Chapter 4

When I finally made it back to our apartment, the building super and the landlord were waiting for me outside the door. Their faces were grim.

"Stella," the landlord started, not unkindly, but with a firmness that left no room for argument. "We' re three months behind on rent. I' ve left notices. I' ve called. I can' t wait any longer."

I just stared at him, my mind a blank slate of shock and grief. The words didn' t register. The only thing I could focus on was the smooth, worn wood of the box in my hands.

Then, a low growl of an engine cut through the quiet street. A sleek, black sports car, the kind you only see in movies, pulled up to the curb.

Ethan got out.

He wasn' t wearing his starving artist uniform of ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than the rent I owed. He looked at me, at the landlord, at the super, and a look of pure, theatrical fury crossed his face.

"What is this? Are you trying to scam me?" he snarled, striding towards me. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and threw it in my face. The bills scattered, fluttering down around me like dead leaves.

"Here! Take it! Is this what you wanted? To stage this pathetic scene to embarrass me?"

His voice was loud, drawing the attention of neighbors peering out their windows. I didn' t say anything. I just stood there, clutching my son' s ashes, as the man I once loved humiliated me on a public sidewalk.

I tried to turn, to walk away, to just disappear.

But he wasn' t finished. As I turned, he moved, his leg swinging out in a vicious, deliberate kick that connected squarely with my abdomen.

A bolt of white-hot agony shot through me. I crumpled to the ground, the wooden box flying from my grasp. The pain was blinding, stealing my breath, a deep, internal tearing that was far worse than any bruise.

He loomed over me, his face a mask of cold rage.

"Get your things. You have one hour."

Inside the apartment, he didn't wait. He shoved a document into my numb hands, a pre-written legal form. It was cold, official. It severed all ties. It relinquished all my parental rights to a son he already knew was dead.

I signed it. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely form the letters, but I signed it. What did it matter anymore?