The soft hum of the coffee maker blends with the sharp whine of Mateo’s cries, a constant reminder of how little I’ve been able to do lately. My fingers tremble as I grip the mug, the warm porcelain a small comfort as I watch the morning light pour in through the kitchen window. It casts long, golden streaks across the worn tiles, illuminating the empty spaces I can’t seem to fill. Across the street, the neighbors’ cars sputter to life one by one, engines revving in steady succession as the world moves outside, unaffected by the chaos inside my home. I close my eyes, trying to swallow the knot in my throat, but it tightens further as Mateo’s sobs grow louder, desperate.
I wish I could ignore it. I try to—everything else demands my attention. The email chain that won’t stop growing. Edith Sinclair, with her never-ending demands. The endless calls from work. But here I am, stuck in this space where the weight of the world feels a little too much, and my own son, the one person who should know my love, is a stranger in my arms.
Then the door swings open with a bang, and I flinch. Eric stands in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the hallway, his face twisted in anger. “What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice is a low growl, but the force behind it rattles the bones in my chest. His words cut deeper than the morning chill in the air. “Why isn’t Mateo fed? Why is he crying like that? What is wrong with you, Natalia?”
I look at him, blinking back the sting of tears. The sunlight catches the edges of his features, making him look almost softer than I know him to be, but there’s nothing soft about the look in his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, hands fisted at his sides, the veins in his neck taut with anger. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him like this, but it still hits me the same.
I set the coffee down with a soft clink, my fingers shaking now, and my throat burns as I whisper, “I’m sorry.” The words feel too small, too hollow to convey the weight of everything pressing down on me. The tears threaten again, but I bite them back, unwilling to let him see my weakness. Mateo’s cries only escalate, but I can’t bring myself to move.
Eric sighs in frustration, his lips curling into a snarl. “Don’t bother. I got him.” He moves past me, reaching out to scoop Mateo from the crib. I watch him with a lump in my throat as he rocks our son with a touch that seems almost too stiff, too calculated. And as he stands there, the weight of my own failure presses down on me, the daylight in the room feeling colder than ever.
The silence that follows after Eric leaves is suffocating. The only sound left is the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant barking of a dog down the street. My coffee sits untouched, now lukewarm, but I don’t have the energy to drink it. I run a hand down my face, exhaling shakily before grabbing my keys from the counter. There’s no point in lingering. Work is waiting, and the last thing I need is to be late.
The morning air bites at my skin as I step outside, the golden sunlight doing nothing to warm the chill settled deep in my bones. The neighborhood is already alive—engines revving, car doors slamming, the sound of someone’s radio blaring from an open window. I walk toward my silver 2008 Prius, the familiar sight of its scratched-up door handle and dented bumper grounding me in routine. Just as I reach for the handle, a voice cuts through the air like nails on a chalkboard.
“Natalia! What was all that commotion I heard?”
Martha Packard stands at the edge of her pristine lawn, arms crossed over her floral robe, her expression a mix of curiosity and judgment. Her lips purse as she waits for an answer, but I don’t give her one. I just open my car door and slide in, already feeling the beginnings of a headache creep in.
“How rude,” she huffs as I start the engine. “I was just trying to help. You young women never listen when someone tries to give you advice about being a good wife and mother—”
I don’t let her finish. I lift my middle finger as I back out of the driveway, not even looking at her. The nerve of that woman. Everyone knew her husband, Thomas, was screwing their maid, Paola. Maybe she should focus on being a good wife instead of lecturing me.
The highway is a mess of brake lights and blaring horns, a sea of impatient drivers inching forward in morning traffic. My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I listen to the monotonous beeping of the conference call connecting. The tension in my temples tightens as I wait for the inevitable—the criticism, the doubt, the slow chipping away at what little confidence I have left.
Gerry’s voice comes through first, sharp and authoritative as always. “Alright, let’s get down to it. We’ve got a problem with the Sinclair estate.”
Of course we do. I keep my eyes on the unmoving line of cars ahead, one hand gripping the wheel while the other adjusts the volume on my headset. A rustling sound crackles through the speaker before Vic’s voice joins in, smoother but just as condescending.
“Edith isn’t happy,” he says, and I swear I can hear the smirk in his voice. “She doesn’t think Natalia is the right fit for handling the project.”
I knew it was coming, but hearing it still sends a cold wave of nausea through me. I tighten my grip on the wheel, pressing my foot against the brake harder than necessary. “I’ve been managing this case for months,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “She approved every revision I sent her.”
Gerry exhales, a long-suffering sigh that makes my stomach twist. “She doesn’t feel like you’re taking her concerns seriously. Frankly, neither do I. Vic’s got a better handle on what she wants, so I think it’s best if he steps in as lead from here.”
My breath catches in my throat. The dull headache that had been simmering all morning flares into something sharper, hotter. My fingers tremble as I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for just a second, trying to steady myself. They’re taking my project away. Months of work, stress, sleepless nights—all being handed over to Vic like I was just a placeholder until they found someone more suited. More capable.
I can’t spiral. Not here, not now. My hand fumbles in my bag, fingers closing around the orange prescription bottle buried beneath paperwork and loose receipts. I twist off the cap with practiced ease, shaking two Percocet into my palm before dry swallowing them. The bitterness clings to my tongue, but I don’t care. I just need the edge to dull. I need my hands to stop shaking.
Danny finally speaks up, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “Maybe we should give Natalia another shot. She knows the ins and outs of this case better than anyone.”
I almost laugh. It’s a weak attempt, and we both know it. Gerry won’t change his mind, and neither will Edith. My fate was sealed before this call even started. I press my fingers to my temples, the throbbing only worsening despite the promise of relief settling in my bloodstream. The traffic lurches forward, and I press the gas pedal a little harder than necessary, my pulse hammering in my ears as I let the conversation fade into white noise.
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