Chapter 2

"Ivy—"

"Preston drove past me today in his car. You know, the Audi. The one you helped Dad buy for him last year. He didn't even wave."

That Audi. Thirty thousand dollars. Conrad had asked me if we could "dip into the emergency fund" to help Preston get a "reliable car" for his new job. I'd said yes because that's what you do in a family. You help each other.

Two months later, when Ivy asked if there was any way we could help with her tuition, Conrad had said she needed to be more independent.

"He probably didn't see you," I said weakly.

"Mom." Ivy put down the dish she was holding and turned to face me. Her eyes were filled with tears. "When are we leaving?"

The question hung in the air.

When are we leaving.

Not if. When.

I looked at my daughter—this beautiful, kind, hardworking girl who deserved so much better than living in an attic room while her stepbrother had an entire suite. Who worked thirty hours a week on top of classes while Sloane posted Instagram photos from brunch spots that cost more than Ivy made in a month.

I looked at the sink full of dishes. At the kitchen I'd been standing in for six hours. At the doorway where fifteen people had just eaten a meal I'd spent three days preparing, and not one of them had said thank you.

I thought about Conrad's speech. About Caroline's name rolling off his tongue so easily. About the empty space where my name should have been.

And I thought about seven years ago.

We'd met at a benefit dinner. I was there with my friend Teagan, who'd dragged me out of my shell two years after Liam died. Conrad was recently widowed, handsome in his suit, sad around the edges in a way that made you want to fix him.

He'd asked me to dinner.

We'd gone to a steakhouse downtown. He'd ordered wine, been charming, asked about my restaurant. Margot's Table had been my dream—a small neighborhood bistro that I'd built from nothing. Five years of twelve-hour days, burnt fingers, failed recipes, and finally, finally, success.

"I have three kids," he'd said over dessert. "Sloane, Preston, and Willa. They need a mother figure. Caroline's death was so sudden. They're lost without her."

I'd told him about Ivy. Thirteen years old then, quiet and serious, still grieving her father. "She needs stability. A family."

"We could be that for each other," Conrad had said, reaching across the table to take my hand. "A real family. All of us together."

I'd wanted it so badly. A complete family. A father for Ivy. Siblings, even if they weren't blood. A partner to share my life with.

"I'd take care of your kids like they were my own," I'd promised.

He'd smiled. "I know you would."

I thought I'd meant it. I thought I could love them into loving me back.

Seven years later, I was standing at a sink full of their dirty dishes, and they still called Caroline "Mom."

"Mom?" Ivy's voice pulled me back. "Are you okay?"

I looked at her worried face. Twenty years old and already she'd learned that love wasn't enough. That sometimes people took and took and never gave back.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel. They were shaking.

"We're leaving," I said quietly.

"What?"

"We're leaving." I said it louder this time. The words felt strange in my mouth. Foreign. Seven years of "yes" and "of course" and "whatever you need" and suddenly I was saying no.

Ivy's eyes went wide. "Really? When?"

I looked at the kitchen. At the dishes. At the doorway where I could hear Conrad laughing at something someone said.

At the life I'd built that had never really been mine.

"Soon," I said. "But not today. Today isn't the time."

I had things to figure out first. Money. A lawyer. A plan.

I'd given seven years to this family. Seven years of cooking and cleaning and caring for children who would never see me as their mother. Seven years of watching Conrad choose them over me, over Ivy, every single time.

But I'd also spent seven years keeping records. Receipts. Bank transfers. Text messages. I'd been a restaurant owner once. I knew how to run a business, how to track expenses, how to keep books.

And I'd been married before. I knew that sometimes love ended. I'd buried one husband already.

But this time, I wasn't going to walk away with nothing.

"We're leaving," I said again, more to myself than to Ivy.

I dried my hands. Turned back to the dishes.

But something had shifted. The weight on my chest felt different. Lighter.

I'd made my decision.

Now I just had to figure out how.