Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips
The silence that followed Ethan’s exit from the kitchen was far more terrifying than any argument we had ever had.
I stood paralyzed by the sink, water still trickling from the spout, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the living room, the ambient sound of television chatter and giggling suddenly ceased the moment Ethan stepped into their line of sight.
"Ethan! You're home early!" Linda’s voice boomed, rich with theatrical warmth. "Darling, you look exhausted. Come sit down. Chloe, move your bags so your brother can sit."
"Why is Emily washing a mountain of dishes by herself at ten o'clock at night?" Ethan’s voice wasn't raised. It was flat, ice-cold, and entirely devoid of the affection he usually showed his mother.
A beat of hesitation filled the air.
"Oh, sweetheart, don't be dramatic," Linda smoothly replied, her tone dripping with motherly condescension. "Emily offered to clean up. You know how she likes to keep busy. We told her to leave it for tomorrow, but she insisted."
My hands tightened into fists at my sides. It was the same lie she always used. Whenever I tried to stand up for myself, Linda spun it into an act of martyrly obsession on my part, making me look unhinged while she appeared long-suffering and gracious.
"She's eight months pregnant, Mom," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave, pulsing with a dark, dangerous edge. "Her feet are swollen. She is sobbing over the sink. And Madison just yelled at her from the couch to fetch her ice."
"Ethan!" Madison whined, her voice high and defensive. "I didn't mean it like that! I've been studying all day, and my back hurts. Emily was already in the kitchen anyway!"
"You've been shopping online all afternoon, Madison," Ethan snapped, stepping further into the room. "I get the credit card alerts sent directly to my phone. You spent twelve hundred dollars at Nordstrom three hours ago."
"Ethan James!" Linda stood up, her voice taking on the sharp authority she used whenever her authority was questioned. "Do not speak to your sister in that tone! We are your family! We have had a very stressful week, and we do not deserve to be interrogated the moment you walk through the door after working late!"
"And what kind of week has Emily had?" Ethan demanded. His voice finally cracked, a thunderous roar echoing through the high ceilings of the foyer. "She is carrying my child! She works from home as a graphic editor, she cooks your meals, she cleans up after four grown adults, and not one of you—not one—could be bothered to hand her a glass of water?"
Olivia chimed in, her voice cold and snide. "She's pregnant, Ethan, not invalid. Millions of women have babies every day and still manage a household. She's just using it as an excuse to make us look bad to you."
I squeezed my eyes shut as those words sliced through me. Using it as an excuse. For months, whenever I mentioned my severe sciatica or the Braxton Hicks contractions that left me breathless, Chloe had laughed, Olivia had rolled her eyes, and Linda had reminded me that she had worked up until the day she delivered Ethan.
Footsteps heavy and deliberate approached the kitchen entrance again. Ethan walked back in. His eyes swept over the pristine counters he had paid for, the custom Italian cabinetry, and then rested on me.
He walked past the island, reached out, and gently took the sponge from my cold, trembling hands. He turned off the faucet. Then, without saying a word, he reached beneath my knees and lower back, lifting me effortlessly into his arms.
A sharp gasp escaped my lips. "Ethan, your back—"
"Quiet, Em," he murmured softly into my hair. His chest was heavy, his heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. "I've got you."
He carried me out of the kitchen. As we passed the living room, Linda stood near the fireplace, her arms crossed, her face pale with unadulterated shock and fury. Olivia and Madison stared at him as if he had just slapped them, while Chloe looked awkwardly down at her phone.
"Ethan, where are you taking her?" Linda demanded, stepping toward the hallway. "We need to discuss dinner arrangements for tomorrow's family lunch!"
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Ethan stopped. He didn't look at his mother directly; he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the master bedroom door.
"Tomorrow," Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, "you will all be packing your bags."
