Shane's SUV rolled to a stop in front of my parents’ house, the hum of the engine fading into the early afternoon stillness. I sat there for a moment, fingers tight around the strap of my bag, staring at the familiar white fence and the garden my mother prided herself on. It should have felt safe here. Instead, the air was thick with dreadful anxiety.
“You want me to come in?” Shane asked, leaning on the steering wheel, eyes scanning the house like he was checking for threats.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’ll ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Besides… if Helga’s here, I’d rather not give her another audience.”
He studied me for a second longer, then nodded. “Call me if you need me. I mean it, Mia—anything.”
I managed a small smile, squeezed his hand once, and stepped out. The wheels on my suitcase clicked over the gravel driveway. Shaun stayed until I reached the gate, giving me a short wave before pulling away.
The roses by the porch were in full bloom, their sweetness cloying after the stale taste of last night’s betrayal. I was halfway to the front door when Helga appeared, stepping out from behind the column like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Her hair was perfect, her lipstick fresh, her smile smug enough to belong in a magazine spread titled Sick Homewreckers Who Thrive.
“Well, look who finally came home,” she said, her voice lilting with fake surprise. “The prodigal ballerina returns. No red peignoir today, huh?”
I ignored her and kept walking toward the spacious living room.
She followed me with lazy but numbered steps. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me this morning before I left your home. Guess he likes women who actually stay put.”
The words were meant to sting, but I had nothing left to give her. My silence seemed to bother her more than any retort could.
“Pathetic,” she added under her breath.
I stopped at the door to my room, hand on the knob, and turned just enough to meet her gaze. “You’ve earned every bit of what he is. Enjoy him while it lasts.”
For a flicker of a second, something sharp flashed in her eyes—like she hated being reminded of the kind of man she’d chosen. But then the smirk returned, and she tilted her head. “I already am.”
I stepped inside, the scent of my mother’s lavender dried flowers wafted, wrapping around me. I moved quickly grabbed a box from my old closet and filling it with clothes and documents I’d left behind before my tour. I was halfway done when the sound of heels clicked across the hall.
And then—a loud, dramatic gasp. I turned to see Helga in the doorway, her hand pressed to her cheek like she’d just been struck. Her eyes were wide, wet, and shining like a highly-paid actress in some soap opera.
“Oh my God, Mia,” she said, voice trembling. “Why would you slap me?!”
I blinked, caught between disbelief and laughter. “Are you crazy? I didn’t—”
The front door opened downstairs.
“Helga, dear?” my mother’s voice called, cheerful at first. My parents stepped into the hallway a moment later, grocery bags in hand, only to freeze at the sight of Helga clutching her cheek.
“What happened?” my mother asked, her tone sharp with concern.
“She just… she lost control,” Helga said, sniffling. “I was trying to talk to her about Nick, and she—” Her voice broke, perfect timing for maximum effect.
I set the box down with a thud. “I never touched you, Helga. She’s lying!”
My father frowned. “Why would she make that up?”
“Why?” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Because she’s been sleeping with my husband, and now she’s acting like a victim, too.”
Helga gasped again, shaking her head with angelic disbelief. “That’s not true. Nick and I have just… been close while you were away. You’re twisting it.”
“Close?” My voice cracked, the word jagged on my tongue. “I saw you, Helga. Last night.”
"That's a heavy accusation, Mia!" My father roared, yanking me out of the room. He hurled me back to the living room and pushed me to the couch.
"I'm telling the truth, Dad. She's fucking my husband whenever she get the chance."
Before either of my parents could respond, the crunch of tires on gravel pulled all our eyes to the driveway. A black sedan rolled in. Nick stepped out, scanning the yard before locking eyes with me through the open doorway. Relief flickered across his face like I was the answer to a prayer he didn’t deserve.
“Mia,” he called, stepping toward the house. “We need to talk.”
Helga lingered just behind me now, her hand still on her cheek, ensuring my parents caught the image of the wounded sister, the guilty wife. And just like that, I knew this was the scene she’d wanted all along.
