Chapter 1

The day of our divorce, when I walked out with absolutely nothing, I asked my son, Julian, to drive me to my temporary rental apartment.

On the way, he pulled over to buy a pack of cigarettes, but he forgot to disconnect his phone from the car’s Bluetooth.

Suddenly, my ex-husband Richard’s voice echoed through the car speakers, dripping with smug satisfaction:

"Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?"

Immediately after, my son’s voice replied:

"Of course. Wasn't my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don't forget the sports car you promised me."

"Don't worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore."

I froze in the backseat, feeling as if ice water had been poured down my spine.

Julian hurried back into the car. The moment he saw the Bluetooth screen active, panic flashed across his face.

"Evelyn! You... you’re awake?"

"...Yeah, I just closed my eyes for a second. What's wrong?"

I kept my voice incredibly soft.

Julian stared at me through the rearview mirror for two long seconds.

"Nothing. Just wanted to tell you we’re here."

He pulled the car to the curb and engaged the handbrake.

Outside the window stood a dilapidated, old walk-up. The exterior tiles were cracked and falling apart, and bags of trash were piled up at the entrance.

Sixth floor. No elevator.

He grabbed my single suitcase from the trunk and walked ahead of me.

As we reached the corner of the third floor, he suddenly turned around to warn me, "Careful with your steps, Evelyn. The brick here is loose."

What a dutiful son. What a great actor.

He pushed the door open, and a musty, suffocating smell of decay rushed into my nose.

The space was barely three hundred square feet. A single bed was pushed against the wall, its mattress stained with unwashable yellow rings.

The faucet was leaking, dripping water one drop at a time, like a countdown timer.

Julian set my suitcase on the floor, looked around the depressing room, and scratched his head.

"The place is a bit rough, but it’s only temporary."

"Once the quitclaim deeds are processed and everything settles down, I’ll find you a better place."

*Once the deeds are processed.*

He brought up those words again, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather.

"Sure," I said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing a small smile.

He let out a sigh of relief, muttered a few more words about buying me a new comforter later, and told me to just make do for now.

Right before leaving, he hesitated at the doorway.

"Evelyn, there’s one more thing I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

"We need to go to the notary public tomorrow. Richard needs a signature on one last document. Just a formality."

"What document?"

"An addendum to the property transfer. They need a signed Quitclaim Deed from you, waiving your rights as a joint tenant."

"Technically, the divorce agreement already covered it, but their title company won't accept it without your direct signature."

He spoke so lightly, as if he were just asking me to pick up a package from the post office.

"Okay. Just set the time, and I’ll be there."

He nodded and walked away.

His footsteps echoed down the stairwell, fading further and further away until they were completely swallowed by the heavy thud of the building’s iron door.

I sat alone on that strange bed, motionless.

My phone screen lit up, dimmed, and lit up again.

It wasn't a call.

It was a Snapchat notification.

I opened it and saw a new message in a group chat.

The group was named "The Clan"—our old family chat. I thought they would have kicked me out the moment the divorce papers were signed.

But they didn't.

Maybe they just forgot.

The message was from Richard.

He wrote: "Julian, come home early tonight. Valerie made glazed ribs, your favorite."

Right below was a voice note. I tapped it, and a woman's sweet, giggling voice played:

"Julian, bring a carton of milk on your way back. Mama Valerie's fridge is empty."

*Mama Valerie.*

A woman in her early thirties, calling my twenty-four-year-old son "Julian," and referring to herself as "Mama."

Valerie—Richard’s mistress.

I stared at that voice note for a long time.

Then, I scrolled up and saw an earlier message sent by Julian this afternoon—right before he dropped me off at this dump.

He had written: "Don't worry, Valerie. Evelyn didn't hear a thing. Everything went exactly as planned."

Followed by a thumbs-up emoji.

Right after sending that message, he had walked up the stairs, carried my suitcase, and told me to watch my step.

Before leaving, he even promised to buy me a new comforter.

My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the cold concrete floor. The screen cracked right down the middle.

I heard myself laugh.

A short, dry, hollow laugh.

From downstairs, the neighbors started screaming at each other—a man cursing, a woman sobbing.

The faucet kept dripping. One drop at a time.

I sat there, staring into space. *Evelyn,* I thought, *you raised him for twenty-four years, and a stray dog would have shown more loyalty.*

On the cracked screen, the progress bar of that voice note was still frozen at the end.

Valerie's voice seemed trapped in that fracture, smilingly calling him "Julian."

"Mama Valerie's fridge is empty."