Chapter 3: Packing Up the Pieces

Everyone blamed me: why not just let go? As if letting go was easy. As if it hadn’t cost me everything.

But I simply couldn’t. Pride, stubbornness, love—call it what you will. I couldn’t walk away from the life I’d built, no matter how broken it was.

Years of hard work left my face wrinkled and weary. I’d see my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognize myself. I’d traded youth for duty, dreams for survival.

Even if I died, I wanted to drag them down with me. I clenched my fists, a cold shiver running through me. The thought was ugly, but it was honest. I wanted them to feel the weight I’d carried all those years, even if it was only for a moment.

As for what happened after I died, whether they ended up together or not, I no longer cared. I didn’t have the strength to care.

Death was a relief, a release from the ache. As the world faded, I remember the ticking of the clock on the wall, the afternoon light dimming, the sound of my own breath growing shallow. Whatever came after was no longer my concern.

In the end, I died after my son once again urged me to divorce. The words hung in the air long after he left. I sat in the silence, my heart pounding out a warning I didn’t heed.

He left in anger when I stayed silent after his long speech. His footsteps echoed down the hall, the slam of the door rattling the windows. I wanted to call him back, to say something—anything—but I was frozen.

He didn’t know that before the door even closed, my heart attack had already started. Pain shot through my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I tried to breathe, tried to stand, but the world tilted.

I called out to him, but he didn’t look back—he just slammed the door behind him. The sound was final, like the closing of a book. I was alone.

In that moment, I was filled with regret. Regret so heavy it nearly drowned me. If only I’d chosen differently. If only I’d been braver.

Why did I give birth to him… The question burned, raw and unanswerable.

Why did I ruin my life for him. I had no answer—only sorrow.

But, fortunately, I was reborn. A second chance, as impossible as it seemed. I promised myself I wouldn’t waste it.

Back to before marrying Jonathan Whitaker. I woke up in a world where nothing had happened yet. The future was unwritten.

There was still time for everything. This time, I wouldn’t let my life slip through my fingers.

Back home, I hid the acceptance letter and started cooking. The kitchen was small but cozy, the hum of the old refrigerator mixing with the sizzle of onions in the pan. I tucked the letter behind a stack of recipe cards, my hands trembling as I chopped. The scent of garlic and something frying filled the air, grounding me in the moment.

This apartment—two bedrooms and a living room—was provided by Jonathan’s job at the university. The rent was cheap, the carpets worn thin, and the fridge had a faded Yankees magnet stuck to the side. I’d memorized every crack in the ceiling. It was supposed to be a fresh start, but it always felt borrowed, as if I was just passing through.

While cooking, I noticed the college registration date circled on the living room calendar in red Sharpie. There was a Post-it note stuck nearby: "Don’t forget to check your college portal!" The bright circle stood out like a beacon. I caught myself staring at it, daydreaming about what freedom might feel like.

I looked forward to that circled number. Sometimes, I’d imagine myself and my friends refreshing the portal together, laughing nervously, waiting for the registration window to open. It was a little ritual, and the thought made me smile.

Very soon, very soon— I whispered it under my breath, like a secret prayer.