I screamed until my throat was raw, smashing everything in the house that had anything to do with Reginald Gilbert. Every photo frame, every gift, every last trace of him—shattered to pieces.

Once the storm inside me had quieted to something I could breathe through, I hailed a cab to the cemetery. I wanted to say goodbye to my mother.

But when I arrived, the grounds were filled with children's laughter.

My heart nearly hammered out of my chest.

I grabbed the groundskeeper by the arm, my voice cracking into a raw, unhinged scream.

"This is supposed to be a cemetery! Where's my mother? Where is my mother's grave?"

The groundskeeper wrenched free of my grip with a look of disgust.

I lost my balance and hit the ground hard, the coarse gravel tearing the skin off my palms.

But I couldn't feel it. I scrambled back to my feet, forcing myself to stay calm.

"When did this become a children's home?"

"Where were the graves relocated to?"

The groundskeeper jerked his chin toward the bulletin board by the entrance, irritation plain on his face.

I ran toward it, but my feet stopped dead, as if nails had been driven through my soles.

The bulletin board displayed a photo of Reginald and Pat Winfield.

They were smiling. Sweetly.

The description read that Reginald had established this children's home on Pat's behalf, to build good karma in her name.

Before demolishing the cemetery, families had been notified by phone to collect their loved ones' ashes.

My whole body shook. I stepped backward, shaking my head.

No one had called me. So where was my mother? Where was she now?

Tears fell to the ground in helpless streaks. I dialed Reginald's number with trembling fingers.

The call connected almost immediately.

I couldn't hold back the anguish. My voice tore out of me.

"Reginald, what did you do with my mother? Who gave you the right to take her ashes without asking me?"

Silence on the other end.

My heart thrashed wildly, a lost fledgling beating its wings in the dark.

"Say something! Just give me back my mother's ashes, and I'll sign the divorce papers. I'll step aside. You can have Pat. Just give her back to me."

The silence stretched so long that every wall I had left was about to crumble. Then, finally, the speaker crackled with the rustle of fabric.

Reginald's voice came through, dripping with tenderness.

"Why are you still awake? Is the little one giving you trouble again?"

"Just wait till he's born. I'll set him straight."

Then came Pat's voice, soft and fragile as spun glass.

"Reggie, do you think if my sister finds out her mother's ashes are gone, she'll blame me? I dreamed last night that she came at me with a knife..."

Reginald answered without a second's hesitation.

"I'll never give her the chance to hurt you."

"Her mother had it coming. She should never have tried to break up Mildred Dickerson and your father."

The taste of blood flooded my mouth. I screamed—a ragged, shredded sound ripped from somewhere deep inside me.

I snatched up a loose brick from the ground and slammed it into the bulletin board until it splintered apart.

Glass shards exploded outward, slicing across the backs of my hands, cutting into my face.

In a jagged shard still clinging to the frame, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. Chalk-white. Barely human.

Pat had made sure my mother couldn't rest even in death.

And the man who had promised to protect me for the rest of my life had chosen to stand on her side. Her accomplice.

The children in the yard had gone silent.

They stared at me the way you'd stare at a monster.

I tried to stand, but my legs buckled and I fell again, this time into the broken glass.

The groundskeeper screamed that I was insane and called the police.

They took me to the station and told me to call a family member to post bail.

I sank onto the cold metal bench, a dull ache pulling low in my abdomen.

"There's no one. I don't have family anymore."

Seven full days passed. Reginald never called. Not once.

I saw him on the television in the detention center.

Paparazzi had caught him taking Pat to a hot spring resort.

The man who had sworn he would only ever love me lunged at the photographer, knocking the camera away, shielding Pat like she was something precious and irreplaceable.

The paparazzi hadn't captured Pat's face, so Reginald issued a public statement to clear the air.

No other woman. He just didn't want his wife exposed to the spotlight.

Then what about me? What was I, exactly?

The officer sat me down for a lecture.

He told me Reginald and Pat were benefactors to those orphans. They were doing a good thing.

I shouldn't have gone to extremes and smashed the signboard. I should've been learning from them instead.

Something inside my chest died in that moment.

Reginald's words kept echoing in my ears.

"Her mother deserved what she got..."

The day I walked out of the police station after seven days of detention, the first thing I did was contact a divorce lawyer.

Back when Reginald wanted to put my mind at ease, he'd made me the largest shareholder of his company. Every property, every car under his name was registered to me.

I didn't go home. I checked into a hotel as far from Reginald as I could find.

Ten days of radio silence before he finally remembered I existed.

He called. I didn't pick up.

Then came a barrage of voice messages.

"Babe, I've been putting together a surprise for you for ten whole days. Still mad at me?"

"I have to go on a business trip for a couple weeks. Don't worry about me. I'll bring you back something nice."

I opened Pat's social media.

There she was in a skimpy bikini, lounging on a beach, soaking up the sun.

A pair of large, broad hands made a cameo in the frame.

Those same hands had held me tight when I woke screaming from nightmares. Those hands had covered my ears when my father berated me. Those hands had shielded me from the wind and rain the night Pat and her mother threw me out of the house.

Now those hands were gently rubbing oil into Pat's skin.

A bitter smirk twisted my lips. I couldn't breathe.

I wanted to ask Reginald if he felt proud of himself, watching me play the fool while the two of them made a joke of me behind my back.

Tears soaked into the pillow. I sobbed until I couldn't make a sound.

The next day, an email arrived in my inbox. Explicit photos.

Reginald, his gaze tender and adoring, pressing his lips to a woman's pregnant belly.

I deleted the email. Blocked the address.

My heart, already long dead and shattered, gave one faint, needling throb.

On the third day, Reginald called in a panic.

"Honey, you're type O, right? A friend of mine got hurt. Could you draw some blood and send it over? Please?"

Just moments earlier, Pat had posted an update.

She'd nicked her finger picking up seashells.

A scratch so shallow it hadn't even bled.

But the day of my abortion, blood had pooled across the hospital floor beneath my bed.

A sudden, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. I stared at the notification that had just popped up from Reginald's biggest business rival.

"Name your price. I want all of Gilbert's shares and properties."

I agreed.

Reginald took my silence as hesitation and pressed harder.

"It's just a tiny bit of blood. It's nothing."

"Beulah, can you really stand by and watch her die?"

My throat tightened. When I spoke, my voice was raw, heavy with an exhaustion that wouldn't lift.

"Reginald. How long were you planning to hide this from me? Until Pat's baby was born? Or until her child grew up and did exactly what she did, marched up to my face, called me the homewrecker, and shoved me down the stairs?"

Dead silence on the other end.

Reginald's voice shook. He stammered.

"Beulah, what are you talking about?"

I didn't have the energy to keep up the charade. I hit send on the video of my abortion.

"You wanted to know what the surprise was? Here. Let me tell you."