Chapter 2: Family Ties Torn

Mayor Carol looked at me kneeling in her office, her eyes red with sorrow. The walls were lined with family photos, and an American flag stood in the corner, a silent witness to this private unraveling.

"Shannon, they’re your own flesh and blood. You carried them for nine months each. Can you really walk away?"

What mother doesn’t love her kids? I wondered, my heart a twisted wreck. The old wedding portrait on Carol’s credenza seemed to stare right through me, judging and silent.

Thinking of Carter and Brooke, it felt like my heart was being stabbed again and again. I pressed my palm to my chest, struggling to hold myself together.

"Aunt Carol, they’re the Harris family’s kids. Mark will take care of them. I just want a divorce."

Aunt Carol sighed, the lines in her face deepening. She dabbed her lips with a handkerchief.

"Back then, Mark was just a broke law student. Out of all the guys you could’ve picked, you chose him! Now, with your family’s help, he’s become City Councilman, and you want to leave him! Life is strange..."

I stared at the carpet, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. My throat burned.

"Aunt Carol, I haven’t changed. I never wanted my husband’s status or money—just his loyalty."

She helped me up, smoothing my hair like she did when I was a kid with scraped knees.

"The divorce papers will be ready in a few days. Go home, get your things in order, and make a clean break with the Harris family."

Yes, after seven years of marriage, there are always things to settle. I squared my shoulders, steeling myself for what lay ahead.

I returned to the Harris house. The porch swing creaked in the sticky summer air, and a faded Stars and Stripes fluttered by the mailbox. The old colonial stood just as it always had—white trim, porch swing, wind chimes. But tonight, the air felt heavy, every sound amplified in the emptiness of what used to be home.

The living room was noisy—TV blaring cartoons, the faint smell of something burning drifting in from the kitchen.

Carter and Brooke were making a mess in the kitchen. Flour dusted the counters, eggshells littered the floor, and laughter bounced off the walls.

Brooke, frustrated that the stove wouldn’t light, nearly stuck her head in the oven. My heart jumped into my throat. For a split second, panic took over.

Afraid she’d burn herself, I quickly pulled her into my arms. The scent of her daisy shampoo hit me as I scooped her up.

"Brooke, be careful!"

Brooke scowled, pushing me away. "Mom, what are you doing here? I’m making something—don’t get in the way!" Her cheeks puffed out, stubborn as ever.

I blinked back tears, forcing a smile as I let her go. My hands trembled as I turned away, struggling to keep my composure. The housekeeper and maids looked on, eyes averted.

"Why are you just standing there? The kids aren’t even six, and you’re letting them mess around in the kitchen?" I crossed my arms, fighting to keep my voice steady.

Carter, his face covered in flour, piped up:

"Mom, Brooke and I want to make cupcakes for Miss Lane’s birthday. Why are you mad as soon as you get back?"

Disappointment burned inside me. My hands balled into fists at my sides, but I tried to keep my voice from shaking.

So Carter and Brooke were making a birthday gift for Dana Lane.

I remembered my own birthday earlier this year, how they’d barely said a word—no gift, not even a card. The memory stung, sharp and bitter.

I told the staff to keep an eye on them and turned to leave. The kitchen light flickered as I walked away, their laughter fading behind me.

Carter sounded surprised I let it go so easily. He called after me, his eyes searching mine.

"Since you’re back, and you’re the best at baking, can you help us make something for Miss Lane?"

My heart went cold, the ache settling like concrete in my chest.

Before I became a mom, I never did housework. I was the woman who ordered takeout and spent weekends at art museums. But life changed me.

It was three years ago when Dana Lane arrived as the kids’ tutor. I felt threatened, unsure, and determined to make myself indispensable. I started waking up earlier, making snacks, packing lunchboxes, setting out jackets, and reminding the staff to care for them.

For three years, rain or shine, I finally learned all the skills Carter talked about. I’d even started enjoying it—the smell of bread baking, the little grins at lunch. But now he wanted me to help make a birthday gift for Dana Lane.

I shook my head bitterly. "Mom has other things to do. Ask the cook to help you."

Carter lowered his head, disappointment clear. The flour on his cheeks made him look younger, but he said nothing more.

Brooke accidentally bumped her head on the oven, half her face smudged with soot, her eyes filling with hurt tears as she instinctively looked to me. I blinked back tears, forcing a smile, my hands trembling as I turned away. I wanted to run to her, but I held back. If I’m letting go, they’ll have to learn to stand on their own. Otherwise, how will they manage with Dana Lane?