Chapter 2
Emily
I descended the stairs at six AM, expecting to find my usual quiet sanctuary where I could gather my thoughts over coffee before the day's chaos began.
Instead, I discovered Chloe had already claimed my domain.
She stood at the stove, wearing one of my aprons, preparing what looked like an elaborate breakfast spread.
Jack hovered beside her, his attention focused entirely on her delicate movements as she measured out pills from various prescription bottles.
"The blueberries are organic, just like the oncologist recommended," Jack said softly, his voice carrying a tenderness I hadn't heard in months.
My coffee mug—the chipped blue one Noah had painted for me in kindergarten—sat forgotten in the sink, replaced by Chloe's medical supplies scattered across the counter where I used to read veterinary journals.
My usual seat at the breakfast table was now occupied by a pill organizer, medical appointment cards, and what appeared to be treatment schedules written in Jack's careful handwriting.
Chloe turned. "Oh Jack, you're so thoughtful. I don't know what I'd do without you and Noah."
At the mention of his name, my eight-year-old son bounded into the kitchen wearing a brand-new cowboy hat that definitely hadn't been in his closet yesterday.
"Look, Mom!" Noah announced, tipping the hat with exaggerated flair. "Chloe taught me real cowboy gestures! She says real cowboys protect people, especially when they're sick."
I felt my jaw tighten. "Noah, where did you get that hat?"
Jack's eyes flashed with something between disappointment and anger, while Chloe's expression shifted to one of wounded innocence.
"It was just a small gift," she said weakly. "I wanted Noah to feel special."
The breakfast proceeded in uncomfortable silence, with me standing awkwardly by the counter while the three of them formed a cozy family unit around the table.
I grabbed an apple and headed for the door, muttering something about checking on the livestock.
By ten AM, I found myself in the farm office, a small room lined with four generations of Thompson family land certificates and agricultural awards.
Jack was hunched over the desk, shuffling through official-looking documents.
Chloe sat in the chair beside him, one pale hand resting on his forearm. "I hate being a burden, but the new immunotherapy could save my life. The doctor says it's my best chance, but insurance won't cover experimental treatments."
"That land has been in my family for generations," Jack said, his voice firm with resolve, "but what's the point if we can't help people we care about?"
I stepped closer and realized what they were discussing. The south forty acres—our best corn-producing field—was being considered as collateral for a mortgage. The paperwork was already partially completed.
"Jack, once we mortgage that land, there's no guarantee we can get it back," I warned, but my words seemed to bounce off their united front.
The afternoon brought no relief.
I found them at the horse stables, where Chloe was demonstrating riding techniques to Noah and several neighborhood children.
For someone supposedly weakened by chemotherapy, she moved with surprising grace and strength, controlling her mount with the skill of someone who'd spent years in the saddle.
"A real cowboy protects the people he loves, especially when they're sick," she told Noah as she adjusted his grip on the reins.
My son's face glowed with admiration. "When I grow up, I want to be brave like Chloe, not boring like Mom!"
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Noah, I've been teaching you to ride since you were five."
But he was already turning back to Chloe, dismissing my reminder as if it held no weight.
My professional humiliation continued at the veterinary clinic on Main Street. Dr. Martinez, usually warm and collegial, greeted me with obvious discomfort.
"Emily, Chloe said you're focusing on family responsibilities now... I don't want to steal your business, but the Thompson farm's annual livestock checkups are a significant contract."
I stared at him, processing the implications. Someone had been making decisions about my professional life without consulting me. "What exactly did Chloe tell you?"
His embarrassment was palpable. "That you were too busy caring for your family to handle large-scale veterinary work. She recommended I take over the seasonal inspections."
The storm that evening seemed to mirror my internal turbulence.
Thunder crashed overhead as I made my way to the barn for the evening check on our pregnant cows. The animals were restless, sensing the approaching weather, and I wanted to ensure they were secure before the worst of it hit.
It wasn't until I tried to leave that I discovered the barn door had been latched from the outside—not just closed, but deliberately locked.
My phone showed no signal in the metal building, and my shouts for help were swallowed by the howling wind and driving rain.
Through the small window, I could see the warm glow of the farmhouse windows. Inside, silhouetted against the light, Jack, Chloe, and Noah sat together on the couch watching what looked like a movie. They appeared comfortable, content—a perfect family unit that had no need for the woman locked outside in the storm.
"Jack! Noah! Can anyone hear me?" I called, knowing my voice couldn't possibly carry over the thunder.
I spent the night in the barn, surrounded by the gentle breathing of cattle and the drumming of rain on the roof. "Ten years I've been taking care of this family," I whispered to myself, "and now I'm locked out of my own life."
As the hours passed and exhaustion set in, a darker thought crept through my mind: "If they can lock me out of the barn, what else are they planning to lock me out of?"
Around two AM, when the storm finally began to subside, I used my flashlight to examine the farm's financial records that were kept in the office portion of the barn.
What I found made my blood run cold. Loan applications had been partially filled out—for $200,000, twice what any legitimate cancer treatment would cost. Bank routing numbers were written in margins, and property assessments had been printed out recently.
Even more damning was my discovery in a bag Chloe had left near the office—presumably her "medical supplies." Among the items were vitamin bottles that had been relabeled with medical tape reading "Chemotherapy Support" and "Anti-nausea Medication." I photographed everything with my phone.
"These are just multivitamins," I muttered, examining the bottles more closely. "What kind of cancer patient needs to fake their medication?"