Luckily, I had Izzy and Jacob. They never judged. Never pushed or pressured me. Never acted like they knew what was best for me. They gave me a place to fall apart. A place where I could breathe without breaking. A place where I could feel safe and trust someone again.
And Jacob? I tried to ignore the heavy weight of his feelings, but it was always there. How he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. The way he stepped in between me and Ryan, his fists curled tight when I cried. Or how he swore—quiet but certain—that he’d never let anyone hurt me.
I never expected his words would come true.
Not for long, Jenna Jinx.
He was right. Almost a year after Jacob punched Ryan, and as our friendship grew stronger, I finally left. But instead of healing—of figuring out who I was without Ryan, I ran straightinto Jacob’s arms. From one relationship to the next, hoping love could fix my fractured pieces.
And we lived happily ever after. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Chapter 2: House Made of Glass
Jenna: Present Day, September
Some days, I wonder if I’m really living or just going through the motions. Existing. Surviving. Today, it’s hard to tell the difference.
It’s another chaotic afternoon, the kind that keeps me teetering on exhaustion, so I don’t feel anything else. My kitchen looks like a teenager ransacked the place—counters cluttered with bowls, cupboards hanging open, faucet running, fridge chiming to shut the damn thing.
I’m whisking eggs in one hand, scrolling through emails with the other, when Jacob’s words from last night echo in my mind.
“What happened to the Jenna I met twenty years ago?”
We’d been talking about planning a weekend getaway with the girls. Something to break up the dull routine our lives have become. But apparently, I’m selfish. I ask too much. I’m not theJenna who supports his career anymore. Just a mother, bound by responsibilities.
But maybe the real question is—what happened to us?
Before I let that thought spiral, Lily’s voice yanks me back.
“Mommy, Mommy!” My eleven-year-old screams, storming into the kitchen holding a tiny ball of black fur. Her green eyes, so much like mine, sparkle with excitement, and her dark curls bounce as she lifts the kitten up. “Look what I found! Can I keep her, please?”
I glance down. The kitten is scruffy, matted, with wide, pleading eyes that mirror Lily’s. “She’s adorable,” I say cautiously, “but absolutely not. You know your dad’s allergic—”
“Please, Mommy!” Lily interrupts, her bottom lip trembling in that way I can never say no to.
“Okay fine. You can play with her, but only until Daddy gets home.”
Lily’s face lights up. “I’m naming her Wobbles. Because she wobbles her butt when she walks.” I smile, watching her crouch under the table playing with the kitten. Her giggles fill the room, light and carefree. But her laughter stirs something inside me. A memory I’ve buried.
I was eight, the same age as my youngest, Ava, when I snuck out of the house to escape my father’s fury. His rage shook the walls, always over something trivial. Spilled juice, maybe. Or my mom taking too long to make dinner. And my mom never fought back. She just stood there, silent. Small. Helpless—while I prayed for it all to end.
Outside, I spotted a scraggly cat stuck in a tree branch. He was crying, scared, and all alone. I didn’t think. I just climbed. The bark scraped my palms. My foot slipped twice. My heart pounded in my chest. But I kept going. He had no one else. When I reached him, he came to me with ease, like he knew I was only trying to help.
“Jenna! Get down before you break your damn neck!” my dad’s voice roared from the porch. I flinched, twisted around too fast, and slipped… one arm wrapped around the cat, the other hit the ground and cracked. After the hospital visit, my dad must’ve felt guilty, because he let me keep him. I named him Patch. He had one ear missing, a stub tail, and a scrawny, weak body. He reminded me of myself. A broken, fragile mess, just trying to survive.
The garage door rumbles open, returning me to reality. Tension squeezes my chest. Here we go. Another mistake. Another argument.
“Lily, quick! Take Wobbles outside!” The kitten spooks from Lily’s arms and leaps from her grasp, darting between chairs and straight toward Jacob. He steps inside, his eyes narrowing as Wobbles weaves between his legs.
“What the hell, Jenna, is that a cat?” His voice is tight with annoyance.
Ava peeks into the doorway, drawn by the commotion. Her dark brown eyes, just like her father’s, light up, and she joins the chase. My girls are close in age but have completely different personalities. Ava’s bold, impulsive, her big heart always leading the way. Lily, on the other hand, is careful, calm. The kind of big sister who organizes her crayons by color.
We burst into giggles scrambling to catch the tiny furball—everyone except Jacob. His frustration simmers beneath the surface. We corner Wobbles and set up a makeshift bed in a cardboard box with a blanket and some milk. But the laughter soon fades.
“You know I’m allergic. Why would you let the girls bring a cat inside?” Jacob’s voice is razor-sharp. “I’ve been dealing with clients all day, and this is what I walk into?” His briefcase hits the counter with a dull thud.
“I’m sorry. Lily found her, and she reminded me of Patch,” I say, trying to smooth things over. He knows how many nights I cried myself to sleep, holding on to Patch when things got bad with my dad. Even if that was years ago.
