Chapter 1
I stood in the main hall of the Willowbrook Country Club, watching Della carefully adjust the small placard next to Dylan's painting. Her movements were precise, almost reverent, as if she were handling something genuinely valuable instead of another one of my son's unsellable abstract pieces.
"The positioning looks perfect, sweetheart," I said, though we both knew Dylan would find something to criticize later.
"I hope so," Della replied, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Dylan spent two hours this morning explaining the 'optimal viewing angle' for this piece."
Two hours. For a painting that nobody could afford and nobody wanted to buy. And here was Della—this woman who felt more like my daughter than my actual son ever had—still trying to make everything perfect for him.
"Mrs. Morrison!" Carol, the event coordinator, rushed over. "Thirty minutes until guests arrive. You're sure the canapé presentation is ready?"
I nodded. "Everything's under control. Della helped me check three times."
Carol glanced at Della with that look—the one that said thank God you have such a capable daughter-in-law. If only she knew that Della was more accomplished than anyone else in this family, she'd be even more impressed.
Watching Della work, I found myself thinking about this morning.
Dylan had been sitting at our kitchen table, staring down at the French toast Della had made him. She'd gotten up at six, like she did every morning, to prepare his favorite breakfast.
"The edges are burnt," he'd said without even looking up.
"I can make new ones—" Della had started.
"Don't bother. I'll just eat cereal." He'd pushed the plate away and grabbed his phone. "Oh, and the coffee's cold."
I'd watched Della's face, seen that flash of exhaustion in her eyes. "I'll make fresh coffee."
"Whatever."
Whatever. That's what my son said to the woman who'd been making him breakfast every single morning for ten years. I should have said something then. Should have told him to show some gratitude. But thirty years of "keeping the peace" had taught me to stay quiet.
"Mom?" Della's voice pulled me back to the present. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, honey. Just thinking."
By seven o'clock, the Club was packed with Cedar Falls' elite, all holding champagne flutes and pretending to understand Dylan's artistic vision. I watched as Della carried a tray of carefully arranged canapés toward his exhibition area. I should have stopped her, should have seen what was coming, but I didn't.
"Careful with those canapés, dear," Mrs. Henderson called out to Della. "These artworks are priceless treasures."
Priceless treasures? Dylan had sold exactly two paintings in three years, for a grand total of eight hundred dollars.
That's when it happened. A child came running through the crowd and bumped into Della's arm. The canapés went flying, plate and all, splattering across Dylan's largest abstract painting.
The entire hall fell silent.
Dylan's face went through a spectrum of colors—white to red to purple—before he exploded.
"WHAT THE FUCK!"
"Dylan!" I rushed toward them, but it was too late.
"This is what happens when you adopt stray cats!" he shouted, pointing at Della. "Mom brought home an orphan years ago, and now the orphan's destroyed my artwork!"
The words hit me like a physical blow. I could feel everyone staring, phones coming out to record the spectacle. My face burned—not from embarrassment, but from pure rage. This son I'd raised, fed, and supported was publicly humiliating the best person in our family.
"Dylan, that's enough," I said, my voice quiet but steady.
"Enough?" He whirled on me, eyes blazing with an anger I'd never seen before. "Ten years, Mom! For ten years you've cared more about her than about me!"
"That's not true—"
"It is true! You paid for her college, bought her a car, hell, even your wedding speech was all about how wonderful she was!"
That's when Theo appeared. My husband of thirty years, the man who was supposed to defuse situations like this, the man who was supposed to protect his family.
He took in the scene slowly and looked directly at me.
"Divorce it is, then," he said, his voice as cold as a stranger's. "I'm tired of settling anyway."
Settling. Thirty years of marriage, and that's what it was to him. In that moment, I realized I'd been living with two people I didn't know at all.
Later that night, I found myself in Della's room. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes still red from crying.
"Mom?" she said. "Can we talk?"
I came in and closed the door behind me. Her room was immaculate, as always, such a contrast to Dylan's chaotic studio.
"Della, honey, I'm so sorry about tonight—"
"No," she interrupted. "That's not what I want to talk about. Mom, I want a divorce."
Her words hung in the air between us like a confession.
"What?"
"I've been thinking about it for a long time." Her voice was calm, but I could hear the determination underneath. "I keep telling myself maybe he'll change, maybe I should try harder, maybe if I just—"
"Della..."
"This morning he told me the French toast was burnt and to throw it out and start over. Yesterday he complained that I work too late and don't have time to organize his studio. Last week he introduced me to his friends as 'just a marketing girl,' like my MBA and six-figure salary were some kind of joke."
Six figures. Della earned more than Dylan would make in his entire lifetime, but somehow he'd convinced her she was worthless.
"But honey, marriage always requires compromise—"
"Mom," Della looked at me with a steadiness I'd never seen before. "You should get divorced too."
Weird. We didn't need to discuss it further.
I went back to the master bedroom, where Theo was already snoring. I looked at this man I'd shared a life with for thirty years, searching for some trace of nostalgia or regret, but found nothing.
Quietly, I began to pack.
What was I even taking? Could thirty years of life really fit into a few suitcases? My books, photo albums, my mother's jewelry. It was startling how little actually belonged to me.
"What are you doing?" Theo asked groggily.
"Packing."
"For what?"
"I'm leaving, Theo. We both are."
He sat up but made no move to stop me. Didn't even ask why.
At two in the morning, Della stood by the front door with her suitcase, waiting for me. Neither of us had packed much—just enough to start over.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
We walked out of the Morrison house without looking back. Thirty years of marriage, ending just like that. The strange thing was, I didn't feel sad.
"Mom," Della said once we were in the car, "are we doing the right thing?"
I glanced in the rearview mirror at the house growing smaller behind us. "I don't know, sweetheart. But I know we can't keep living like this."
Maybe we were both crazy—fifty-four and twenty-nine, running away from home in the middle of the night. But crazy had to be better than numb.