Mom picked up the largest shard.

She held it up to the light.

"Better this way," she said. "Clean."

Dad didn't come home for days.

Mom cooked and cleaned as usual. She even signed up for a baking class.

"I'm going to learn how to make your favorite strawberry cake," she told me.

She burned several pans' worth.

But she didn't give up.

Not until she pulled out a soft, perfect chiffon.

She piped the frosting carefully, arranged the strawberries just so.

"Does it look right?" she asked me.

I nodded.

She smiled. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepened.

"Your grandma was the best at making these."

The cake sat on the table, waiting for Dad to come home.

He never showed.

On the third night, the phone rang.

The hospital.

Mom listened quietly until the end.

"Understood," she said. "I'm on my way."

Grandpa and Grandma Abbott's remains had already been cremated.

Two small boxes, side by side on a shelf.

Mom touched them gently.

"No more fear," she whispered. "No more pain."

On the way home, she bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. She arranged them in the vase that had sat empty for a long time.

Dad finally came back.

Reeking of liquor.

"All taken care of?" he asked.

Mom was ironing clothes. Steam billowed up, veiling her face.

"All taken care of."

Dad nodded, satisfied.

His gaze caught the cake on the table.

"What's this?"

"Try some." Mom cut him a slice. "Just learned how."

Dad took a bite and frowned.

"Too sweet."

"Is it?" Mom tasted a piece herself. "I think it's just right."

She ate slowly. Every bite chewed with deliberate care. Like she was savoring something precious.

Dad went upstairs to sleep.

Mom sat in the dark.

Moonlight fell across the cake in her hands.

She pressed her palm to her mouth.

Her shoulders shook violently.

But she didn't make a sound.

She didn't go upstairs until nearly dawn.

She sat at the edge of my bed for a while. Her hand brushed through my hair, feather-light.

The lawyer came in the morning. Mom went to meet him.

"Dirk Dickerson—are the documents all ready?"

Dirk didn't answer.

Two people trailed behind him.

"Mrs. Fox," he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "you're being accused of extortion."

The smile on Mom's face froze.

"What did you just say?"

Dirk pulled a file from his briefcase.

"The evidence you asked me to gather—" He flipped to a page. "—was fabricated by you."

Dad descended the stairs and clapped the lawyer on the shoulder.

"Appreciate the hard work, Dirk."

Mom stared at the lawyer.

"My grandfather helped you," I shouted.

Dirk looked down and adjusted his cuffs.

"Old Mr. Abbott was kind to me," he said. "Which is exactly why I'm telling you—don't fight this."

Dad produced a check.

Dirk took it without hesitation.

Mom laughed suddenly.

"How much?" she asked Dad. "I can match it."

Dad shook his head.

"No. You can't."

He stepped closer.

"Every account under your name was frozen yesterday."

Mom gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles went white—translucent.

"The house?"

"Mortgaged," Dad said, his tone light, almost casual. "The company needed the liquidity."

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

"You have half a day to move out."

Mom stood perfectly straight.

"I want to see the documents."

Dad gestured to the lawyer.

A thick stack of papers was handed over.

Mom flipped through them fast.

Her hands were trembling.

She reached the last page—and stopped.

The signatures were real.

They were on the consent forms she'd signed yesterday—but now there were extra lines of fine print at the bottom.

She leaned in to read them.

Then she grabbed the documents and ripped them apart.

"Doesn't matter," Dad said with a smile. "The originals are in the safe."

Mom stared at the shredded paper scattered across the floor.

Slowly, she crouched down and began picking up the pieces.

One scrap. Then another. Careful, deliberate.

The lawyer left first.

Dad was heading out too.

"I'll be back tonight to take the house."

The door shut.

Mom was still crouching there. Torn paper piled in the folds of her skirt.

"Mom."

I touched her shoulder.

She looked up.

Her eyes were dry. Not a single tear.

"Just as well," she said. "Now that the gloves are off, we can get to work."

After school, two strangers stopped me at the gate.

"Your dad sent us."

They pulled me into a car.

I didn't fight it.

The car drove to the riverbank.

The wind was fierce.

"Call your mother."

A phone was shoved into my hand.

"Tell her to stop making trouble."

I looked out at the water. The sun was sinking toward the horizon.

"She'll listen to me," I said.

The man stared at me.

"Then call."

I dialed Mom's number.

It rang for a long time before she picked up.

"Lori?"

"Mom." My voice was steady. "I'm at the river."

Silence on the other end. A few seconds.

"How many?"

"Two."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

Mom exhaled softly.

"Hand them the phone."

The man took it. He listened for a moment, and the color drained from his face.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He listened a few seconds longer.

Then he swore under his breath.

He tossed the phone back to me.

"Your mother's out of her mind."

They got in the car and drove off.

I stood on the embankment. Mom's voice came through the speaker:

"Stay right there. Don't move. I'm coming."

By the time she arrived, the sky had gone completely dark.

She was riding a beat-up electric scooter. The headlight barely cut through the night.

She ran to me and held me so tight I could feel her heartbeat.

"Were you scared?"

"No."

She smiled and pressed her forehead gently against mine.

The scooter hummed along slowly. River wind cool against our skin.

"What did they say?"

"They wanted you to drop everything. Stop going after him."

"What did you tell them?"

"I said you'd listen to me."

Mom laughed out loud.

"That's right," she said. "I always listen to you."

The scooter's battery died.

We got off and pushed it the rest of the way.

"Mom, we have nowhere to go."

She wiped the sweat from her forehead.

"Yes we do. Don't worry."

She led me into the old part of the city. Deep in a narrow alley, there was a small apartment.

"Your grandpa left this place," she said, pulling out a key. "Nobody knows about it."

Inside, it was clean. A bed and a table—that was it.

"It'll do." She brushed away a thin layer of dust.

The next morning was Saturday.

Mom was up early. She came back with soy milk and fried dough sticks.

"Eat up," she said. "They're getting cold."

Around noon, someone knocked.

It was Dad.

He looked around the apartment, taking it in.

"Clever hiding spot."

Mom blocked the doorway.

"Say what you came to say."

Dad held out an envelope.

"Sign it. Divorce papers."

Mom didn't take it.

"What are the terms?"

"The house is mine." Dad lit a cigarette. "You can have the girl."

Mom laughed.

"In your dreams."

His expression darkened.

"Don't push your luck."

Mom's hand came up fast.

The slap cracked across his face—sharp, clean, unmistakable.

Dad froze.

"What is wrong with you?" He clutched his face.

Mom stared at him.

"That slap," she said, "was for Lori's grandpa and grandma."

Dad's eyes went red.

He grabbed Mom by the collar.

"Say that again."

The door burst open. A woman rushed in.

She had a paring knife in her hand.

"This is all your fault!" she screamed.

The blade swung wildly back and forth.

Dad moved to stop her.

"Don't do anything stupid!"

In the chaos, the knife thrust forward.

Straight into Mom's chest.

Mom looked down.

Blood seeped through, staining her white T-shirt crimson.

She slid to the floor, slowly, and Dad caught her.

"Selma?"

Mom didn't answer.

Her eyes were still open.

Dad panicked.

He pressed his hand over the wound. Blood surged through the gaps between his fingers.

"Call an ambulance!" he screamed at the woman.

The woman dropped the knife and collapsed to the floor.

Dad held Mom, his hands shaking violently.

"Wake up," his voice cracked, "I won't go through with the divorce, I won't—"