2. Chapter 2 House Made of Glass
Jenna: Present Day, September
Some days, I wonder if I’m really living or just going through the motions. Existing. Surviving. Today, it’s hard to tell the difference.
It’s another chaotic afternoon, the kind that keeps me teetering on exhaustion, so I don’t feel anything else. My kitchen looks like a teenager ransacked the place—counters cluttered with bowls, cupboards hanging open, faucet running, fridge chiming to shut the damn thing.
I’m whisking eggs in one hand, scrolling through emails with the other, when Jacob’s words from last night echo in my mind.
“ What happened to the Jenna I met twenty years ago?”
We’d been talking about planning a weekend getaway with the girls. Something to break up the dull routine our lives have become. But apparently, I’m selfish. I ask too much. I’m not the Jenna who supports his career anymore. Just a mother, bound by responsibilities.
But maybe the real question is—what happened to us?
Before I let that thought spiral, Lily’s voice yanks me back.
“Mommy, Mommy!” My eleven-year-old screams, storming into the kitchen holding a tiny ball of black fur. Her green eyes, so much like mine, sparkle with excitement, and her dark curls bounce as she lifts the kitten up. “Look what I found! Can I keep her, please?”
I glance down. The kitten is scruffy, matted, with wide, pleading eyes that mirror Lily’s. “She’s adorable,” I say cautiously, “but absolutely not. You know your dad’s allergic—”
“Please, Mommy!” Lily interrupts, her bottom lip trembling in that way I can never say no to.
“Okay fine. You can play with her, but only until Daddy gets home.”
Lily’s face lights up. “I’m naming her Wobbles. Because she wobbles her butt when she walks.” I smile, watching her crouch under the table playing with the kitten. Her giggles fill the room, light and carefree. But her laughter stirs something inside me. A memory I’ve buried.
I was eight, the same age as my youngest, Ava, when I snuck out of the house to escape my father’s fury.
His rage shook the walls, always over something trivial.
Spilled juice, maybe. Or my mom taking too long to make dinner.
And my mom never fought back. She just stood there, silent.
Small. Helpless—while I prayed for it all to end.
Outside, I spotted a scraggly cat stuck in a tree branch.
He was crying, scared, and all alone. I didn’t think.
I just climbed. The bark scraped my palms. My foot slipped twice.
My heart pounded in my chest. But I kept going.
He had no one else. When I reached him, he came to me with ease, like he knew I was only trying to help.
“Jenna! Get down before you break your damn neck!” my dad’s voice roared from the porch.
I flinched, twisted around too fast, and slipped…
one arm wrapped around the cat, the other hit the ground and cracked.
After the hospital visit, my dad must’ve felt guilty, because he let me keep him.
I named him Patch. He had one ear missing, a stub tail, and a scrawny, weak body.
He reminded me of myself. A broken, fragile mess, just trying to survive.
The garage door rumbles open, returning me to reality. Tension squeezes my chest. Here we go. Another mistake. Another argument.
“Lily, quick! Take Wobbles outside!” The kitten spooks from Lily’s arms and leaps from her grasp, darting between chairs and straight toward Jacob. He steps inside, his eyes narrowing as Wobbles weaves between his legs.
“What the hell, Jenna, is that a cat?” His voice is tight with annoyance.
Ava peeks into the doorway, drawn by the commotion.
Her dark brown eyes, just like her father’s, light up, and she joins the chase.
My girls are close in age but have completely different personalities.
Ava’s bold, impulsive, her big heart always leading the way.
Lily, on the other hand, is careful, calm.
The kind of big sister who organizes her crayons by color.
We burst into giggles scrambling to catch the tiny furball—everyone except Jacob. His frustration simmers beneath the surface. We corner Wobbles and set up a makeshift bed in a cardboard box with a blanket and some milk. But the laughter soon fades.
“You know I’m allergic. Why would you let the girls bring a cat inside?” Jacob’s voice is razor-sharp. “I’ve been dealing with clients all day, and this is what I walk into?” His briefcase hits the counter with a dull thud.
“I’m sorry. Lily found her, and she reminded me of Patch,” I say, trying to smooth things over. He knows how many nights I cried myself to sleep, holding on to Patch when things got bad with my dad. Even if that was years ago.
“Who’s the parent, though? You or Lily?” His words cut deep. But it’s not just about the cat. It never is.
“Lately, it feels like we’re always on different pages. Like you always want more than I—never mind.” He stops, unable to finish his sentence.
Then, it goes quiet.
After twenty years, you’d think silence would feel comfortable, like a worn-in bra. Only it isn’t. It sits heavy on my chest, sometimes making it hard to breathe. I feel like I’ve faded into the background. A piece of old furniture—useful when needed, invisible the rest of the time.
From the outside, things look like a dream. The house, the kids, the love story everyone seems to envy. And I love him, I do. I’m grateful for our life. But there’s still this ache, this emptiness I can’t seem to fill no matter how hard I try.
Jacob takes a seat on the bar stool at the island, his gaze glued to his laptop already out as he types out an email.
The screen displays endless rows of numbers and legal jargon I can’t even begin to decipher.
He’s always working—his corporate law clients come first. There’s always another contract, another financial analysis, another deadline. Even when he’s home, he’s miles away.
I watch him, waiting for a moment when he looks up, asks about my day, or says something that doesn’t involve spreadsheets. It never happens.
Forget about Jenna from twenty years ago. Where’s the Jacob I met twenty years ago?
He still has the same perfect haircut, not a strand out of place.
The same neatly sculpted facial hair along his jawline—the kind I like better than his clean-shaven look.
And he still stays fit, squeezing in time at the gym whenever he gets a break.
But back then, he used to leave work early for lunch dates and spend time with me.
Made me feel like I was a part of his world.
His brooding demeanor felt mysterious. Sexy, even.
Now it’s just… lonely without someone to share your thoughts with.
He finally glances up and catches my gaze. “Everything okay?”
I force a nod. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
Everything is always fine. It’s the lie we both tell ourselves.
He gives me a forced smile back before looking down at his screen again.
Frustration simmers, deepening the distance that’s been growing for years.
When did we stop trying? I’m tired of merely co-existing, discussing kids and finances without ever going deeper.
So, I focus on the girls and try to be a good mother.
Even when getting them to set the table feels like herding wild animals.
Jacob thinks I baby them too much, so I’ve been trying to give them more responsibility.
But Ava is as clumsy as I am. Halfway to the table, she drops a plate that nearly hits Wobbles.
Meanwhile, Lily’s complaining because she can’t find her Taylor Swift cup, and Wobbles is trying to leap onto the chair like she’s already part of the family.
Between overcooking my pasta and Lily’s meltdown over her missing cup, I steal a glance at Izzy’s texts about her latest sexcapades. Living vicariously through her is starting to feel like a fun hobby, while I’m drowning in marinara sauce and laundry.
Izzy: Soooo… I may have stolen a cowboy hat, went streaking, got arrested… and asked the officer if I could lick him. Don’t worry, I gave the hat back. ;)
I let out a laugh. Just another day in Izzy’s chaotic life. Meanwhile, Jacob’s attached to his work emails like we’re background noise. I shoot him my sharpest can-you-not look, and finally, he puts down his laptop and asks the girls about their day. A minor win for the day.
Lily lights up as she talks about scoring three goals in gym class, even though her friend Jenny is mad about it.
And Ava can’t stop laughing as she tells a story about her friend Booger Bobby.
Apparently, he stomped on a bully’s foot during recess for annoying all her friends.
The drama is already in full swing, and it’s only been two weeks back to school.
Jacob listens, nodding and laughing, asking questions that make them giggle and beam.
For a moment, it’s enough.
Almost.
But as soon as the girls’ chatter dies down, he picks up his phone, scrolling endlessly, forgetting there’s one other person in the room.
Thanks for asking, Jacob. My day was fantastic , I think, stabbing my spaghetti with my fork.
My appetite disappears, but I keep smiling and talk to the girls the rest of the meal as if he’s not here.
Dinner wraps up, and the girls race off to play with Wobbles. I’m left here staring at the mess—a reflection of how I feel inside. I grab a cloth and start wiping, my hands moving on autopilot. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up,” I mutter to myself, knowing Jacob won’t offer.
He hesitates in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles. “Work’s been a bit overwhelming.
We’ll talk later, okay?” His apology is like a line from a script we’ve rehearsed a thousand times.
He steps forward, leaning in for a brief kiss—more routine than any tenderness.
“The cat can stay in the garage for a few weeks until we find it a new home.”