Chapter 2

I clutched the small, worn inhaler in my hand. Leo' s last one.

Mark found me staring at it later that day, his face a mask of impatience.

"Are you still moping about Leo being with your parents? He' ll be back. Stop being so dramatic."

"This was Leo' s," I said, my voice barely a whisper, holding it up. "He needed it. He couldn' t breathe, Mark. He was turning blue. And you told him to 'tough it out' ."

The memory seared through me, the image of Leo' s struggling face, his panicked eyes.

"You said I was coddling him. You said Laura knew best."

Mark snatched the inhaler from my hand, his eyes blazing.

"Stop it, Sarah! Just stop it! Laura told me what really happened. Leo threw a tantrum because Ethan had a newer toy. He faked being sick for attention, just like you always do when you don' t get your way."

He threw the inhaler across the room. It clattered against the wall.

"He was always a difficult child, always whining. Probably got it from you. You' re jealous, aren' t you? Jealous that I care about Laura and Ethan, that they' re not as much trouble as you and your son."

Difficult? My Leo? My sunny, giggling boy who only ever wanted a smile from his father?

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

He didn' t just ignore Leo' s suffering; he was actively rewriting it, painting my son as a manipulative brat.

All to fit Laura' s narrative. All to absolve himself.

Leo, who loved his father unconditionally, despite the constant neglect. Leo, who would draw pictures of their family, always putting Mark in the center, a hero.

How could he be so blind, so cruel?

Mark left for the university, a spring in his step.

He was taking Laura and Ethan out for ice cream later. He' d mentioned it casually, as if discussing the weather.

Leo wasn' t there. He hadn' t been there for weeks. And Mark hadn' t truly noticed.

Or if he had, he' d accepted Laura' s flimsy excuses without a second thought.

His detachment was a chasm I could no longer bridge.

He came back that evening with a small, brightly wrapped gift.

Laura had picked it out, he announced proudly. For me.

"She said you' ve been looking a bit down. Thought this might cheer you up."

It was a cheap scarf, a garish orange. A color I hated. A color Laura knew I hated.

He didn' t know my favorite color. He didn' t know I was allergic to the synthetic material of the scarf.

After four years of marriage, he knew nothing about me that Laura hadn' t filtered for him.

The coldness of it settled deep in my bones. This gift wasn' t for me; it was another of Laura' s little barbs, delivered by her willing messenger.

I looked at him, my face carefully blank.

"Mark, Leo is dead. He' s not with my parents. He' s gone."

I said it slowly, clearly. Hoping, for one insane second, that this time it would penetrate.

He just sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Sarah, we' ve been over this. He' s fine. Laura said he' ll be back before the end of the month. Stop trying to pick a fight."

His disinterest was absolute. He didn' t want to hear it. He wouldn' t hear it.

He turned on the TV, already absorbed in some sports game.

A wave of profound regret washed over me.

Why hadn' t I left sooner? Why hadn' t I protected Leo from this coldness, this constant dismissal?

I had been naive, always hoping Mark would change, would see the truth, would finally choose us.

My own passivity, my own desperate hope, had cost my son.

The anger at Mark was a raging fire, but the anger at myself was a colder, deeper burn.

I should have fought harder, screamed louder, dragged Leo to that clinic the moment he started wheezing, Mark' s orders be damned.

The next day was Saturday. Mark was in the backyard, laughing as he pushed Ethan on the swing set he' d recently installed.

The swing set Leo had begged for, for months. Mark had always said it was too expensive, or he didn' t have time.

For Ethan, no expense was spared, no effort too great.

He bought Ethan the expensive sneakers, the latest video games, anything Laura hinted at.

Leo got hand-me-downs or polite refusals.

The hypocrisy was a bitter pill I' d swallowed for too long.

Laura emerged from the house, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips as she watched Mark dote on her son.

She spotted me watching from the kitchen window.

Her smirk widened. She walked over to Mark, said something in his ear, and then feigned a stumble, clutching her ankle.

"Oh, Mark, darling, I think I twisted it!" she cried, her voice laced with theatrical pain.

Mark was instantly by her side, all concern and solicitude.

He helped her into the house, settling her on the sofa, fetching her an ice pack, his brow furrowed with worry.

Ethan, momentarily forgotten, started to wail. Mark quickly soothed him too.

I' d had enough.

I walked into the living room, my voice calm but carrying an edge of steel.

"He pushed Ethan on the swing Leo always wanted, Mark. He buys Ethan shoes Leo needed. Now Laura fakes an injury for your attention."

Mark glared at me. "Laura is hurt! Can' t you show some compassion? And stop bringing Leo into everything. He' s fine!"

"Compassion?" I laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You want compassion from me? After you let our son die?"

I didn' t wait for his reply. I turned and walked out the front door.

I wasn' t running away. I was walking towards my own life.

The first step was selling my car. It wasn' t much, an old sedan, but it was mine.

Emily, my friend from the community college, helped me. She knew. She' d seen the bruises Mark sometimes left, the ones he' d apologize for later, blaming stress, blaming me.

She' d seen the light dim in my eyes over the years.

She held my hand as I signed the papers, her quiet strength a lifeline.

"You' re doing the right thing, Sarah," she whispered.

I nodded. I knew. This was just the beginning.

My plan was California. A new start. Far away from Oakhaven, far away from Mark and Laura.

Far away from the ghost of my son in every room of that house.