Chapter 23
“Well, it’s about time!” Diane Carrington sneered the moment Giselle stepped into the house.
She barely looked up from her phone, tapping with one hand while holding the device in the other.
“Hurry, dear. If you just send me the money like last time, I might be able to call them and beg them to stop the late fees and interest.”
Giselle stopped just inside the doorway.
The familiar smell hit her first. Stale beer. Cheap perfume. Something fried hours ago and left to linger. Her stomach tightened as her gaze swept across the room.
Shopping bags covered the sofa. Bright logos. Crisp tissue paper peeking out of the tops. Her mother had gone out today—again.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
She’d barely been inside for ten seconds, and already the guilt was being laid at her feet.
Her jaw tightened. “Where did all this stuff come from, Mom?” she asked, deliberately ignoring the demand for money.
Her mother waved a dismissive hand, still fixated on her phone. “Oh, that’s nothing, dear. Just a few things I got for the kitchen. Nothing important.” She finally glanced up, licking her lips. “Did you transfer the money yet?”
Giselle felt the familiar pull in her chest.
That reflexive urge to fix it.
To make everything easier.
To send the money and avoid the inevitable explosion.
Her pulse quickened as she forced her gaze away from the bags and met her mother’s eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not transferring more money. I don’t have anything to transfer.”
Diane’s lips parted, already preparing some scathing remark, but Giselle cut her off.
“Before you berate me for being a terrible daughter, or remind me how I ‘tore up your body in utero,’ or whatever emotional blackmail you plan to guilt me with, I literally don’t have the money. I just paid my rent.”
Her voice trembled on the last word, and she hated herself for it.
She drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the shaking inside her chest.
“If I hadn’t had to cover Dad’s bar tab earlier this month, I might’ve had a little left over. But he drank twice as much as usual.”
A thick, suffocating silence settled over the room.
Both women turned to look at her father, who sat slumped in his recliner, pretending not to hear them. The stench of stale beer clung to the air. Without missing a beat, he let out a loud burp and took another swig from his can, eyes glued to the football game on the television.
Giselle swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.
Her hands were starting to shake now.
She curled her fingers into her palms, grounding herself in the small sting of her nails pressing into her skin.
“Even if I hadn’t paid his tab—which, by the way, I won’t be doing again—”
That finally got her father’s attention. His glassy, unfocused eyes shifted to her, narrowing slightly.
“Ye’re a good girl,” he slurred, lifting his beer in a lazy salute. “Ye’ll help yer pa out when he needs it.”
Giselle’s stomach twisted.
That old, familiar guilt pressed against her ribs. The same words he’d used since she was sixteen. Since her first job. Since the first time he’d needed “just a little help.”
Three to four hundred dollars every month.
Money she worked for.
Money that could’ve gone toward building a future for herself.
A nest egg for emergencies.
Even a new car. One that didn’t rattle when she hit forty miles per hour. One that started every time she turned the key.
Money she was finally done handing over.
Her throat tightened.
Her resolve wavered for one dangerous second.
He looked old. Tired. Fragile.
Then he took another long swallow of beer.
The sympathy hardened into something sharper.
“Nope. I’m done, Dad. I won’t do it again,” Giselle said firmly, her voice steadier than she felt. “If you need help covering the cost of a recovery center for alcoholics, I’d be happy to contribute to that. But not—”
Her father’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto hers, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
“What the hell are you saying, girl?” he bellowed, his voice slurred but filled with anger. “I ain’t a drunk! I sure as hell don’t need no damn recovery center!”
He jabbed a finger at her, still clutching his beer can, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to spilling.
“And don’t you go spreading lies either, missy! We only got one addict in this house, and that’s it!”
Giselle flinched.
Not from the accusation.
From the volume.
From the sudden surge of anger that filled the room.
Her pulse hammered in her ears, but she forced herself to remain still. Forced herself not to retreat. Not to apologize. Not this time.
She clenched her jaw, inhaling deeply before turning to face her mother.
Diane stood a few feet away, her expression almost smug, as if pleased that her daughter’s anger had shifted to someone other than her.
A small, painful ache formed in Giselle’s chest.
Did she even love her husband anymore?
Had she ever?
“Mom, I think you might have a problem as well,” she said quietly, watching for any reaction.
Diane snorted, shaking her head dismissively. “Honey, I don’t drink, and the strongest drug I take is ibuprofen when I get a headache.” She shoved her phone into her pocket and started collecting the shopping bags. “So don’t you go starting in on me.”
She wiggled her fingers as if dismissing Giselle like an irritating fly. “If you’re not here to help, then why don’t you just head on home, hmm?” Her tone was light, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.
Giselle’s eyes dropped to the fresh shopping bags—more bags, more things her mother didn’t need. Where did it all go? This house should be a hoarder’s nightmare with the sheer amount of useless junk her mother accumulated. So, where did she put all of her new purchases?
She frowned at her mother again. “If you’re not addicted to shopping, then go a whole week without spending any money,” Giselle challenged, folding her arms across her chest.
Diane froze mid-step, her grip tightening around the shopping bags as if they were a lifeline. When she turned back, her face was pale, her lips slightly parted.
“I’m not an addict,” she whispered, her voice shaky, her denial less confident than before.
Giselle took a slow step forward, lowering her voice but keeping it firm. “Prove it,” she said, letting the silence stretch between them. “Better yet, if you don’t need this stuff, return it. If you return everything, you won’t have to miss another payment on the credit card.”
Diane didn’t answer.
Giselle sighed, shaking her head as she turned toward the front door. “If you can’t go a whole week, then you need to get help, Mom.”
She pushed through the door before her mother could burst into tears—Diane’s last resort, her nuclear option. Giselle had never been able to ignore them. But tonight, she refused to fall for them.
She hurried out of the house, nearly running down the street toward the bus stop.
She needed to get as far away from her parents as possible.
Not because she feared for her physical safety, but because she knew herself—if she stayed even a minute longer, she might cave and offer her mother money. Money she didn’t have.
She had truly given it all away, leaving just enough to cover her own bills. That meant nothing set aside for emergencies, no cushion for unexpected expenses, no spare cash for a cup of coffee or a rare dinner out. Not that she ever went out. Not that she even had friends to go out with.
Giselle’s breath hitched as the realization struck. She’d avoided friendships, relationships—anything that might pull her into another cycle of giving and sacrificing. She’d cut herself off from people, not just to protect her finances, but to protect herself.
Maybe she was the one who needed therapy, she thought darkly, pressing her bus pass to the scanner before walking toward the back of the bus. Yes, she was using the bus today because her stupid car hadn’t started this morning.
It was Saturday, so the bus was nearly empty. During the workweek, every seat would be filled with exhausted commuters, but today, she had space to sink down into a seat by the window, her mind still racing.
The sunlight caught on the diamond ring adorning her finger, and for a moment, she just stared at it. Was she really engaged? It didn’t feel real. Shouldn’t she feel different? More… excited? Surprised? Giddy? Instead, all she felt was a quiet disbelief, like she was living someone else’s life.
She twisted the ring absently, her thoughts drifting to Dimitri. What was he doing right now? He’d mentioned a meeting earlier, but he hadn’t given any details. He just said he’d be back in time to take her out for dinner to celebrate tonight.
Celebrate.
The word echoed in her mind, distant and hazy. Marrying Dimitri… it was too beautiful to contemplate. Too perfect.
This had to be a dream.
Any moment now, she’d wake up in her tiny apartment, surrounded by shredded sofa cushions and shattered dishes, the air still thick with the memory of that horrible violation.
She’d wake up to sirens wailing in the distance, to the sound of her neighbors fighting through the thin walls, to the uneasy knowledge that someone could break in again at any time.
Instead, for the past several weeks, she had been living in a bright, clean, secure apartment. A place where no one littered the stairway, where no one screamed in the middle of the night, where she could sleep without fear.
And she had loved every moment of it.
Even if a small part of her—deep down, buried beneath years of guilt—felt like she didn’t deserve it.
It had been nice—this temporary illusion of security, of being part of something bigger than just her endless cycle of giving. But it was past time to return to her real life.
Soon, Dimitri would realize he’d made a mistake. That he didn’t really want to marry her. That she wasn’t the right woman for him.
That she was broken.