Chapter 2 - The Brochures
The next morning I got up before sunrise and walked three miles before anyone else in the house was awake. When I got back, Ethan was eating cereal at the counter.
"How far?" he asked.
"Three miles."
He looked genuinely impressed. "Seriously, Mom?"
"Yeah, I know. Your mother's basically an Olympian."
He raised his spoon like a microphone. "Should I contact the media?"
"Absolutely not before coffee."
He grinned, and for a second the house felt normal. Ethan was quiet most of the time, but his dry humor came out easily around me. Owen, at four, was loud and curious and completely obsessed with dump trucks — a running joke Ethan liked to milk whenever he got the chance.
Marcus walked in while I was filling a glass of water. He glanced at my sweaty shirt.
"Walking isn't going to transform you, Cassandra."
Ethan's grin disappeared instantly.
I lowered the glass. "Good morning to you too."
"I'm just saying."
"No, you're not. You're being ugly about it."
Marcus poured his coffee, unbothered. "I care about you. Other men would've already left by now."
"Are you threatening me because I went for a walk?"
"You know what I mean."
"Then say what you actually mean."
His mouth tightened. "Look at Diane's waist. Then look at yours. Standing next to her, you look like you could be her grandmother."
Ethan pushed his bowl away. "I'm gonna wait for the bus outside."
"You've got ten minutes, honey."
"I'm good," he said, eyes on the floor, already grabbing his backpack. "Love you, Mom."
"Love you too."
He left without so much as glancing at his father.
Marcus frowned after him. "Now look what you did."
"He's uncomfortable because you insult me in front of him. Constantly."
"I'm being honest."
"You're being cruel," I said, and walked away before he could answer.
I stood over Ethan's half-finished cereal for a long moment after Marcus left the kitchen. I'd spent years convincing myself that staying quiet was protecting my sons. That morning, for the first time, I started wondering what my silence was actually teaching them instead.
Two nights later, Marcus dropped a stack of glossy brochures onto our bed. I picked one up — liposuction. Another mentioned implants.
"What is this?"
"Options."
"For who?"
"For you."
He already knew I wasn't considering elective surgery while my thyroid treatment was still unstable. I'd told him that more than once.
"I don't want surgery."
"You haven't even looked into it."
"I shouldn't have to cut up my body to earn kindness from my own husband."
"It's about attraction, Cass."
That one landed and stayed. Then he made it worse.
"If you refuse to do anything about your body, don't expect me to stay forever. I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm just being honest. Isn't that what you want?"
He turned toward the door.
"No," I said.
He stopped.
"You don't get to say that and just walk away."
"I'm telling you the truth."
"You keep threatening me with these imaginary men who would've already left by now."
"Most would have."
I stepped closer to him, closer than I'd stood to him in weeks. "Then I'm starting to wonder why you're so sure staying with you is the prize."
Something in his face shifted — he wasn't used to me answering back. He turned and walked out instead of responding.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still shaking, and noticed Ethan standing at the end of the hallway holding one of Owen's toy trucks. His eyes had landed on the brochures scattered across the comforter.
"Owen won't sleep unless his trucks are lined up right," he said quietly, not really about the trucks at all.
"I know, baby."
"Mom." His voice cracked slightly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. I promise."
May you like
"No, you're not." Then he walked away, and I let him, because he was right and I didn't have anything better to say yet.
I picked up my phone and photographed every single brochure. Not for a lawyer, not for revenge. For myself. Marcus had a habit of insisting later, "That's not what I said." I was done letting him rewrite my own memory for me.
