Years passed that way. Doctor visits came and went. Tests were done. Results were inconclusive but never final. No physician ever told me I was incapable of becoming a mother, yet the assumption hardened inside the Halloway household until it was treated as fact.
The night everything ended did not arrive with shouting or drama. It arrived with clarity that felt colder than anger.
We were in the living room. Eleanor stood straight, her hands folded calmly, her voice steady in a way that made the words more brutal.
“This arrangement has gone on long enough,” she said, looking directly at me. “A family like ours cannot afford uncertainty. A woman who cannot carry a child has no place here.”
Victor stood beside her. He did not look at me. He did not object. His silence landed heavier than her accusation.
An envelope was placed on the table between us. Inside was a check for five million dollars, written with a precision that suggested the decision had been calculated long before I was informed.
“This is generous,” Eleanor continued. “Sign the documents. Leave with dignity. We will say it was mutual.”