Chapter 18
You were supposed to shoot a series of rubber ducks, rotating on a small conveyor, using a toy rifle. The top three parents would win some school-sponsored mug and eternal bragging rights. Aliya dragged me there. "C’mon Mom! Show them! You can do it! You're like, totally a secret agent, right?"
“Of course not. I'm just me.” I muttered. I don’t even know how to hold a gun anymore with his body? I doubt I can shoot one. But she shoved the plastic rifle into my hands like it was Excalibur and I was the chosen knight. Parents were already laughing, cheering each other on, some hitting one or two targets.
I took a deep breath. Instinct kicked in.
Click. Click. Click.
Every duck. Every bullseye.
Silence.
I lowered the rifle, blinking. Even I was surprised.
Maya screamed. "MOM'S THE BEST!"
Aliya was already halfway through a conspiracy theory involving the CIA and cloned parents. Jaya clapped and immediately fell backward, knocking over a juice box stand. Meanwhile, Jhing Jhing shouted from the back, “I TOLD YOU SHE’S POSSESSED! NO NORMAL MOTHER DOES THAT!”
Mylene, sipping from her paper coffee cup, leaned closer to me. "You’re seriously going to tell me you don’t remember anything about firing a gun?"
"I swear," I laughed, "I was just trying not to pee myself. This body doesn’t hold tension well."
The three of us ended up in a small coffee shop near the school gates afterward, each holding cups of watered-down lattes and plates of leftover festival cake. We sat on the plastic chairs like old war veterans. Our kids ran circles around us, wild on sugar and adrenaline.
"You know," Jhing Jhing said, pointing her fork at me, "If you tell me right now that you’re either an ex-sniper or got swapped by a witch spirit, I’d believe you. Especially with that shampoo commercial hair you suddenly grew this week.”
"It’s just dry shampoo and luck," I said, laughing, although something inside me tightened.
For the first time, I felt like I was fitting in.
Like maybe—just maybe—there was something about this life I could learn to like.
That’s when I saw it.
A sleek black limo.
Just behind the glass, parked in front of the florist’s shop across the street.
It was unmistakable. Long, glossy, polished, the kind of vehicle you don’t forget when you’ve ridden in it a hundred times to boardroom meetings and red carpet events.
And inside?
Alec. In my old Armani suit.
Dorothy. Her head on his shoulder.
Laughing. Then kissing. My brother. My woman. The two people who once swore I was irreplaceable now driving around in the same life I had built. The one I lost.
Mylene and Jhing Jhing were still talking, but I couldn’t hear them. My ears rang.
My latte was ice cold in my hand.
My chest—Catherine’s chest—tightened painfully. I didn’t even love Dorothy anymore. Not really. But watching her smile at Alec like he was her world? Like I never existed?
It was like watching my past die a second time. I clenched the paper cup until it buckled in my grip. Jaya tugged on my shirt, looking up with round curious eyes.
“Mommy, why are you angry?”
I blinked, forcing a smile. “No, baby. I’m okay.”
But I wasn’t. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. I am goint to fuck the hell out of you Alec. I swear to all the gods of diapers and breasts.
The next few days passed like a blur—one long, tangled braid of minor victories and barely-contained chaos.
It started on a Thursday morning, just after I’d convinced Jaya not to eat a crayon and Aliya not to wear socks over her shoes “for fashion.” The phone rang. Not my new iPhone—this was Catherine’s old, cereal-caked phone that I’d kept charged out of sheer paranoia.
The caller ID read: Ray.
Right. The husband.
I hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. My heart thudded—was he coming home? Was I supposed to act like a wife? What if he kissed me? Touched me? Tried to… cuddle? I wasn’t ready to be in bed with anyone while still figuring out how bras worked in this body without dislocating something.
I took a breath, hit answer, and tried to sound as normal as possible.
“Hello?”
“Hey Cath. It’s me.”
His voice was hoarse. Tired. With the distinct background noise of rumbling engines and wind.
“Hi Ray,” I replied, my tone deliberately neutral.
“I’m not gonna make it home this weekend,” he said. “Took a double shift. Derek—my buddy—he… he died. Car crash. Driver fell asleep on the M9.”
I blinked.
“Oh. I—I’m sorry, Ray. That’s terrible.”
He exhaled. “Yeah. His wife’s a wreck. I figured I’ll cover for him. Extra money doesn’t hurt either.”
“No, no, of course. That’s the right thing to do,” I said, all while thinking: Thank every divine being out there. The last thing I needed was a grieving husband coming home expecting comfort from a woman whose soul had done a complete 180.
After the call ended, I stared at the ceiling in relief. I couldn’t explain it, but being alone with the kids was somehow easier than pretending to be someone’s wife. For now.