Chapter 1
I was stirring a seafood chowder for sixteen of my in-laws when Andrew pushed open the kitchen door, clutching a glass of Cabernet.
"Susan, right after Christmas, let's head down to City Hall and sign the papers," he said.
The lobster tail in the pot swirled through the froth, steam clouding my face.
From the living room, Margaret's booming laugh rattled the drywall.
I turned around, my apron smeared with grease from picking crab meat.
"Okay," I said.
Andrew clearly hadn't expected me to fold so fast. His wine glass hovered in mid-air.
"You aren't even going to ask why?" he asked.
I untied my apron, folded it into a tight square, and set it on the counter.
"Andrew, I've spent four straight days preparing your family's Christmas Eve feast—prime rib, lamb, seafood, sides, dessert, wine, everything. And I was up at five this morning making that artisanal bone broth your mom insisted on," I said.
I locked eyes with him.
"I'm done," I added.
He opened his mouth, ready to bluster or scramble for some face-saving excuse.
I didn't give him the chance. I shoved past the kitchen door and walked out.
*****
In the living room, sixteen Carters were lounging on the sofas, devouring chips and pretzels while watching the holiday parade broadcast.
Margaret was the first to spot me.
"Susan, is that chowder ready yet? Your uncle's waiting on his soup," she hollered.
"Not yet," I replied.
I walked straight to the entryway coat rack and grabbed my black down coat, faded and pilled from years of heavy wash cycles.
Margaret pushed herself up off the sofa.
"Where do you think you're going? It's Christmas Eve, and dinner isn't even on the table," she snapped.
"Find someone else to play maid," I said.
I yanked the front door open, letting a gust of freezing wind and swirling snow blast into the foyer.
Andrew rushed after me to the doorway, lowering his voice into a harsh whisper. "Susan, stop throwing a tantrum, alright? Get back inside and finish dinner. We'll handle the divorce after the holidays—"
"Didn't you just ask for a divorce?" I asked.
I whipped around to face him.
"I said yes. So it starts right now," I said.
As the door latched shut behind me, Margaret's shrill voice cut through the glass, demanding an explanation.
Snow pelted my face, and I hadn't even grabbed an umbrella.
My phone buzzed in my pocket with a bank balance alert—1,060 dollars left in checking. I'd blown 670 dollars just last month buying Margaret that heated foot spa massager.
Five years.
Five long years since I married into the Carter family. I used to be a rising junior architect at a boutique firm, but I turned into their unpaid, full-time housekeeper.
I waited at the curb for three shivering minutes before a yellow cab pulled over.
"Take me to Pine Street over in Oakridge," I told the driver.
That was the old studio my mom left me. It'd sat vacant ever since I got married—barely four hundred square feet, but big enough to crash for the night.
*****
When I unlocked the door to the Pine Street place, a wave of stale, musty air hit me.
I didn't bother turning on the lights, just navigated the pitch-black hallway to the bedroom and collapsed onto the dusty mattress.
My phone buzzed incessantly.
Andrew called seven times in a row.
I let every single one go straight to voicemail.
Then the text messages started flooding in.
Andrew: [Susan, what the hell is wrong with you? Nobody knows how to finish the chowder, and the whole meal is ruined.]
Andrew: [My mom's blood pressure is through the roof right now.]
Andrew: [Seriously, couldn't you wait until after Christmas to pull this stupid stunt?]
I flipped my phone onto silent and turned my back to the door.
By morning, the screen displayed thirty-two missed calls and fourteen texts.
Along with Andrew's rants, there were several messages from his sister, Jessica.
Jessica: [Susan, have you lost your damn mind? Ditching the family on Christmas Eve like that? Mom said if you don't come back and apologize today, don't ever set foot in this house again.]
I typed back five short words.
Susan: [I'm not coming back. Thanks.]
Jessica shot back instantly: [Who do you think you are? Without my brother, you won't even be able to pay for groceries.]
I didn't bother replying.
I got up, washed my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Barely twenty-eight, but dark circles bruised my eyes, faint laugh lines were setting in, and my hair hung limp in a hasty knot at the nape of my neck.
Five years ago, I graduated top of my class with a degree in architecture, my professor insisting I had real talent.
Five years later, all I had to show for it were cracked, raw hands from constant dishwashing.
My phone chimed, displaying an unlisted number.
I swiped to answer.
"Is this Susan Nolan?" the voice on the other end asked.
"Speaking," I said.
"Hi, this is HR from Brightview Design Studio. We reviewed the resume you submitted two months ago, and we'd love to bring you in for an interview on December 29th. Would that time work for you?"
Two months ago, I had secretly sent out thirty applications without telling Andrew.
This was the only bite I got.
"Yes, that works perfectly," I said.
After hanging up, I retrieved my old laptop from the back of the cabinet.
Booting it up, I pulled up the folder holding forty-seven design drafts I'd quietly built over the years—sketched while the Carters napped, drafted while they hit the town, and polished during the rinse cycle on laundry day.
I plugged the charger into the wall.
Time to get down to business.