"And that's a bad thing? Two months ago, when you were taking care of his needs, weren't you the one saying it was such a shame you could never give him a proper title?"
She went white. Frozen. Like a statue carved from ice.
I took the offerings back, my composure unbroken, as if nothing had happened.
She hovered at my ear, babbling excuses—how she didn't love him, how she only slept with him because she felt responsible—
My silence crushed every word.
After that day, she stopped visiting.
But Noel's social media told the whole story. Photos flooded his feed—family portraits in every style imaginable. Him, her, the baby. A perfect little unit.
The day she finished her postpartum confinement, the Jenner family threw a grand celebration for that bastard child.
Grandma told me the divorce papers would be ready tomorrow.
I went home to collect my things.
The apartment—our apartment, once warm, once ours—had been remade in Noel's taste.
Even the photo that used to sit by the TV, the one of me cradling her pregnant belly, had been replaced. Now it was her, Noel, and the baby. A new family portrait.
In the photo, Greta was smiling.
Brighter than she'd smiled on our wedding day.