Chapter 4

I stared at Daniel, a wave of nausea washing over me. He really didn' t know. He had no idea I had finalized the divorce, that in the eyes of the law, we were already over.

He took a step closer, his face etched with worry as he finally found the first-aid kit. "Here, let me help you with that burn."

He reached for my arm again, but I recoiled as if I' d been shocked. "Don't touch me."

The words hung in the air between us, sharp and cold. He froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. The hurt in his eyes was plain to see.

"Eleanor, what's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice a low whisper. "We can fix this. I know I haven't been... present. But we can fix it."

"No, we can't," I said, my own voice shaking. "We can't fix it because you refuse to see the problem."

"The problem is that I've been working too much, I know. The promotion-"

"It's not about the promotion!" I cut him off, a raw frustration clawing at my throat. "It's about Olivia!"

The moment her name was spoken, his face hardened. His defenses went up, a familiar wall I had run into time and time again. "Don't bring her into this. I told you, she's fragile."

"She's not fragile, Daniel, she's manipulative. And you let her be. You always let her be."

"I have a responsibility to her! Her parents trusted me to take care of her!" he bit out, his voice rising in that predictable, defensive tone. "It's my duty."

Duty. Responsibility. His favorite words. Words he used to justify every choice that pushed me further away. I felt a profound sense of exhaustion settle over me, so heavy it was hard to stand.

I sank onto one of the moving boxes, the fight draining out of me. I thought back to all the promises he'd made over the years.

"Just give me a little more time, Eleanor. She just needs to adjust to me having someone else in my life." That was year one.

"Once she finishes high school, it'll be better. She'll be more independent." That was year two.

"She's having a hard time with her friends. I can't abandon her right now. Just be patient, I promise." Year three.

Promise after promise, all of them broken. All of them sacrificed at the altar of his perceived duty to Olivia. My love, my patience, my hope... he had taken it all, and it had never been enough. I had nothing left to give.

He saw the look on my face and his anger seemed to deflate, replaced by a desperate sort of panic. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll leave. I'll give you some space."

He turned and walked to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He paused with his hand on the knob, looking back at me. For a strange, disorienting moment, I felt like our roles had been reversed. I was the one leaving him, the one who was cold and distant. I was the one causing the pain.

But I pushed the thought away. This wasn't my fault. This was the consequence of his choices.

He left, closing the door softly behind him. The silence in the apartment was a relief. I sat there for a long time, just breathing.

An hour later, just as I was about to step into the shower, there was another key in the lock.

Daniel was back. This time he was holding a container of what smelled like chicken soup. "You haven't eaten. I brought you something."

A flicker of warmth tried to start in my chest, but I smothered it. It was too late for these small kindnesses.

Before I could tell him to leave, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his expression immediately shifting from tentative hope to sheer panic.

"What do you mean she's gone?" he demanded into the phone. "Where did she go? Did she say anything?"

He listened, his face growing paler by the second. "Okay. I'll be right there. Start searching the neighborhood."

He hung up and looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. "Olivia's missing. She left a note... it sounds bad, Eleanor. I have to go find her."

He didn't wait for a response. He just dropped the container of soup on the counter, the warm plastic a stark contrast to the cold dread that filled the room.

He ran out the door, leaving me alone once again.

I looked at the soup. It was probably still warm. But all I could feel was the bitter cold. He had a choice, right here, right now. He could have stayed. He could have told someone else to handle it. But he didn't. He ran. Just like he always did.

I let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Of course. It was always Olivia. It would always be Olivia.

I stood up, walked over to the counter, picked up the container of soup, and dropped it into the trash can.