Chapter 41
I've only got a few days left in this apartment, so there are moving boxes everywhere.
I decided to donate most of the ruins of my old life, but I kept one thing—the snow globe from Paris with the tiny Eiffel Tower trapped in eternal glitter Richard and I bought for our first anniversary.
I don't keep it for him, but for the version of us that lived inside that globe.
Maybe I should fully move on, but I think that even when your relationship goes to wreck, there are moments you'd want to remember. Otherwise, it all becomes a tragic investment in hope.
What's the point of loving anyone at all if you can't remember them for the good stuff they gave you, including the lessons?
So I think it's okay. And surprisingly, Ben agreed.
He's been helping me pack, lifting all the heavy boxes, unscrewing furniture, making jokes and pretending that chipping my wedding frame was a coincidence.
New Year's Eve is coming up, so not an ideal time to make such a big shift, but now it's obvious—Ben isn't moving to New York. We aren't moving to New York, because he needs to stay.
We fought—god, did we fight—over where I should live.
He insisted on getting us an apartment, but after everything that's happened, I need to feel like I have stability under my feet that doesn't rely on anyone else. And he... he needs to sort out Lisa.
The past week has been anything but easy. Ben keeps running up whenever Lisa needs something, and she needs something all the time.
Still, I tell myself that I can do this, stay patient. She must be all nerves and it's understandable.
After I took her number from Ben—he thought it was a bad idea, but I took it anyway—I texted her. Asked if she would even talk to me and apologized for how I handled the whole love-confession moment. No response.
Same with Richard, who keeps our marriage half-alive by pretending he's the corpse, even though his Insta shows him very much alive: tan, grinning, yacht-side in Seattle.
Oh, and toasting his rebirth with all the women he once told me I shouldn't worry about.
Merriam-Webster should list that under "classic."
So Ben and I have to make the best of whatever we have now.
"Are you done with the patch?" I yell from the bathroom, loud enough for it to carry around the corner. "I'm starving. In-N-Out?"
"Sounds good," he calls from the kitchen. He's been there for the past thirty minutes, patching the hole in the wall he punched when frustration got the better of him. "I'm almost done."
I'd kill for something small, a pastry maybe, since my stomach has decided it'll be dramatic these days, but Ben loves it, so In-N-Out it is.
I swipe on mascara, leaning too close to the mirror. Red lipstick next.
Then I hear a noise in the other room—different, off—so I pause, lipstick still in hand.
"Ben?" I call, pricking my ear.
No answer, just the murmur of conversation I can't place. Two voices? One deep, familiar. One tiny, shrill.
"Ben?" I call again. "Who are you talking to?"
My heart starts beating faster. I throw the lipstick in the sink and rush across the hall to the kitchen. Stop dead.
My mother stands in the kitchen, a key in her hand and a finger raised at Ben like she's ready to skewer him with it.
He's leaning over the counter, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"Mom?" I stiffen. "What are you doing here? And where did you get the key?"
She registers me, then crosses to the counter in her black lace heels. "Richard left it for me. He asked me to go check on you. Especially since you keep ignoring me." Her tone is glacial.
"Check on me?" I raise a brow. "He doesn't even answer my calls."
"Well, are you surprised? After what happened?" she asks pointedly and snaps a nod at Ben. "What is he doing here?"
I glance at him—he's obviously holding himself—and the cold click in my gut tells me she's been here for a while.
"Did you say anything to Ben?" I raise a brow at her.
"Yes," she says with obvious disdain. "I told him what he should know. That he destroyed your life. That he's bad news and he should stop fooling around with you."
My eyes flare. I have a very real urge to strangle my mother with her fake pearls.
I step forward, mouth open to object, but she taps the key on the counter and stops me with her hand.
"And you, Emma, shame on you," she says, mouth pursed. "For what you did to Richard."
Blink. I just... blink.
Behind me, Ben exhales loud enough to fill the apartment and sits on the barstool next to me.
I turn to her and drag in a breath, voice too explanatory for how I should sound now. "Mom. You don't know anything about my relationship with Richard. He doesn't love me—"
"Of course he does!"
"He doesn't!" I snap. "If you heard how he talked about me, like I was something broken, like he only pitied me—"
"Because you have no sense of reality, of real life. You think this is a good idea?"
I swallow hard, feeling the familiar tremor in my throat before I can stop it.
Ben's hand finds the small of my back—protectively warm. I look at him.
"Relax, Emma. I'm here. Don't worry," he says, his voice low.
"You stay out of it," my mother shoots at him. "This is between me and my daughter."
Ben's brow cocks slowly, his face turning into a blade that's ready to split my mother in half if she says another word.
I turn to my mother, voice urgent. "Mom. Not now. Let's leave it for another time."
"No. You will apologize to Richard and ask him to forget everything. He is hurting. He will forgive you—"
"I am not doing that," I hiss instantly.
"You will do as I say!" she snaps, and slaps the counter, her palm cracking against it.
My attention locks on her hand—the same hand that once slapped me, and cold fire streaks through me.
I want to scream, cry, but all I can do is try to stop my hands from shaking.
Ben rises, shoulders squared in that quiet, lethal way of his, and stands between us.
"That's enough," he says, voice smooth but dangerous. "Do not speak to her like this. She is a grown woman, and her choices are hers. They have nothing to do with what you want."
He pulls me into him, his hand firm on my shoulder.
For a blink, I see uncertainty flash across my mother's face as she looks up at him, maybe even fear. She's never looked small in front of me before, but she can smell it now—power she didn't account for.
Still, she chins up, spitting more venom. "How dare you speak to me like that? You have no decency. She's married to a respectable man. Someone you'll never measure up to."
"Stop it," I grind out, my jaw so tight it might snap.
Ben snorts an amused laugh, right in her face. "I wouldn't want to measure up to a psychopath like that."
"Say what you want to make yourself feel better," she snaps. "You're not serious—not a marriage material."
Ben snorts, amused and unfazed. Then he gives her a daring face, smirking. "I'll prove you wrong. When I marry your daughter, we'll send you a postcard with our happy faces on the mantel, because you won't be invited."
Her eyes flash, her neck craning at him. "She'll marry you over my dead body! She'll go back to Richard. And you—you go where you belong. Stop playing with her life."
"He's not playing with me!" I cut in.
She doesn't even register me, keeps firing at Ben. "I knew you'd be bad for her the moment I saw you."
"Stop it. Stop it!" I shout.
"Men like you—" her eyes slash toward him, lips pursed, "—you come, you take. Sweet words, pretty gestures. When you're done, you'll leave, and you won't look back."
"Mom!" I bark. "You don't know him!"
"I know men like him!" she snaps. "He's the type to make you pregnant and then vanish!"
"I said enough! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" The words tear out of me before I even know I'm yelling. They rattle the empty walls, the cabinets, the air itself, even my throat—raw and burning.
Ben stiffens, stunned by the intensity of my fury.
My mother goes wide-eyed, momentarily so startled she seems terrified of me. She knows she pushed too far—even though she's never seen me like this before. For once, she shuts up.
I step forward, my heart drumming in my throat, but Ben's hand finds mine.
"Emma, it's alright," he says carefully, trying to calm me down. "She's angry. You're angry. Don't do anything stupid."
"No." I shake my head sharply. "I'm going to do the only thing I should've done years ago."
The kitchen tilts as I cross to her, and I realize that even in her heels, she's way smaller than me. I never noticed it before.
"I've had enough of you," I spit out, meeting her eyes head-on. "Don't you fucking dare talk to him like that."
Her mouth drops open, face going instantly red. "What did you just tell me?"
"You heard me," I say, enunciating every word. My eyes narrow. "Don't. You. Fucking. Dare."
She blinks, about a million times, and clutches her chest. "I can't believe that's how you speak to your mother."
"You're my mother?" A bitter snort escapes me.
It kills me to say what I'm about to, but the rage overrides it.
"Mothers don't do what you do. You suffocated me my whole life—with words, and random punishments.
Terrorized my brain to this day because it's ingrained in my mind that I'm never enough and no one will love me.
You were supposed to protect me, but you made me small!
Because you're an empty, miserable woman who hates herself. "
Her eyes flash furiously, but it's my turn to bulldoze right over her, even as the tears start watering my eyes.
"I've spent my entire life trying to have you love me, for me, for who I am, but you never did." I shake my head, my voice breaking. "You only love yourself."
"How can you say that?" Her tone is hurt and cross at the same time.
"It's true!" My arms fling out frantically.
"You'd sell my soul to the devil for status; you literally did.
You didn't care even when I told you that Richard wasn't always treating me well.
Made me believe it's normal or that it's all my fault.
Now you parade in here giving me lectures when you don't even know anything! He called me scraps, Mother!"
She winces and shakes her head, like she can't believe that.
"Yes, scraps!" I scream. "And you want me to crawl back to him?!"
My rage spills down my cheeks, but I turn away and wipe my face before she sees it.
"If you want to know the truth, I didn't end up in therapy because I was broken, but because you drove me there!" I bite out.
When I'm done, her face is blank and ghost-white. One hand grips the counter, the other presses so hard to her chest she might crack it open.
I don't think she even sees me because she's gone somewhere past me, somewhere far, where her thoughts went to die.
Ben steps beside me, his voice suddenly concerned. "Bring her water. Now. Or she might pass out."
"No," she snaps out of it and sucks in air, her throat bobbing. Then she does that little tilt of her head, that narrowed-eyed glare at Ben. "You both are shameful."
My face goes flat-dead. I yank the key from her hand and slip it into my pocket. "And you're not welcome. Get out."
She blinks, caught off guard. Her voice comes out horrified. "This is unacceptable!"
"I said, get out!" I yell, my hand slicing toward the door. "Now!"
She freezes, her expression shocked and outraged. Then, clinging to her dignity, she casts one last evil glance at both Ben and storms out the door.
I watch her silhouette from behind—green tweed, mahogany hair around her small head, and then—
Smack. I slam the door behind her.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, head buried between my knees, trying to breathe myself back into calm.
Ben's beside me before I even register he's moved, kneeling close. His voice is laced with worry. "Emma, you're shaking. You've got red marks all over your neck. Breathe, baby. Deep breath."
"I am breathing," I gasp, but it's shallow, not enough to fill the empty space.
"Here, follow my rhythm," Ben says and takes my hands to put them on his chest, trying to guide me. His face is gentle and hard at the same time.
I manage a broken smile. "Thank you."
He nods, cups the back of my head, and presses an anchoring kiss to my forehead. "It's okay. You two had to fight at some point. Maybe it will clear the air."
He's saying it only to make me feel better.
I shake my head. She might still be there, listening, knowing how she got under my skin one last time, but this door won't open for her again.
Today is the day I finally understand that I'd rather have no mother at all.