Chapter 3

The address Michael had reluctantly given me months ago led us to an upscale suburban neighborhood. Manicured lawns and two-story houses with pristine siding lined the quiet streets. It was a far cry from the peeling paint and cracked sidewalks of my world.

My father parked the car a little way down the street. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice gentle.

I took a deep breath. "Yes."

With Lily and Tom holding my hands, we walked up the stone pathway to a handsome blue house with a bright red door. Before I could even knock, the door swung open.

It was Sarah.

She was dressed in a stylish white sundress, her hair perfectly coiffed. A delicate gold necklace rested on her collarbone. She looked like the queen of this perfect suburban castle.

Her smile faltered for a second when she saw me, a flicker of genuine shock, before it was replaced by a look of strained politeness.

"Ava! What on earth are you doing here?" Her eyes scanned my worn-out jeans and faded t-shirt, a small, disdainful wrinkle appearing at the bridge of her nose. Her gaze then dropped to Lily and Tom, who were hiding behind my legs. "And you brought... them."

"Hello, Sarah," I said, my voice even. "I came to see my husband."

"Your husband?" She let out a small, patronizing laugh. "Oh, you mean Michael. He's so busy, Ava. Really, you should have called."

Her words were meant to put me in my place, to remind me I was an unwanted visitor. In my previous life, I would have shrunk back, apologized, and felt ashamed. Not anymore.

"I'm his wife. I don't need an appointment," I stated flatly.

Just then, two children, a boy and a girl a few years older than mine, ran into the hallway. They were dressed in new, brand-name clothes. The girl, who looked about ten, stopped and stared at Lily and Tom.

"Mom, who are they?" she asked, her tone dripping with the same condescension as her mother's. "They look dirty."

Sarah shushed her, but without any real force. "Hush, honey. These are... relatives."

The lie was so blatant, so insulting. I could feel my children flinch behind me.

From deeper inside the house, I heard Michael's voice. "Sarah? Who is it?"

He appeared in the hallway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was wearing a polo shirt and expensive-looking slacks. He had gained some weight, a comfortable softness that spoke of good food and an easy life. When he saw me, he froze. The color drained from his face.

"Ava," he stammered. "What... what are you doing here? How did you get here?"

He looked past me, to the street, as if expecting to see a dusty old bus.

"My father drove us," I said, watching his eyes widen in alarm.

"Your father?" he repeated, a nervous edge to his voice.

"Yes, Michael. My father," I said, letting the words hang in the air.

Sarah quickly stepped to his side, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. "Michael, honey, Ava just showed up out of the blue. I told her you were terribly busy."

He quickly recovered, putting on a mask of harried concern. "She's right, Ava. Things are just crazy at the factory. And with... everything." He gestured vaguely around the perfect house. "I was going to call you about the factory closing back home. It's a real mess."

He was trying to control the narrative, to paint himself as the responsible man overwhelmed with work. A lie. Everything about him was a lie.

"We need a place to stay, Michael," I said, cutting through his performance. "Our factory closed. We have nowhere else to go."

His face tightened. This was not part of his plan.

"Here? Ava, that's... not possible. The house is so full, with my two kids and..." He glanced at Sarah, who nodded in agreement. "It's just not a good time. I can give you some money for a motel, and you can head back tomorrow. We'll figure something out long-term."

He was trying to get rid of us. To throw a few dollars at the problem and send us back to our miserable existence, out of sight and out of mind.

Just then, the sound of a powerful engine starting up came from the driveway. My son, Tom, who had been silent until now, peeked around my leg. His eyes went wide.

In the driveway was a gleaming black pickup truck, the kind of expensive, oversized vehicle that was more of a status symbol than a work tool.

"Wow," Tom breathed, his voice full of childish awe. "Is that your car, Daddy?"

Michael looked uncomfortable. He had told me on the phone for years that he was barely scraping by, that every penny went into the business. Yet here he was, with a house and a truck that screamed success.

"It's... just a work truck, son," he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.

I looked at my son's innocent, admiring face, and then at Michael's shifty, guilty one. The contrast filled me with a cold, hard rage. My children deserved a father who was proud to see them, not one who saw them as an inconvenience to be managed.

"We're not going to a motel, Michael," I said, my voice low and clear. "We're staying here. With you. We're family, after all."

The look of panic that flashed across his and Sarah's faces was the first small taste of victory. It was delicious.