The rain poured over Portland that night, turning every street into a river of reflections.
Emma Collins stood barefoot on the porch, clutching her three-year-old son, Leo, as he shivered in her arms. Behind her, the front door of the home she’d built for ten years closed softly—a quiet end that hurt more than a slammed one.
“Ethan, please,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Not in front of Leo.”
Her husband, Ethan Ward, leaned against the doorframe, his shirt half-open, one arm draped around a young woman in a red coat. His eyes were cold, stripped of every trace of love.
“You made your choices, Emma,” he said flatly. “Now live with them.”
“My choices?” she echoed, disbelief in her voice. “I gave up everything for this family.”
Ethan scoffed. “You gave up nothing. You just… settled. Claire makes me feel alive again.”
The woman—Claire—gave a faint, uneasy smile but looked away.
When Ethan told her to leave, Emma pressed Leo close and stepped into the downpour. Within seconds she was drenched, but she didn’t cry—not yet.
As she reached the driveway, footsteps splashed behind her. Claire was running after her, her red heels slipping in the puddles.
“Wait!” she called out.
Emma turned, expecting mockery. Instead, Claire held out a small roll of damp bills—about five hundred dollars.
“Take this,” she said quietly. “Get a motel for a few days.”
Emma frowned. “Why are you—”
“Three days,” Claire interrupted, her voice barely audible above the rain. “Come back then. You’ll understand.”
