristan up, checking the boy’s backpack, and driving him to school.
That morning, I simply turned off my phone, rolled over, and pulled Chloe closer into a warm hug.
I woke up naturally at eight forty.
A few minutes later, Zachary burst into the bedroom with his dress shirt buttoned completely wrong. “Why didn’t you wake us up?”
Tristan appeared right behind him, scowling. “I’m going to be incredibly late for school because of you!”
Zachary looked around the messy room in confusion. “Didn’t you make breakfast either?”
I continued calmly combing Chloe’s hair.
“Charlotte, that’s enough,” Zachary said impatiently, pulling out his cell phone. “Are you still angry about last night? Look.”
He showed me the screen, where he had added me back to the family group chat. “Happy now? Now get up and handle things.”
I took my phone, opened the application, and tapped “Leave group.” Then I immediately blocked Zachary’s number.
His face hardened into a mask of rage. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done a long time ago,” I answered coldly.
That morning, I had already scheduled an appointment with a close friend who specialized in family law. When I stood up to grab my purse, Zachary let out an incredulous laugh.
“Are you really going to destroy a five-year marriage over a stupid chicken leg?” he demanded.
“No,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “I’m going to end it after five years of what you dismiss as just a chicken leg.”
I got Chloe ready and walked out the front door.
My lawyer reviewed my situation, carefully explained the legal process, and began drafting an agreement covering divorce, full custody, child support, and asset division.
Hours later, while I was walking through a quiet park with Chloe, my phone rang from an unknown number. It was Zachary.
“Tristan had an accident,” he said frantically. “His mother says he hurt his leg badly and he is at a medical clinic right now.”
“Then his mother should take care of him,” I replied neutrally.
“Charlotte, you are his stepmother!” he snapped.
“Just yesterday you reminded me that he isn’t my son,” I said. “Handle it yourself.”
I hung up the phone.
That afternoon, I took Chloe to the amusement park in Minneapolis that we had promised her so many times, only for Zachary to cancel every single visit. She rode the carousel three times, ate pink cotton candy, and laughed until she was completely exhausted.
We returned to the house at nightfall to pack our things.
To my surprise, his ex-wife was already settled comfortably in my living room. Tristan was lying on the sofa with a white plastic splint wrapped around his leg. Zachary and his ex-wife were sitting on either side of him like protective parents.
They looked like a picture-perfect family, while Chloe and I looked like two unwelcome intruders.
Tristan spotted the bright yellow balloon in Chloe’s hand and scowled. “Did they go off to have fun while I was lying here in pain?!”
His mother dried her tearless eyes with a tissue. “Charlotte, I know I’m not the one to judge, but if you had been paying proper attention to Tristan, maybe this accident wouldn’t have happened.”
Zachary added sternly, “Acknowledge that you carry some responsibility here.”
I dropped the heavy bag I was holding onto the floor. “No.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Zachary took a deep breath, trying to assert his authority. “She will be staying here for a few days to help take care of Tristan.”
“Here?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Zachary replied coldly. “You clearly refuse to do your duty.”
His ex-wife intervened in a remarkably sweet voice. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. It will only be until Tristan gets better.”
Tristan grinned maliciously from the couch. “Mom should just stay here forever.”
Zachary said nothing to correct his son. He simply turned to look at me. “Prepare the guest room for her. And go make some fresh beef broth for Tristan. Don’t put any onions in it, because she doesn’t like onions.”
I felt something almost absurdly comical about the situation. Five years together, and Zachary still routinely forgot that shellfish gave me severe hives, yet he remembered with absolute perfection that his ex-wife hated onions.
I pulled the official legal document my lawyer had prepared out of my tote bag and placed it squarely on the coffee table. “Here it is.”
Zachary picked up the papers and scanned the first page. His face instantly drained of color. “A divorce agreement?”
“It’s already signed on my end,” I said calmly.
Tristan almost jumped off the sofa in excitement. “Sign it, Dad! Sign it right now!”
His mother lowered her gaze, trying hard to hide a triumphant smile.
Zachary grabbed the stack of papers and aggressively tore them down the middle. “There. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I can print another copy in five minutes,” I replied without missing a beat.
His ex-wife’s smile disappeared completely.
Zachary stepped closer to me, his hands shaking with anger. “Stop acting like a spoiled child!”
“I’m done behaving like the brainless woman who tolerates everything,” I said, turning toward the master bedroom.
