Chapter 3

David stared at the red mark on Linda's face, then his gaze shifted to me. His expression hardened with anger.

"Claire, why did you hit my mother?" His voice was cold. Accusing.

I looked at him standing there, holding that sobbing woman. The whole thing was absurd.

I said, "You're asking me why? Maybe you should ask her what came out of her mouth first."

"What could my mom have said that's so terrible?" David shouted. "She's not some kind of villain.

"I get that you're hurting from losing the baby. But you can't take it out on my mother.

"She's an elderly woman. How could you raise your hand to her?"

I stared at him, words caught in my throat.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't want to know. He made up his mind about me the second he walked through that door.

"Apologize," David said. "Apologize to my mother."

I looked at him, then at Linda cowering behind him, putting on her little performance.

"No," I said. "I have nothing to apologize for."

"You—" David jabbed a finger at me, his face red. "Claire, don't push me."

He grabbed my arm and tried to drag me toward Linda.

I yanked myself free. "I told you, I'm not the one at fault. She owes me an apology." I pointed straight at Linda.

Linda's wailing grew louder. "This is my reward. My son gets married, and suddenly, I don't exist anymore.

"Now his wife treats me like dirt. I can't go on like this!" She staggered toward the wall, putting on a big show of being ready to bash her head against it.

David lunged and caught her. "Mom, Mom, please stop!" His forehead was slick with sweat. Panic filled his eyes.

He turned and shot me a look full of disappointment and anger. "Claire, is tearing this family apart the only thing that'll make you happy?"

"Please," he said, his voice cracking. "I'm begging you. Apologize to my mom so we can move past this. Do it for me."

I looked at him. This sad, spineless man. My husband. The man I gave my heart to.

And every time it came down to his mother or me, he picked her. It didn't matter who was right. It never did.

I closed my eyes and took a slow breath. When I opened them again, there was nothing left inside them.

"Fine," I said.

I walked up to Linda. She was still sniffling, watching me through the gaps between her fingers.

I looked her dead in the eye and said it slowly, one word at a time. "I'm sorry."

*****

After that apology, an odd, heavy quiet settled over the house.

Linda stopped throwing sharp comments my way. She acted like I wasn't there at all.

She cooked for herself and David, leaving me out. She did the laundry and made a point of skipping my clothes.

In this house, I was a ghost. A shadow nobody saw.

David seemed to breathe easier. He acted like this was the answer, no more fighting, everything smooth again.

When Linda wasn't looking, he'd press some cash into my hand. "Order yourself something to eat. Whatever you want."

Sometimes in the middle of the night, he'd slip out of bed and quietly run a load of my laundry.

He thought this was enough. That a little money and some secret kindness could paper over everything.

What he didn't understand was that being ignored, being frozen out, cut deeper than any shouting ever could.

My body was mending, slowly. But my heart grew heavier with every day that passed.

I stopped sleeping. Night after night, I lay there staring at the dark ceiling. The moment I shut my eyes, I was back in that hospital room.

There was blood everywhere. The cold metal of the operating table. The doctor's tired, sorry eyes.

And then Linda's voice, dripping with poison. "A woman who can't keep a baby inside her. And who knows if it was even my son's?"

Those words followed me like a curse, spinning around and around in my head.

The weight fell off me. In less than two weeks, I looked like a different person.

David started to panic. He took me to see a therapist.

The doctor said, "She's dealing with PTSD. What she needs most right now is to be around family who truly care for her."

David sat there holding the diagnosis paper, quiet for a long, long time.

That night, for the first time, he raised his voice at Linda. "Mom, what do you want from her?

"Claire is sick. Can't you show her a little kindness?"

Linda was parked in front of the TV. She didn't turn around. "Sick? Please. She's bored, that's all. If she has that much time to sit around feeling sorry for herself, she should find something useful to do.

"Look at her. She looks like death warmed over. She's an embarrassment to this family."

"Enough!" David yelled.

Linda jumped. She spun around to face him. "Why are you yelling at me? What did I say that was so wrong?

"You get a wife, and suddenly your mother means nothing! David, I'm still your mother. And let me tell you, women like her—"

"I said enough!" David cut her off. "From now on, you treat Claire right. Or we'll find our own place."