Six months. While I was grieving.
“I loved you,” I said, voice breaking.
“I know,” Mason said. “But Oakley… after the miscarriage, after what the doctor said…”
“Don’t.”
“You can’t carry another baby,” he continued. “The doctor said it was impossible. I want to be a father. Delaney can give me that.”
The cruelty stole my breath.
“So what? I’m broken, so you traded me in?”
“Don’t make this dramatic,” Delaney said. “We’re trying to be adults.”
Mason pulled out an envelope. “Divorce papers. I’ve already signed them.”
I took them with shaking hands. Around us, silence. My mother’s hand covered her mouth. My father looked murderous.
“This is reality, Oakley,” Delaney said softly. “Time to deal with it.”
I looked at them both, then walked away.
That night, I destroyed everything—wedding photos, our certificate, his clothes. When I ran out of things to break, I sat on the kitchen floor and cried until empty.
The next morning, my phone buzzed violently—37 missed calls, 62 texts.
“Have you seen the news?”
I turned on the TV.
“House Fire in Elmwood Leaves Two Homeless, One Hospitalized.”
Delaney’s house. Blackened, gutted.
“According to witnesses, the fire started around 2 a.m. Officials believe a cigarette left burning in an upstairs bedroom caused it.”
Rachel called. “It’s Delaney’s house. Mason was smoking in bed. The whole place went up.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She and the baby are fine. But Oakley… she lost her house and all her savings.”
I felt nothing. Just numb justice.
“Maybe this is karma,” Rachel whispered.
Maybe it was.
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