When I opened the door,
Lauren stood there
like a ghost I’d buried
18 years ago.
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Her hair was styled perfectly. Her clothes probably cost more than our rent. She wore sunglasses even though it was overcast, and when she lowered them to look at me, her expression was pure disdain.
“Mark,” she said, her voice dripping with judgment.
I didn’t move or speak. Just stood there blocking the doorway.
She pushed past me anyway, stepping into our apartment like she owned it. Her eyes swept over our modest living room, our sewing table covered in fabrics, and the life we’d built without her.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d smelled something rotten.
“You’ve still remained the same loser,” she said loud enough for the girls to hear. “Still living in this… hole? You’re supposed to be a man, making big money, building an empire.”
“You’re supposed to be a man,
making big money,
building an empire.”
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My jaw stiffened, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.
Emma and Clara had frozen at their sewing machines, their hands stilling on the fabric. They couldn’t see her, but they could hear the venom in her voice.
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