Chapter 3

"What do you want, Olivia?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone. I was standing in my newly painted kitchen, the smell of fresh lumber in the air. Her voice felt like a pollutant.

"It's about Lily," she said, her tone business-like. "She's refusing to eat. She says she only wants the shepherd's pie you used to make."

I almost laughed. Of course. It wasn't about me. It was about my function.

"So order one from a restaurant," I said flatly.

"I tried. She says it's not the same. She wants your version." There was a hint of frustration in her voice. She was not used to her daughter being difficult.

"That's a shame," I said. "But it's probably for the best."

"What are you talking about?"

"That shepherd's pie is loaded with butter and cream. It's not healthy for a growing child to eat all the time. You should be feeding her more vegetables," I said, the words coming out automatically, a relic of the seven years I spent planning their meals.

There was a pause. She was thrown off. "Well, what am I supposed to do? She's crying."

"You're her mother, Olivia. Figure it out. Tell her she can't always have what she wants. It's called parenting." I offered a solution. "There are plenty of healthy recipes online. Or you could hire a chef. You can certainly afford one."

"I don't have time for that! Can't you just tell me the recipe?" she demanded.

"No."

"Why not? It's just a recipe, for God's sake!"

"Because I don't want to. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what?" she scoffed. "Living in that rundown shack your parents left you? I saw the pictures when we settled the estate. It's a tear-down, Ethan."

Her words were meant to hurt, to remind me of my place. A few months ago, they would have. Now, they just sounded pathetic.

"I'm rebuilding it," I said, a note of pride in my voice that I couldn't hide. "And I'm happy."

"Happy?" She sounded genuinely baffled. "How can you be happy there? Where are you, anyway? That little hick town?"

"I'm not telling you," I said. "And don't call this number again."

"Ethan, wait-"

I hung up.

My hand was shaking slightly. I took a deep breath. Then, I went into my phone's settings and blocked her number. I blocked her parents' numbers. I blocked every number I had saved from my old life.

A wave of relief washed over me. The connection was severed. For good.

I went back to work, sanding a beautiful old rocking chair I'd found in the attic. As I worked, my mind drifted back to my real parents.

My father was a carpenter. He wasn't rich, but he was a master of his craft. He could turn a rough piece of wood into something beautiful and functional. My mother was a librarian. She loved books and had a quiet, gentle strength.

Our house wasn't a mansion, but it was filled with love and laughter. My parents encouraged my art. My mother would frame my clumsy childhood drawings and hang them in the kitchen. My father taught me how to use his tools, how to respect the wood.

They died on their way to visit me at college. A drunk driver ran a red light. My world ended that day.

The Davieses stepped in. Mr. Davies had been my father's best friend in high school, though they had drifted apart as their fortunes diverged. They presented themselves as saviors. And I, a lost and grieving 20-year-old, believed them.

I was a good student. I made the Dean's List every semester. They were proud of that. It reflected well on them.

I met Olivia during the summer after my parents' funeral. She had been "sent home" from her European backpacking trip for maxing out three credit cards.

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. I was the charity case. The boy her parents had taken in.

The wedding was a grand affair. I had no family to invite. All the guests were hers. I stood at the altar in a rented tuxedo, feeling like an actor in a play I hadn't rehearsed. Olivia looked beautiful in her designer gown, but her smile never reached her eyes. During the vows, she looked bored.

Now, sitting in my quiet, half-finished house, I felt more at home than I ever had in that sterile mansion. I was poor, I was alone, but I was free.

The peace lasted for three days.

On the fourth day, a frantic call came from a number I didn't recognize. It was a nurse from a hospital in the city.

"Are you Ethan Miller?" she asked, her voice urgent.

"Yes?"

"You're listed as the emergency contact for a Lily Davies. There's been an accident. You need to come to the hospital right away."

The world tilted on its axis.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

"She was hit by a car. She's in surgery now. Sir, you need to get here."