"Alma, where are you?"
"Is everything okay with your mom? Call me back."
"I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have said those things. Please don't scare me like this."
I deleted every message without a flicker of expression, then dialed a number.
"Hello, Attorney Dickerson? This is Alma Fox. I'd like to consult you about a divorce."
Antony Dickerson had been my senior in college and was now one of the most respected matrimonial lawyers in the city.
After I finished explaining the situation, he was quiet for a moment. "Alma, don't worry. Leave this to me. I'll draft the divorce agreement as soon as possible, and when it comes to asset division, I'll fight to protect your interests."
During our marriage, Barnaby's company had grown exponentially—but I wasn't listed as a legal representative. I had no assets in my name. Even the house we lived in was registered under his parents. The only thing I could produce was a single transfer record: five hundred thousand dollars, wired to his account.
That money had come from my parents selling our old family home so I could buy a new place after the wedding. Back then, Barnaby had convinced me to invest it in his company instead. Once we go public, he'd promised, I'll give you ten times the return.
Looking back now, it was laughable.
The first thing I did after settling in was look for work.
I dug out the drawing board and résumé I'd locked away for five years and sent applications to several design firms.
Five years away from my field had left me rusty. Software had evolved; techniques had changed. I threw myself into studying around the clock, cramming to make up for everything I'd missed.
I shut myself inside that tiny rented room like a sponge, absorbing everything I could. There was no time for grief. No time to think about Barnaby.
When I finally received an interview notice from my first potential employer, he found me.
He was standing downstairs from my building. His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard—nothing like the confident man he used to be.
The moment he saw me, he strode forward and seized my wrist. His grip was so tight it felt like he might crush the bone.
"Alma, this is how you take care of your mother? Hiding out here alone?" His voice was hoarse, edged with accusation.
I met his gaze coldly and tried to pull free. "Let go."
"Come home with me." He didn't release me. If anything, his grip tightened. "Whatever's going on, we'll talk about it at home."
"Barnaby, I don't have a home anymore." I stated it like the simple fact it was.
He froze, as if he didn't understand.
"What do you mean, you don't have a home?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." I looked him in the eye, enunciating every word with perfect clarity. "My mother is dead. She died on New Year's Eve. While you were telling me to get lost. While you were having your holiday dinner with Elise and her family."
The color drained from Barnaby's face.
His grip on my wrist went slack. He stared at me in disbelief, his lips moving, but no sound came out.
"That's impossible..." he murmured. "You never... you never told me..."
"I did." I cut him off, my voice flat and even. "I called you. I begged you to transfer the money to save her. You said I was putting on an act." I paused, letting each word land. "Barnaby, you snuffed out her last chance at survival with your own hands."
I stepped around him and kept walking.
"Alma!" He caught up from behind and grabbed me again. "I'm sorry—I didn't know. I really didn't know it was this serious! I thought... I thought you just wanted me to come back..."
He stumbled over his words, panic and fear bleeding through his voice.
I stopped. Turned. Looked at him with nothing but contempt.
"You thought what? That I'm still the same Alma who'd cry the moment you raised your voice? Who'd spiral into paranoia every time you didn't come home?"
