She steps aside, avoiding eye contact. Inside, the tension is thick enough to choke. Dad sits in his chair with the newspaper, stubbornly ignoring me.
I set down my bag. My mother whirls, eyes narrowed.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” she spits out. “You humiliated us. The whole town won’t stop talking about you, Beth. How you fled like a spoiled child.”
I push back the rage. “I didn’t flee. I left because Clark cheated on me.”
She scoffs, dismissive. “And you had to make it public? Couldn’t handle it privately? Instead, you turned it into a circus.”
My hands curl into fists. “Clark was the one screwing Stephanie in a storage closet at church, Mom. I didn’t imagine it.”
Her lips go even thinner. “You don’t know what you saw. It could’ve been a misunderstanding.”
I laugh, flat and humorless. “A misunderstanding? His pants were around his ankles.”
Dad lowers the newspaper with a world-weary sigh. “Clark told us you panicked, got cold feet, and made up a story.”
My chest aches. “So, now I’m crazy? That’s what you believe?”
Mom shakes her head in disgust. “You embarrassed us, Beth. All those people at the wedding—important people—and you stormed out like an ungrateful, dramatic teenager.”
Fury roars up inside me. “You care more about what people think than what happened to me?”
Mom exhales. “We raised you better than this. Marriage isn’t about passion. It’s about stability. Security. You would have had a good life with Clark and threw it away. For one mistake.”
“One mistake?” My voice shakes. “How many times do you think it happened before I found out? How long have they been lying to me?”
She stays silent.
That tells me everything.
I study them, searching for any sign of remorse or understanding. There’s nothing. Only disappointment and pride.
A line breaks inside me. I straighten my shoulders.
“I don’t need this,” I say. “Not your approval. Not Clark. And I don’t need to stand here and listen to you defend them.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Beth, don’t—”
“No. I’m done.”
I grab my bag.
“Beth,” Dad barks, “if you walk out that door, don’t expect us to fix your mess.”
I pause in the foyer and meet his cold, steady gaze. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver.
“This isn’t my mess. It’s yours.”
I open the door and storm out.
***
The drive to my place passes in a blur of anger and tears, and when I step into my apartment, the silence presses in on me. It feels smaller than ever.
I scan the chaos I left behind—a coffee mug abandoned on the counter, a stack of unopened mail, wedding invitations I never sent. Each item is a reminder of everything I lost and everything I haven’t figured out yet.
I slip off my shoes and drop onto the couch, every muscle spent. The phone on the table catches my eye.
