Chapter 5
BECCA
Ileave our house—no—Sam's house, fuming. I grip the steering wheel tight, as if it's the only thing stopping me from falling apart.
I don’t recall much of the drive. Just flashes of brake lights, half-finished thoughts, and the sound of Sam telling me I had nowhere to go replaying so loudly it drowns everything else out.
I pull into the coffee shop where Phoenix said to meet.
It’s that quiet lull between the morning rush and the mid-afternoon slump that makes the place nearly empty.
Cascadia Coffee Company feels like every mountain-town dream rolled into one: knotty pine walls, oversized leather chairs, and the smell of espresso soaked into old wood.
I spot Phoenix in the corner with a laptop open and her sleeves rolled up, her dark blazer draped over the chair beside her and a half-finished cold brew sweating onto legal paperwork.
I give a quick wave and point toward the counter, signaling I need coffee first or I might cry instead of speak.
I order the largest vanilla latte they’ll make, with an extra shot of espresso.
If they offered an IV drip, I’d have taken it.
By the time I sit down, Phi has already cleared the space for me and flipped to a blank page in a legal pad.
“Becca,” she says with an easy smile, moving into litigator mode. "Thanks for meeting me here. One of my clients prefers to meet at her work nearby and can only fit me in on weekends."
Phoenix is the most professional of the Zentrology group.
She keeps her personal and professional life fairly separate.
I feel honored peering behind the curtain today.
It's Sunday, and I know she has a pro bono case.
I assume that's what she means, since this area only has coffee shops and cheap diners nearby.
Phi straightens before she continues. "You’re looking to draft a postnuptial agreement. Why don’t you tell me what you’re hoping to accomplish with this, and we can see if it’s the best route for you.”
She says it gently, like a therapist easing into trauma. I take a breath. Focus on the facts, not the ache.
"As you know, Sam transferred $75,000 from our joint savings account to his sister. He did this without telling me. The money was supposed to go toward the cabin project we’ve been building together for years.”
Phi's face stays carefully neutral as she takes notes. “Okay. When was the account opened, and who opened it?” she asks.
“We opened it together, about four months after we got married. But I created the account myself, I added Sam as a joint owner.”
She nods. “That helps. Establishing intent and contribution is key. And you can provide a record of your deposits?”
“Yes. I’ve handled most of our budgeting and joint finances. I can provide everything.”
“Great. Now, what’s your goal with the postnup?”
I pause, pressing my fingers around the warmth of the coffee cup. “Security,” I say finally. “A layer of protection I didn’t know I needed. He didn’t only betray me emotionally, he made me feel financially unsafe.”
Phoenix nods, her tone softening. “Understood. That’s exactly what the document ensures.
A postnuptial agreement works a lot like a prenup.
It outlines how assets and debts would be handled if the marriage ends.
The only difference is timing. It’s created after you’re already married.
It’s less common, but just as useful from a financial protection standpoint. ”
I nod along, breathing through my nerves at hearing “marriage ends.” But I know I need to focus on the facts, not my emotions.
“As you know, we recently paid off the riverfront property, and we were planning to start building vacation cabins together. Now, I want that property in my name, solely. I’m also offering to forgo any claim on the house.
He’s always seen it as his, and I’m done fighting for space he doesn’t believe I deserve. ”
Phi raises her eyebrows. “Legally, it’s your shared residence. You don’t have to give that up. I know you can show how your finances mixed. Some months, you paid the 'mortgage' to Holly based on Sam's job schedule.”
“I know. But this isn’t about what I could take. It’s about protecting what I built. What I thought we built together, until he gave it away.”
She glances down at her notes. “Honestly, Becca, this is more than fair. Especially given the financial history you’ve laid out. I can have a draft ready within a day. I’ll need property documents and account statements. Send those over when you can.”
“Thank you, Phi. I owe you, big time." I reach for my purse to pull out my phone. "Do you take Venmo, or does your office prefer a check?"
Phi shakes her head. “No, we are family. Besides, you already paid me, you just didn’t call it that. You gave up your realtor fee so I could buy my duplex. This is me returning the favor.”
I blink at the kindness, my chest tightening. “I … thank you. When you’re done renovating the first duplex, I’ve got the listing."
Phi tries to jump in, but I cut her off.
"I won't take no for an answer. Besides, we are family," I reassure her.
She nods once, closing the laptop, feeling the warmth of our exchange even if she isn't showing it. “If you approve the draft, I can deliver it to Sam by tomorrow.”
With that taken care of, I get in my car and drive.
I don’t know where I’m going at first, but the roads do.
Muscle memory takes over. Two hours later, I’m back in Sweet Hill, home of the Billies.
Yes, my high school mascot was the Hill-Billies.
The old logging town leans all the way into our roots.
I turn down a cracked gravel lane and pull into the modest, well-kept trailer park on the far side of town. The homes are older, but tidy. The porches are swept, flamingos upright, plastic lawn chairs arranged neatly.
That’s my mom’s doing. Matilda Alder organized a “neighborhood clean team” years ago and never let up; it is her version of book club.
I roll into my parents’ driveway and take a deep breath. I love them. I do. But coming back here always scrapes old feelings raw. They didn’t have much, but they loved fiercely. Still do. Dad met Mom on the night shift at a gas station diner.
He walked in, saw her long blonde hair and killer curves in her light blue uniform, and said, “I want to sit in her section.”
She’d replied, “Honey, it’s midnight on a Wednesday. There’s only one section.”
By the time she served him hotcakes, he was a goner. And yes, Hot Cakes is still his nickname for her. I told my kindergarten teacher that was her real name. Mrs. Havalina still shares that story whenever I see her at the supermarket.
“Is that my big city girl?” my dad, Wade Alder, hollers, throwing open the screen door with a grin when I park the car.
“Cascadia only has a hundred thousand people, Dad. Hardly ‘big city.’”
My dad looks older than the last time I saw him, more gray in his beard and a little softer through the middle after decades behind the wheel, but his eyes are still steady and kind. He swoops me into a bear hug that knocks the wind out of me. “What brings you home, sweetheart? Where’s Sam?”
“Can’t a girl come see her family?” I say lightly, even though he sees right through me.
“Course she can. Come on in, your mom’s making your favorite; must have had a sixth sense.”
I walk into the trailer and immediately hear the sizzle of a sandwich on the stovetop and the faint pop of a soup can lid.
“Becca!” my mom calls as she moves toward me, spatula in hand. She walks fast, swaying a bit, trying not to burn something. “Sit, sit. I’ll throw another sandwich in the pan and heat up more soup.”
My mom is still beautiful in that familiar way, the kind that survived hard years instead of avoiding them.
Fine lines frame her smile now, but they only make her look warmer.
I slide into one of the squeaky vinyl chairs at the old round kitchen table.
It’s the same table we’ve had since I was ten, cracked down the middle, the laminate top curling slightly at the corners. It groans as I lean into it.
My dad brings over a tall glass of iced tea and sets it in front of me like it’s an offering. “There she is,” he says softly. “Everything okay?”
“Sam and I had a fight,” I say slowly, deliberating over my words. “I just … needed to be around my people.”
He nods and doesn’t press. But Mom’s already watching me too closely.
“Well,” she says gently, “all couples fight. Your dad and I haven’t made it a week without one.”
“Two and a half weeks,” Dad corrects, holding up two fingers. “Although I was on a fishing trip for ten days of that, but I say it still counts.” He shrugs.
I crack a smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks, setting a grilled cheese and tomato soup in front of me like I’m ten again, home sick from school.
“I don’t really want to, but it’s not something I feel like hiding either.” I pick up half the sandwich and take a bite. “Sam gave his sister some money. A lot of money. So she can open a salon.”
I don't say $75,000. My parents and I have always spoken about money differently—they feel it, I count it—and I know what that number would do to this kitchen table.
Mom blinks. “Didn’t she just finish beauty school?”
“Yep,” I say flatly, washing the bite down with tea.
“Well … that was … generous of him,” she says after a pause, trying to stay neutral.
“He did it without asking me.”
Mom’s face falters. “Oh.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Look, honey,” she tries, “I know you’ve given your brother money before. I doubt you ran those amounts by Sam every time.”
I freeze for a second. “Those were small amounts. A couple hundred dollars here and there. And they were from my personal account, not our shared savings.”
“Still,” she says delicately, “I’m just saying, maybe Sam was trying to help someone he loves. You’ve done the same. And your version of small and his might be different. You know you two come from different … backgrounds."
Mom has always liked Sam. Still, she tries to stay neutral about our different upbringings.
“Sure, but I don’t clean out our life savings in the process.”
Mom doesn’t answer. But I can see the concerned look she’s giving me.
“What?” I ask, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice.
She hesitates. “You can be a little … intense when it comes to money.”
“Intense?”
“You’re so smart, Becca,” she says gently. “So driven. But sometimes, I think you expect everyone else to operate the same way you do.”
I set my sandwich down. “So I’m judgmental? Is that what you’re saying?”
My dad jumps in before she can answer. “Sweetheart, nobody’s judging you.
We’re proud of you, damn proud. You’ve made a life no one in our family could have ever dreamed of.
But not everyone’s wired like you. You make a plan and stick to it like it’s gospel.
Some people …” He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
“Some people are still figuring it out.”
I stare down at my bowl. The soup’s cooling fast.
“I’m not mad that Holly needed help,” I say quietly. “I’m mad he handed her our future without even a conversation. Like I didn’t matter.”
My mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You do matter. And you’ve always been the one looking five steps ahead. But sometimes the people we love … they trip over their own feet.”
We don’t say much after that. I munch on my grilled cheese and soup quietly. Dad flips the TV to Wheel of Fortune. He yells out wrong answers with lots of confidence.
“‘A bag of pickles!’” he shouts, proud as can be.
“It’s ‘a back-up pitcher,’ honey,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“Same thing!” he grumbles, then winks at me. “One of ‘em’s sour, one of ‘em throws heat.”
I laugh despite myself.
After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes like I used to when I still lived here. We don’t say much over the clink of plates, the swish of water, and her quiet hum as she dries. There’s comfort in the rhythm, in the soft warmth of her presence beside me.
When we’re done, she hands me a towel to dry my hands and gives me a long look. “A good plan’s important, baby,” she says. “But don’t forget to leave room for grace.”
I nod, throat tight. I hear what she’s saying, I do.
But Mom and Dad don’t see how the way we lived, the stress of barely scraping by, settled into me.
I know I overcorrect now, hold things a little too tight.
Still, I don’t want to live like that again.
Maybe there’s a middle ground I haven’t figured out yet.
She kisses my forehead. “You’ve always known how to hold the line. Don’t forget you can draw a new one too, if you need to.”
Back in the living room, Dad’s still glued to the game show, but when he sees me lingering by my old bedroom door, he mutes the TV and stands up.
“Sweetheart,” he says, walking over to wrap me in a hug. “You’ve got a mind like a steel trap and a work ethic to match. You could build the damn moon if you wanted to. Don’t put your dreams on hold just because someone else lost sight of them.”
Something clicks at his statement. A pulse flares in my chest. Could be anger, maybe, but also energy. Direction.
I nod slowly. “Thanks, Dad.”
That night, I lay awake in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles overhead. I don’t have to wait for Sam. I don’t have to ask permission to keep going with our dream.
The next morning, I’m up before the sun.
I pack quietly, trying not to wake them, but Dad must’ve heard the coffee maker. He shuffles into the kitchen. His hair is messy, and his feet are bare. He holds out a truck stop travel mug, not saying a word.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He winks. “Call when you get back.”
“I will.”
As I step into the crisp morning air, I open my phone, my fingers already moving. I take a breath. This isn’t about Sam. This isn’t about revenge. This is about me.
I press the voice command button. “Hey, Siri, call Tiny Dream Builders.”
The phone starts to ring. And just like that, I’m building my future.