If the confrontation had been a fire, my mother’s collapse was the smoke that lingered long after. She didn’t faint—she just… sat down too fast, her skin suddenly pale, one hand clutching the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
The fight drained out of me instantly. I should have left. Everything in me wanted to. But I couldn’t walk out on her, not like this. Not every time I left a room, she followed me with her eyes like she was afraid I’d vanish. So I stayed.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” I crouched in front of her, scanning her face. Her breath was shallow, uneven.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice wavered. “Just… a little dizzy.”
My father shot a look at Nick, and for once, my soon-to-be ex-husband had the decency to lower his eyes. Helga mumbled something about calling an ambulance, but my mother insisted on not calling for an ambulance. The doctor came by that evening. “Stress,” he said simply, after checking her vitals. “She needs rest, and no more shouting matches.” His eyes flicked over the four of us, landing on me a beat too long, as if to say you know who I mean.
Helga didn’t sleep in my old room, thank God. But she was still here—in the kitchen in the mornings, on the porch in the evenings, her voice floating down the hall whenever Nick came by. She played the part of the helpful daughter, making tea for my mother, peeling fruit, washing dishes. I knew it was all for show, but my parents didn’t send her away.
My pregnancy made everything more complicated. I was barely two months along, but my body already felt different—tired more easily, sick some mornings. I told no one. Not my parents, not Shane, and definitely not Nick. This was mine to protect, and I wasn’t letting either of them taint it.
Shane came by the second night. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to see him until I opened the door and there he was—his familiar, steady gaze softening when he saw my face.
“Hey, Mia,” he said, greeting me with an affectionate smile.
I fell into his arms before I could think.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding me like he’d done a hundred times before—after exams, after breakups, after my father’s heart scare in my third year of college. He was my constant, my proof that not everyone left when things got hard.
We talked in my room, the door closed against the rest of the house. I didn’t tell him everything—just enough for him to understand that Nick and Helga were still in the picture, circling like vultures.
“Why stay?” he asked gently.
“My mom,” I said simply. “She’s not well. I can’t leave her right now.”
He nodded, not pushing, but his eyes said he wanted to drag me out of here himself.
“He didn’t sign the papers?” he asked, handing me a slice of blueberry pie.
“Not yet.” I shook my head and sighed.
We talked for another thirty minutes before he decided to go home. At midnight, I was startled by the low moans and groans coming from the room beside mine. Then I heard Nick’s voice. Low. Close. And Helga’s sultry laugh—light and practiced—followed.
I stayed up, talking quietly to myself, saying sorry to my baby while crying my heart out. After a while, the engine roared to life. I heard the front door shut and Nick’s car pulled away. Still, the silence didn’t bring peace because I knew Nick wasn’t gone for good.
He was still torn—between me, his wife, and Helga, the woman who’d wedged herself into every corner of my life. And as much as I hated it, that meant he’d keep coming back.
