Chapter 1

Lucia hummed a song she didn't remember learning.

The grocery bags cut into her palms, but she didn't mind. She'd bought apples today. The red ones Thomas liked. He always chose the bruised ones at the store because he said they looked lonely.

Her boy had the biggest heart.

She pushed through the front door with her hip. The house still smelled faintly of morning coffee. Marco's mug sat on the counter, half full. She'd wash it later, after she put everything away. After she started dinner.

Then she heard laughter upstairs.

Lucia froze, one hand still gripping a can of soup, the other halfway to the cupboard.

More laughter. A woman's voice. High. Bright.

Sandra.

Her sister must have stopped by. She did that sometimes, showing up unannounced. Marco always said it was fine. Family didn't need to knock.

Lucia smiled faintly and headed for the stairs.

But the laughter grew louder. The kind that belonged behind closed doors. The kind that didn't belong in her home at all.

Something cold began to spread through her chest. Slow and sharp, like winter creeping under her ribs.

She climbed the stairs one step at a time. Her hand trembled on the railing.

The bedroom door was cracked open, just a sliver.

She pushed it wider.

And the world stopped.

Her husband. Her sister. Their bed.

The bed where she slept every night. Where she'd nursed Thomas through fevers. Where Marco once whispered forever.

Now he was tangled with Sandra. Her red dress tossed across the chair, his shirt on the floor, their bodies moving in rhythm that felt obscene.

The grocery bag slipped from Lucia's fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, spilling apples that rolled across the hardwood. One bumped against the dresser, another rolled under the bed.

Under the bed where her husband was with her sister.

Sandra turned her head. Her hair was messy, lips swollen. No guilt in her eyes. Only satisfaction.

She smirked.

Marco didn't even stop. His hands stayed on Sandra's body. When he finally looked at Lucia, it was with irritation, as if she were the intruder here.

"Marco," Lucia whispered. Her voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He sat up slowly, reaching for his pants. "Lucia. This isn't what you think."

The words made no sense. They bounced around her skull, useless.

Sandra laughed, a cruel, musical sound. She didn't even bother covering herself.

"Oh, honey," she said. "You really are pathetic, aren't you? Standing there like that."

Lucia's mouth trembled. "How long?"

Sandra stretched like a cat. "Four years. Give or take."

Four years.

Thomas was six.

The math cut through her like a knife.

"Get out." Her voice shook. "Both of you. Get out of my house."

"Your house?" Marco snapped. "My name is on the deed."

"I don't care. Get out."

Sandra slipped into her dress, still laughing. "You can't even throw us out properly, Lucia. God, you're pathetic."

Then footsteps. Small, quick ones.

Thomas.

"No," Lucia whispered, but it was too late.

He ran straight past her, straight into Sandra's arms.

"Mommy!" he squealed, wrapping his little hands around Sandra's leg. "Daddy said you'd play with me after!"

The world tilted.

Lucia's breath caught.

Mommy.

She bent down, voice breaking. "Thomas, baby, I'm your mommy."

He looked at her, confused. "No, you're Lucia. Mommy is Sandra."

Sandra smiled down at him, smoothing his hair. "That's right, sweetie. Go downstairs, okay? Mommy will be right there."

"Okay!" Thomas ran off, happy and oblivious.

Lucia's knees buckled. She grabbed the doorframe to stay standing.

"You took my husband," she whispered.

Sandra shrugged, fixing her lipstick in the mirror.

"You took my bed. My home."

Sandra smirked into the glass. "And your son. Don't forget that part."

Lucia's heart stopped. "You made him call you..."

"I didn't make him do anything." Sandra's voice dripped poison. "He chose me. Children always know who loves them better."

Lucia's hands clenched into fists. "You took everything from me."

Sandra turned, eyes glinting. "Not everything. You still have your miserable little life. Oh wait." She laughed, cruel and bright. "I took that too."

She brushed past Lucia. Marco followed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs, the door closing behind them.

Lucia sank to the floor, staring at the scattered apples, the empty bed, the ruin of everything she thought she had.

Thomas's laughter floated up from downstairs, calling for Sandra.

Not for her.

She pressed her hand to her mouth and wept without sound.

***

Night came, but Lucia didn't sleep.

She sat on the couch. The same one where Thomas took his first steps. Where Marco used to hold her on Sunday mornings. The house was too quiet now, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the echo of her son's voice in her head.

Mommy.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Marco.

Lucia didn't look up.

"Lucia," he said, sounding more tired than sorry. "We need to talk."

She stared at her wedding ring, twisting it between her fingers. "Now you want to talk?"

"Don't be like this."

Her head snapped up. "Like what? Like a wife who just caught her husband sleeping with her sister?"

"You're overreacting," he said.

Lucia laughed, a hollow, trembling sound. "Overreacting?"

"It's not that simple."

"Then explain it. Make me understand."

Marco's expression hardened. "You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

He hesitated, then sneered. "You're boring, Lucia."

The words hit like blows.

"Boring?" she echoed.

"Sandra makes me feel alive. You never did."

"I gave you everything," she whispered. "My time. My dreams. My life."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to. I loved you."

He scoffed. "You call that love? Cooking dinner and cleaning the house? That's not love. That's just existing."

Lucia shook her head, tears spilling freely. "You said you loved me."

"I thought I did," he said coldly. "Until I remembered what passion felt like."

"Stop," she pleaded, but he kept going.

"You smother me. You worry. You nag. Sandra lets me breathe."

"Then why didn't you leave?" she screamed. "Why stay?"

"Because it was easier," he said simply. "You took care of everything. But Sandra showed me I deserve more than easy. I deserve happy."

Lucia stared at him, the stranger wearing her husband's face.

Her voice broke. "When did you stop loving me?"

Marco's silence was answer enough.

Then Sandra appeared in the doorway. Smiling. Unashamed.

"Oh good," she said. "You told her."

Lucia's voice trembled. "Get out."

Sandra ignored her, walked over to Marco, slid her arm around him. "This stopped being your house the moment you walked in on us."

"I'll leave," Lucia whispered. "Just give me Thomas."

Sandra's eyes sparkled. "Why would we do that?"

"He's my son."

"Is he though?" Sandra said sweetly. "He calls me mommy. He loves me more."

"Because you lied to him!" Lucia shouted. "You made him forget me!"

Sandra leaned closer, smiling like victory itself. "No, Lucia. I just gave him what he wanted. Someone better than you."

Marco nodded. "You can go. You'll crawl back eventually. You're nothing without me."

The words crushed her chest.

"I gave you six years of my life," she whispered. "And you're telling me I'm nothing?"

"You gave me obligation," he said. "Not love."

He turned away. Sandra followed. Their footsteps faded upstairs.

Lucia stood in the silence. The house, her house, no longer felt like home.

She went to the guest room and dragged out a dusty suitcase. Clothes went in blindly. Shirts, pants, whatever her shaking hands found first.

Her wedding photo sat on the dresser. She picked it up.

They were smiling in it, soaked from rain, believing that meant luck. Everyone had said rain on a wedding day was good fortune.

They were wrong.

A tear landed on the glass. Then another.

Lucia wrapped the photo in a shirt and packed it gently. Not because it still meant something, but because she couldn't bear to break it.

She paused, staring at a soft sweater Thomas had picked for her.

"It's soft like you, Mama," he'd said.

Mama.

He didn't call her that anymore.

The sound broke her.

She fell onto the bed, the suitcase spilling beside her, and stared at the ceiling. The water stain she always meant to fix looked like a spreading wound now.

Somewhere downstairs, her son's laughter echoed. Distant, unreachable.

Lucia lay still, tears sliding into her hair.

The girl in the wedding photo was gone.

And Lucia had no idea who was left.