Chapter 3

Mom's guest room still had my old posters on the walls. Faded prints of architectural landmarks—the Guggenheim, the Sydney Opera House, places I'd dreamed of visiting back when I thought the world was waiting for me.

That was before I learned to make myself smaller.

A week had passed since I left Owen standing in our kitchen. Seven days of sleeping in my childhood bed, waking to Mom's careful footsteps in the hallway, the smell of coffee that wasn't a peace offering.

Mom was doing better. Much better than I'd expected, honestly.

The doctors said it hadn't been a major heart attack. Just a warning. She was sixty-five, her blood pressure had spiked, and she'd fainted when she stood up too quickly. They'd adjusted her medication, kept her for observation, sent her home with instructions to rest.

She was following exactly none of them. Yesterday I'd caught her reorganizing the garage.

But she was here. Alive. And that was what mattered.

What kept circling in my mind, though, was this: even if Owen had come that night, the outcome would've been the same. The doctors would've run the same tests. Performed the same procedure. Prescribed the same medications.

His presence wouldn't have changed the medical reality.

But I wouldn't have been alone.

That's what I couldn't stop thinking about. I hadn't needed Owen to save her. I hadn't needed him to make decisions or talk to doctors or do anything heroic.

I'd just needed someone to sit with me in that waiting room.

Someone to hold my hand while I signed the consent forms.

Someone to say "It's going to be okay" even if they didn't know if it would be.

Owen couldn't even do that.

On the eighth morning, Mom found me at the kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of tea I'd forgotten to drink.

"You haven't gone home in a week," she said.

"I know."

She sat down across from me. Waited.

I'd always been good at not crying. Good at keeping my voice steady, my face neutral, my emotions in a neat little box where they wouldn't bother anyone.

But something about my mother's kitchen—the same table where I'd done homework, where we'd had breakfast before my wedding, where she'd held me when Dad died—made the box crack open.

I told her everything. The receipt, the pattern, the three years of being invisible. The eighty thousand dollars and the website that didn't have my name. The hospital and the French restaurant and the crème brûlée.

I didn't cry. My voice stayed level. But my hands shook around the teacup.

When I finished, Mom reached across the table and covered my hands with hers.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"I think I want out." I looked up at her. "No. I know I want out."

She squeezed my hands. "Then do it. Don't wait for permission."

I found a lawyer that afternoon.

Sharon Martinez had an office downtown, diplomas from good schools on her wall, and a wedding ring she twisted absently while she reviewed my notebook.

"You kept excellent records," she said after twenty minutes.

"I'm a designer. I document everything."

"That's going to help considerably." She closed the notebook, looked at me directly. "Minnesota is an equitable distribution state, which means marital property is divided fairly, not necessarily equally. But you have clear documentation of a business investment, which strengthens your claim significantly."

"I don't want the business," I said. "I just want my money back."

"That's actually ideal. Less complicated than trying to split ownership." She leaned back in her chair. "With this documentation, we have a strong case. Most people settle rather than go to litigation. It's faster, cheaper, less public."

"How long?"

"If he's reasonable? A few months. If he fights it..." She shrugged. "Could be longer."

I thought about Owen. About how he'd fight anything that made him look bad. About how he'd justify and explain and reframe until he was the victim.

"He'll settle," I said. "He won't want this public."

Sharon smiled slightly. "Let's hope so."

Three days later, I went back to the house. Our house. Owen's house.

I'd texted him first: Coming by to get my things. Please don't be there.

To his credit, he wasn't.

The house felt different. Smaller somehow, or maybe I'd just gotten used to the space in Mom's spare room. My footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors Owen had insisted on installing, even though they were over budget.

I moved efficiently. Laptop from my office, tablet, external hard drives with all my design files. Client records, contracts, invoices. Everything that proved I'd been working, earning, existing.

In the living room, there was a photo wall. Our wedding, vacations, holidays with friends. Owen and me laughing in pictures that felt like they were from someone else's life.

I stopped in front of our wedding photo. I'd been twenty-five, glowing, so certain that love was enough. Owen had looked at me like I hung the moon.

When had that changed?

Or had it been an illusion all along?

I left the photos on the wall. Left the coffee mugs with our initials, the throw blanket we'd bought together, the bottle of wine we'd been saving for a special occasion that never came.

I only took what was mine. What I'd earned. What I'd built.

Before I left, I wrote a note on the back of an old envelope. Left it on the dining table, in the exact spot where the roses had been.

Owen,

I want my $80,000 back, plus reasonable return on investment. Or 25% equity in the studio.

Your lawyer can contact mine: Sharon Martinez, 555-0147.

I kept the roses. You can have everything else.

Harper

My phone started ringing before I even got to Mom's.

Owen. Owen. Owen.

Seventeen missed calls by the time I pulled into the driveway.

The messages started coming through while I unpacked my car.

Harper, please. We need to talk.

This is insane. You can't just leave.

I'm sorry about your mom, okay? I said I'm sorry.

You're overreacting.

Call me back.

CALL ME BACK.

I read them all. Felt nothing except a distant curiosity about when he'd realize "I'm sorry" wasn't enough.

Finally, I typed out one response: Talk to my lawyer.

Then I blocked his number.

That night, I lay in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars were still there, stuck up when I was fifteen and thought I could map the universe.

I thought about who I'd been when I married Owen. So eager to support his dreams. So convinced that being a good wife meant making myself smaller, quieter, more convenient.

I'd thought love was sacrifice.

Turned out it was just... sacrifice.

I didn't regret loving him. I regretted losing myself in the process. Regretted every time I'd swallowed my disappointment and said "It's okay" when it wasn't. Regretted believing that my needs could always wait.

But I could find my way back. I was already halfway there.

My phone buzzed. Owen, from a different number.

I turned it off and, for the first time in three years, slept through the night.