Chapter 3

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Kevan didn' t come home that night. Or the next. I wasn' t surprised. This was his pattern. After any conflict, he would disappear for days, sometimes weeks, leaving me in a limbo of silence and uncertainty.

On the third day, I took Bonnie to school and returned home to find Kevan in the kitchen. He was standing at the stove, carefully flipping a pancake. Not for me, or for Bonnie. For Aspen, who was sitting at the dining table, a proprietary air about him, as if he owned the place.

The sight was a punch to the gut. In seven years of marriage, Kevan had never once cooked for me. Not even a piece of toast. But here he was, playing the perfect domestic father for another woman' s son in my kitchen.

My chest constricted, a familiar pain that was both emotional and physical. I had to get out of there before Bonnie came home from his half-day of kindergarten and saw this. The thought of my son witnessing this casual, loving scene between his father and another boy was unbearable.

"Oh, you' re back," Aspen said, his voice dripping with disdain. He wrinkled his nose. "Daddy Kevan, why does she live here? I don' t like her."

Kevan placed a perfectly golden-brown pancake on Aspen' s plate and ruffled his hair. "Be nice, Aspen. She' s just the help." He didn't even look at me.

"One day, you' ll have a son just like him," I said, my voice tight. "And I hope he treats you with the exact same measure of contempt you show me and your own child."

Kevan' s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," I said, standing my ground.

He took a menacing step toward me, but I didn' t flinch. He glared at me for a long moment before turning his back, dismissing me completely.

I left the house, my hands shaking. I drove aimlessly for a while before remembering my appointment. I needed to pick up the results of my recent physical.

At the hospital, the doctor, a kind-faced man in his fifties, sat me down in his office. His expression was grim.

"Mrs. Richard," he began, his voice gentle. "I' m afraid I have some bad news. Your bloodwork came back with some... concerning results. We' ve diagnosed you with acute myeloid leukemia."

The words didn' t register at first. Leukemia. It was a word from a television show, not from my life.

"It' s in the advanced stages," he continued softly. "We need to admit you immediately and start an aggressive course of chemotherapy."

My first thought, my only thought, was of Bonnie. What would happen to my son?

My body started to tremble uncontrollably. A low, keening sound escaped my lips, a sound of pure, animal grief.

"I need to go," I mumbled, stumbling to my feet. Just as I reached the door, my phone rang. It was Bonnie' s school.

"Mrs. Richard? It' s the school nurse. Bonnie has a fever. You need to come pick him up."

The world tilted on its axis. I was dying, and my son was sick.

I rushed to the school, my mind a whirlwind of terror and despair. Bonnie was waiting for me in the nurse' s office, his face flushed and his eyes glassy.

"Mommy," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I don' t feel so good."

"It' s okay, baby," I croaked, scooping him into my arms. "Mommy' s got you."

He felt so small and fragile against my chest. Every step to the car was an agony. A sharp, stabbing pain had started in my lower back, a symptom the doctor had warned me about.

I got him home and tucked him into bed. I' d raised him to be independent, to not be a burden. Now I regretted it. I wanted him to be demanding, to need me desperately, to give me a reason to fight this disease.

When I walked back into the living room, Kevan was there, playing a video game with Aspen. They didn' t even look up as I walked past them with our sick child. My heart, which I thought couldn' t break any further, splintered into a thousand more pieces.

It was in that moment that I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone in my life. I hated him for his cruelty, for his indifference. I hated him for bringing a child into this world only to discard him. And I hated myself for ever loving him.

My life was a ticking clock, and I would spend every last second I had making sure my son was loved and cared for, even if it meant fighting a war I was destined to lose.

I made Bonnie some soup, but we were out of the crackers he liked. I had to go to the store.

"Kevan," I said, my voice flat. "I' m going to the store. Bonnie is in his room. He has a fever. Just... check on him."

He grunted in response, his eyes glued to the screen.

When I returned twenty minutes later, I walked into a nightmare. Bonnie was standing in the middle of the living room, his face smeared with thick, red lipstick. Aspen stood behind him, the offending tube in his hand, giggling.

"What did you do to him?" I screamed, dropping the grocery bags.

Aspen' s face crumpled. "I was just playing! We were playing clowns!" he wailed.

Kevan immediately jumped up and rushed to Aspen' s side, comforting him. "It' s okay, Aspen. It was just a game." He glared at me. "Look what you did. You scared him."

"He humiliated our son!" I shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Bonnie, who was now crying silently. "And you did nothing! You were supposed to be watching him!"

"Don' t be so dramatic, Chelsey," Kevan sneered. "It' s just lipstick. You' re insane." He picked up a crying Aspen and carried him away. "You' re a monster. A crazy, jealous monster."

The words echoed in the silent room. Monster.

I looked at my son' s tear-streaked, lipstick-smeared face. "He' s right," I whispered to the empty room. "I am a monster. Because I' m going to die and leave my baby all alone in this world."

And Kevan, the man who was supposed to be his father, just stood there, comforting the child who had hurt him.