Chapter 2

Mom didn’t make it. The delay in getting the scan, the doctors said, it hadn’t helped. She passed away three days later, quietly, in that sterile County General room. I held her hand. It was cold.

I handled everything alone. The funeral arrangements, the calls, the small, quiet service with a few of her old friends from church. Blake sent a text: “So sorry for your loss. Stay strong.” He didn’t come. He was “swamped with a critical deadline.”

A week later, I was back in the apartment, packing my things. The lease was up at the end of the month anyway. I couldn’t stand being there another minute. Each item, each shared memory, felt tainted.

I was clearing out the desk drawer we shared – his side meticulously organized, mine a bit cluttered. Tucked beneath a stack of his tech magazines, I found a slim, expensive-looking leather-bound notebook. It wasn’t his usual style. Curious, I opened it.

It was a list. “Jessica – Birthday Ideas:” * Hermès Birkin (orange, size 30) – check. * Down payment – Porsche Cayenne (Ruby Red) – check. * St. Barts trip (private villa, first class) – booked for Dec.

Jessica. Jessica Smith. His childhood friend, the daughter of some old money family in Atherton. The one he always said was “like a sister.” The one who’d occasionally look at me with a pitying smile when we crossed paths at some rare tech event he’d dragged me to.

My hands trembled. I flipped a page. More notes. Sketches of jewelry. A receipt from a high-end jeweler in Union Square – a diamond bracelet, the price tag making me feel sick. It was dated three weeks ago, right around the time I’d first told him how serious Mom’s condition was.

Then, I saw his phone lying on the nightstand. He’d left it behind in his rush to a “meeting.” A notification pinged. It was a group chat with his tech buddies. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

“Dude, Blake, Jessica was saying Emily hit you up for cash? Something about her mom?” one message read. Blake’s reply, from a few days ago: “Yeah, two grand. Can you believe it? After all this time, still trying to see what she can get. Jessica called it. Said she’d try something desperate.” Another friend: “So, what’d you do?” Blake: “Told her to be resourceful. Lol. Jessica’s right, some people just can’t help themselves. Always looking for a handout.”

The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the cheap laminate floor. Two thousand dollars. A handout. My mother. The air in the apartment felt thick, unbreathable. Seven years. He’d called it a test. It was a game. A cruel, twisted game, and Jessica Smith was whispering the rules in his ear.

The front door clicked open. Blake walked in, loosening his tie. He looked surprised to see me, then his expression settled into that familiar, slightly condescending look. “Oh, you’re still here. Thought you might have, you know, taken some space.” He tossed his keys on the counter. “Look, about your mom… I know it’s tough.”

I just stared at him, the notebook still open in my hands. He didn’t notice. “You know, when I first met you, Em, I didn’t have much. Just ambition.” He chuckled, a dry sound. “I told you, didn’t I? ‘I can’t give you a fancy life now, but we can build it together.’ And you said yes.”

Yes, I had. I’d believed his story. The struggling entrepreneur, pouring every cent into his dream. I remembered his earnest eyes, his talk of shared sacrifice. I’d made excuses for his cheapness, his constant need for me to pay my share, his forgetfulness on birthdays. It was all part of the “struggle.”

He walked closer, saw the notebook. His eyes narrowed. “What’s that?” I didn’t answer. I just held it out. He snatched it, his face darkening as he saw what page it was open to. “Snooping, Emily? Really?”

“Two thousand dollars, Blake,” I said, my voice flat. “That’s what my mother’s life was worth to you. Less than a down payment on a Porsche for Jessica.” He flinched, just for a second. Then the mask was back. “That’s different. Jessica’s family. And those are… investments. Business networking.” “And I was what? A charity case you were testing?” He scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic. I was trying to teach you independence.”

I laughed, a bitter sound that surprised even me. “You taught me something, alright. You taught me exactly who you are.” I picked up my last box of belongings. “I’m leaving, Blake.”