Better Off Alone

Chapter 18

(Sean's POV)

Jack's hand is small and warm in mine.

We're about to enter the living room when Ivy's voice cuts through the gap.

"You've been a housewife for so long, I almost forgot you were a Stanford graduate."

I stop. My hand on the door.

Ivy. Going at Rebecca again. Same tone, same little jabs she always pulls at these dinners. I'm about to step in when my mother's voice comes through.

"You should just quit."

"I already have. Tomorrow is my last day."

I freeze. My mind goes blank for a half second. Quit? What is she talking about? When did she quit? I didn't hear anything about it.

This is the same woman who left no stone unturned to get into my company. Who spent three months as a temp, memorized my schedule, taught herself how to make my coffee. She fought for that position. She clawed her way into it like it was the only thing that mattered.

And now she just — quits? Without a word?

"Rebecca, honey. Don't say things out of anger."

"I'm not speaking out of anger, Lisa. I'm serious."

She has to be. Rebecca is emotional. She's been emotional since whatever set her off. People say drastic things when they're upset. They don't mean half of it.

But even as I tell myself that, something snags at me.

Her face on the porch steps. The way she looked at me when I said And what? I can't figure out what she's acting for.

I walk into the living room, Jack's hand in mine.

My mother straightens. Ivy puts her glass down. Rebecca doesn't look up from her plate.

"Grandma."

Grandma smiles. "Come sit, darling. Both of you."

I guide Jack to his chair and take my seat across from Rebecca. She hasn't been home in days, and she's sitting here, calm, steady, eating pot roast like nothing is wrong.

The envelope flashes to my mind. I never opened it. I keep meaning to, and then something else gets in the way — Hannah, the exhibition, Jack, the next thing and the next. She asked me if I'd seen it. I did see it.

But why did she say and?

Why did she turn cold after I asked, and what?

It's just paperwork. I never gave my thoughts on her projects before. Why does it matter so much now that I look at it tonight instead of tomorrow?

(Rebecca's POV)

The pot roast is good. It's always good. Lisa makes it the same way every time — slow-cooked, falling apart, the rosemary baked into the meat until you can taste it in your teeth.

I eat. I focus on the food. I focus on Lisa's hand patting mine when she passes the bread. I focus on Jack beside me, kicking his legs under the table, humming something under his breath.

I don't focus on the other end of the table.

But I hear them.

Ivy leans toward Joanna, her voice low enough to seem private but loud enough to carry.

"She didn't even offer to pour the wine tonight. No pasta, no clearing the dishes. What's gotten into her?"

Joanna tilts her glass. "I noticed. I had to pour my own wine."

"She used to be so attentive. Remember? She'd have the table set before we even arrived. Napkins folded. Candles lit. Now she just sits there."

"Maybe she's finally showing her true colors."

My fork pauses over my plate.

Six years. Six years of folded napkins and lit candles and poured wine and cleared dishes. Six years of jumping up before anyone asked, refilling glasses before they were empty, anticipating needs before they were spoken. I did it because I thought it would earn me something. Respect. Acceptance. A place at this table as a part of the family.

Instead, it earned me this. Two women talking about me like I'm a kitchen appliance.

A cold laugh slips out of me.

Six years of making myself useful, and the moment I stop, I'm the problem. From now on, I will never do anything for these people again.

I pick up my fork. Take a bite. Say nothing.

"Mommy."

I glance to the side. Jack's struggling with his steak — sawing at it with a butter knife, the meat sliding across his plate. His face is scrunched in concentration, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

He looks up at me. "Why aren't you cutting my steak for me? You always cut it for me and Daddy."

Across the table, Sean is cutting his own steak. Badly. The pieces are uneven, too big, the kind of cuts that would make him chew for too long and then quietly push the rest aside. I used to cut his steak into even bites before he started. He never asked me to. I just did it. The way I did everything — without being asked, without being thanked, without being seen.

Jack tugs at my sleeve. "Mommy? Please?"

My chest tightens.

This is the last dinner. After tonight, I won't sit at this table again. I won't pass the bread to Lisa or dodge Ivy's jabs or watch Sean eat without looking at me. It's the last time I cut Jack's steak.

I take his plate. I pick up the good knife from the center of the table and cut his steak into small, even bites. The way I always do. Each piece the size of a quarter, thin enough that he won't choke, thick enough that he can stab them with his fork.

I slide his plate back.

"There you go, baby."

Jack grins. "Thanks, Mommy." He stabs a piece and shoves it in his mouth, already looking at something else.

I look at Sean's plate and reach across the table.

He looks up. Surprised.

I take his plate. I cut his steak. Same even pieces. The knife moves without me thinking about it — the last traces of a wife performing her final act.

I push the plate back to him.

Sean looks at the steak.

He doesn't say anything. Just picks up his fork and eats.

Last time, Sean. Last time.