Chapter 3

The next few days were a blur of forced normalcy. Ethan came home from his "handyman jobs," smelling faintly of expensive cologne, not sawdust. He' d bring takeout from places far too fancy for a struggling carpenter, claiming a grateful client had treated him. I nodded, playing along, the bile rising in my throat.

"Ronnie says hi," he' d mention casually, as if discussing a neighbor. "She' s thinking of redoing her studio space. Might need some custom shelves."

Her studio. I knew where it was. On the outskirts of town, a charming little cottage she' d "found," supposedly fixing it up herself with her "artistic flair." One afternoon, driven by a cold fury, I drove out there.

The cottage wasn't charmingly rustic; it was professionally renovated, every detail curated for her influencer aesthetic. And through the large picture window, I saw the studio. It was huge, filled with natural light, expensive easels, high-end pottery wheels, and shelves already laden with art supplies that would have cost more than I made in a year.

My own "studio" was a cramped corner of our damp basement, lit by a single bare bulb. The contrast was a physical blow. This was where Ethan' s money went. Not to us, not to Cody' s future, but to Veronica' s carefully constructed lie.

I remembered all the times I' d patched Ethan' s work clothes, the cheap cuts of meat I' d stretched to feed us, the art supplies I' d forgone so Cody could have new sneakers. Each memory was a fresh twist of the knife. He hadn' t been struggling; he' d been diverting his family' s resources, his actual family' s wealth, to maintain this charade for Veronica.

He' d always been hot and cold with me. Days of seeming affection followed by periods of indifference or criticism. Now I understood. His moods were likely tied to Veronica, to their secret life. My sacrifices hadn't been for our family; they' d been a convenience for him, allowing him to stay close to the woman he truly loved.

The thin wall of the cottage separated two worlds. Hers, funded by deceit. Mine, built on a foundation of lies I was only now beginning to comprehend.

The fellowship paperwork arrived. I filled it out in secret, late at night, after Ethan and Cody were asleep. Each signature felt like a step towards freedom, but also a step further away from my son.

Cody. He was becoming more and more like Ethan, more like Veronica. He' d started making snide comments about my quilts.

"Mom, why do you make that old lady stuff? Aunt Ronnie' s art is cool. She does, like, digital paintings and sculptures."

"This is traditional art, Cody," I' d try to explain. "It has a history."

"It' s boring," he' d say, shrugging, already echoing the disdain I sometimes saw in Ethan' s eyes when he looked at my work.

The bitterness was a constant companion now, a heavy weight in my chest. I was living with ghosts, with the specter of Ethan' s real life, his real love. And I was realizing, with a chilling certainty, that I had been nothing more than a supporting actor in his long, elaborate play.