Chapter 1

Diane Thompson' s Facebook page lit up my phone screen.

Another post.

Another picture of Brittany Evans, her hand resting on a small, barely there bump.

The caption read: "So thrilled to announce my REAL grandchild is on the way! Some people just can' t deliver. #Blessed #FamilyLegacy."

She tagged me, Sarah Miller, soon to be Sarah no-last-name.

And she tagged her son, my husband, Mark Thompson.

The comments poured in.

"Congratulations, Diane! So happy for you!"

"Mark must be over the moon!"

"Finally, a Thompson heir!"

Each one felt like a small, sharp jab.

This wasn't new. For two years, Diane' s posts had been a drumbeat of my failures.

My failure to get pregnant.

My failure to be good enough for her precious Mark.

My failure to have "connections."

Mark stood by, silent, whenever his mother launched her attacks at family dinners.

He' d just stare at his plate.

Later, he' d say, "She' s just old-fashioned, Sarah. She wants grandkids. Don' t take it so hard."

But her words, amplified by his silence, chipped away at me.

I worked part-time as a barista. My world was small. His family was a big part of it.

Their approval felt important, once.

The next day, a courier delivered a thick envelope.

Divorce papers.

Mark' s signature was already on them.

He offered a settlement that was an insult, barely enough to cover a security deposit on a tiny apartment.

He wanted me out of our suburban house in two weeks.

The house his mother helped us get the down payment for.

The house where every room echoed with her criticisms.

He called that evening.

His voice was cold, distant.

"You saw the papers?"

"Yes, Mark."

"Good. It' s for the best. Brittany is pregnant. I' m going to be a father."

His words were flat, rehearsed.

"I need you to sign them quickly, Sarah. No fuss."

"No fuss," I repeated. My voice was hollow.

I felt a strange calm settle over me.

The years of trying to please them, of shrinking myself to fit their expectations, were over.

"Okay, Mark. I' ll sign."

He sounded surprised by my quick agreement.

"Good. That' s... good."

He hung up.

Defeated? Maybe. But something else was stirring too.

A tiny spark in the ashes.