Chapter 4

A few weeks later, I was at a city council meeting for a follow-up on a local zoning dispute, a bread-and-butter story to get me back in the groove. As the meeting droned on, I scanned the public gallery. My breath caught. Michael. And with him, Jessica. She was leaning into him, whispering something in his ear, her hand resting possessively on his arm. He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. They looked comfortable, familiar. He hadn't returned to our marital home since I left the hospital, claiming he needed space, that I needed space. Apparently, his "space" included my sister.

After the meeting, as people milled about, I overheard Jessica's animated voice from a nearby corridor. "...and Michael was just amazing, pulling all those strings at the mayor's office to get me that audition for the new tourism campaign! He said it was the least he could do after all I' ve been through, worrying about Sarah."

My stomach clenched. Michael, pulling strings? For Jessica's acting "career"?

I remembered years ago, when I was starting out, I' d asked him if his law firm, with its many corporate connections, could help me get an informational interview at a major newspaper. He' d refused, citing "nepotism" and "maintaining professional integrity." "You need to make it on your own, Sarah," he' d said, "It builds character."

The hypocrisy was staggering. Principles for me, favors for Jessica. The bitterness rose, sharp and acidic.

I tried to slip away, to avoid a confrontation I didn't have the energy for. But Jessica spotted me. "Sarah! There you are!" Her voice was bright, overly so. She detached herself from Michael and approached me, Michael following a step behind.

"We were just talking about you," Jessica cooed, linking her arm through mine as if we were the closest of sisters. "I was telling Michael how brave you are, throwing yourself back into work. It's so inspiring. Not everyone can be as driven as you. I know I certainly need a little help now and then." She gave Michael a grateful look.

The passive aggression was thick enough to cut. She was highlighting her reliance on him, her supposed vulnerability, contrasting it with my "driven" nature, which in their family code meant "cold" and "ambitious."

"Yes, Jessica," I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm I didn't bother to hide. "Michael is always so helpful. Especially to you. It's touching, his dedication." I looked pointedly at his hand, which was still hovering near her arm.

Michael' s face tightened. "Sarah, that's uncalled for," he said, his voice low and warning. "Jessica was just saying she admires you. And I helped her with an audition because she's family, and frankly, after everything she's done to support us through your... situation, I felt I owed her some support. You' re being petty."

Publicly scolded. Accused of being unsupportive, petty. While he justified his blatant favoritism. The injustice of it burned.

I said nothing. The fight drained out of me, replaced by a weary resignation. What was the point? He would never see it. He was cocooned in their narrative. I just nodded curtly and turned to leave.

Michael insisted on driving me back to my small apartment. The silence in the car was heavy, strained. He kept glancing at me, as if expecting me to say something, to apologize perhaps. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur.

When we reached my building, he surprised me. "Wait," he said, reaching into the back seat. He pulled out a dress bag from a high-end boutique. "This is... for you." He handed it to me, his expression awkward. "There's that charity gala for the Children's Hospital next week. I thought... maybe we could go. Together."

It was a rare gesture, an attempt at reconciliation, however clumsy. A flicker of something – hope? – stirred, then died. His timing, his understanding, was always off.

Back in my apartment, I opened the bag. It was a beautiful dress, elegant, sophisticated. My style, surprisingly. I slipped it on. It fit perfectly.

Michael, who had followed me in, watched me. "It looks good," he said. And then, ruining the moment entirely, "Jessica has a similar one. She looks stunning in that color too."

My face fell. Always Jessica. Even in a moment meant for us, she was there, the invisible yardstick I was measured against.

"It's lovely, Michael," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "But I doubt I'll have much use for it. Fieldwork in Havenwood doesn't exactly call for evening gowns." I took it off and carefully folded it back into the bag, placing it on my sofa. A symbol of his superficial attempts, his inability to truly see me.

He looked deflated. "Right. Havenwood."

Later that night, as I lay in my narrow bed, the city sounds a distant hum, I watched him sleep on the small sofa he' d insisted on using. He looked younger, almost vulnerable in sleep. I remembered a time when I'd longed for him to hold me, to bridge the emotional chasm that had grown between us. But those desires were ghosts now, remnants of a life I was determined to leave behind.

He stirred, reached out in his sleep, his hand brushing my arm. I flinched. He mumbled something, then rolled over, his back to me. He attempted intimacy later, a clumsy, half-hearted gesture in the dark. I turned away, a cold aversion coiling in my stomach.

"What's wrong with you, Sarah?" he whispered, his voice raw with frustration. "Ever since the accident, you're... different. Rebellious. Difficult."

Difficult. Because I wouldn't conform to his expectations, to their family script.

I thought of his definition of "sensible," the word he used to use when I' d sacrifice my needs for his, for theirs. Sensible meant my quiet suffering, my self-effacement.

"I'm just tired, Michael," I said, a vague excuse. There was no point explaining. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't. The chasm was too wide now, perhaps it always had been.