Chapter 1
Dad sent a message in the family group chat, then deleted it three seconds later.
But I had already taken a screenshot.
[Once the divorce is finalized, we'll get married. Don't worry. I'll give you the house and the car.]
I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling.
The message was addressed to someone named "Baby."
And that person wasn't my mom.
I clenched my phone tightly and walked to the balcony.
Dad's car was parked downstairs; it was a shiny black Audi.
Then, I made a decision.
*****
I kept rereading that message, over and over.
"Once the divorce is done, we'll get married. Don't worry, the house and the car are all yours."
It was sent at 3:17 and deleted at 3:17 PM, only about three seconds apart.
But three seconds was all I needed.
My screenshot reflexes had been sharp since I was a kid. Years of gaming had trained me well.
There were more than twenty people in the family group chat: my grandparents, my dad's siblings and their spouses, plus seven or eight cousins.
No one said a word. The group chat was so quiet, it was like a graveyard.
I had no idea how many people saw that message, but one thing's for sure: I saw it.
My phone buzzed. My dad DM'd me.
He said: [Sent the wrong message earlier. Don't read too much into it.]
I didn't reply.
Dad messaged: [Did your mom see it?"]
I kept quiet.
He urged: [Pick up.]
My phone started ringing. It was Dad.
I pressed decline.
He called again, and I declined again.
On the third try, I switched my phone to silent.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at that screenshot, going over every word.
[Once the divorce is done.] He was already planning the divorce.
[We'll get married.] He was planning to marry that woman.
[The house and the car are all yours.] He was ready to hand over everything we had to her
I was 25. My parents have been married for 26 years.
I always thought my family was normal.
Dad ran his own business, and Mom stayed home to take care of the kids and manage the house.
We weren't rich, but we got by.
I never thought I'd see a message like that.
And I definitely never imagined my dad would send it to the whole family group chat.
There was a sound at the door. Mom came home. She walked in with bags of groceries, smiling.
She said, "The supermarket was having a sale today. Ribs were three bucks off, so I grabbed two pounds. Your dad loves sweet and sour ribs..."
She froze when she caught my expression.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
I opened my mouth, but I couldn't get the words out. "Mom..."
She frowned. "Why do you look so pale? Did something go wrong at work?"
She put the groceries down and came over, pressing her hand to my forehead.
"No fever," she murmured.
I held her hand for a moment, then handed her my phone. "Mom, take a look at this."
She took the phone, squinting at the screen for a few seconds.
Her expression shifted from confusion to emptiness.
And then, there was nothing.
"Okay," she said, her voice flat.
That was all she said.
"Mom?" I called, my voice shaky.
"I know," she replied.
She handed the phone back to me and went to the kitchen to put the groceries down.
I just stood there, frozen.
"Mom... aren't you mad?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"What's the point of being mad?" she replied.
Her voice came from the kitchen, completely flat, no emotion at all.
"You need to blanch the ribs first, or they'll taste fishy," she said.
I got up and trailed after her to the kitchen door.
Mom was at the sink, washing the ribs, facing away from me.
Her shoulders were shaking.
But she didn't turn around.
"Mom..." I said.
"Enough, don't look at it anymore," she said, her voice steady but tired. "Go back to your room. I'll take care of this."
"How are you going to deal with it?" I asked.
"What do you expect me to do?" she replied.
She turned off the faucet and dried her hands.
Then she turned around and looked at me.
Her eyes were red, but no tears fell.
"Breanna, there are things you don't know," she said.
"What things?" I asked.
She smiled, but it was bitter. That smile made my heart clench.
"Your dad's been seeing that woman for more than just a year or two," Mom said quietly.
I just froze, completely shocked.
"Eight years." She looked at me, her voice flat. "Since you started high school."
"Eight years?" I echoed.
That number hit me like a knife to the chest.
"Mom... you knew about this the whole time?" I asked.
Mom didn't respond. She just kept washing the ribs, her back to me.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I asked.
"What would telling you have changed?" Mom said.
"Maybe I could've..." I began.
"Really? And what would you have done?" she replied.