Chapter 1

1

It was the Fourth of July. Mark was supposed to pick up our twin daughters from school. Then his freakin' "soulmate," Brenda, calls, and he just dumps the kids on the side of the road, tells me to get them.

I had to ditch a client meeting, rushed over there.

But I was too late.

Our older daughter, Lily, was hit by a car, thrown like a ragdoll. Mia, my baby Mia, was barely clinging to life, screaming about how much it hurt and calling for her dad.

The ambulance wasn't there yet.

Neither was he.

Mia died right there in my arms.

I was holding both my dead girls, sobbing in the middle of the damn street.

Brenda, that witch, posts on Instagram: "The truest love is being there whenever you're needed! So lucky to have you! "

The picture was of her and Mark, heads touching, making a heart symbol with their hands.

I was numb.

Screenshot it, sent it to him: "So, our two daughters aren't as important as Brenda?"

At the funeral, he finally replies, all irritated: "The girls are seven. They can take care of themselves. Brenda needed me!"

...

"Mark, I want a divorce."

Tears were still streaming down my face as I sent that text. Then I shut off my phone.

I spent three days at the funeral home with Lily and Mia. Cried for three freakin' days straight. I was all cried out.

The fourth day was the cremation.

I walked back into the house carrying their ashes, and there they were, Mark and Brenda, feeding each other bites of food.

They were smiling, all lovey-dovey, like this wasn't my home, like it only belonged to them.

Normally, I'd try to talk to Mark, try to make him think about what this looked like to the girls.

But after what he did, after my babies were gone, Mark was a stranger to me.

He and Brenda could do whatever the hell they wanted.

Brenda sees me, chews her food, and gives me this superior look.

Total bitch move.

I mean, she kinda earned it, I guess.

In the eight years I was married to Mark, he never once fed me a single bite of anything.

Even the girls had to beg him to feed them.

Brenda lifts her chin a little higher, opens her mouth like a baby bird, signaling Mark to feed her.

Mark looks at her like she hung the moon, scoops up some food, and feeds her.

He finishes, then notices me behind him.

That look of adoration and affection just vanishes, replaced with annoyance and irritation.

"You have the nerve to come home? I've called you a hundred times in the last three days! Not one answer!"

"Do you even care about this family?"

He's frowning, acting like whatever happened was my fault.

He's never wrong.

Only with Brenda is he ever a "good" guy, a 24/7 on-call "bestie."

"Do you even know what a family is?" I say, scoffing.

If Mark had any love for this family, he wouldn't have left our daughters on the side of the road. They wouldn't have been hit by a car.

If he cared at all, he would have known what happened to the girls.

Now, my daughters were barely cold, and he's bringing his soulmate into our home.

He feeding her and making heart hands.

Is this what a father, a married man, does?

Thinking about it, I want to crawl out of my skin.