Chapter Text
Frank should’ve divorced Abby a long time ago.
Should’ve
Should’ve.
Should’ve.
They had fought before—plenty of times—but none of those fights compared to The Fight. That’s what he called it now. He didn’t know what else to name the moment he realized he should’ve never married her in the first place.
He’d gotten off work early that day. He never left work early, but he wanted to surprise Abby with flowers, chocolate, and dinner reservations. He had it all planned out: her favorite restaurant, ice cream afterward at the place where they first met, and a kid-free weekend thanks to his mom. It was going to be perfect.
What he hadn’t planned for was walking in on his wife screwing another man.
It took him three seconds—just three—to understand what he was looking at. One to recognize Abby’s hair splayed out across the pillow. Two to notice the pair of legs that didn’t belong to him. Three to feel the cold crack of realization settle in his chest.
He didn’t shout or scream, even though he should have. He turned and walked out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
He heard frantic cursing through the door as they scrambled to get dressed. No doubt they were already coming up with some pathetic excuse. But it didn’t matter. Nothing they could say would fix it. In Frank’s head, the divorce papers were already signed.
He stormed down the stairs, through the living room, and out the front door without a glance back. He didn’t care if Abby followed. Nothing she said would change what he saw.
It’s funny in retrospect how oblivious he had been to everything. He’d always heard of people's spouses being cheated on. He always thought that would never be him, because surely he would know. Frank was wrong. He had no idea.
“Frank!” Abby’s voice called after him. She came stumbling outside, her arms flailing at her sides. Her hair was a mess, lipstick smeared, shirt half-buttoned. “It’s not what you think.”
He didn’t stop. Just dug his car keys from his pocket and hit the unlock button to the minivan.
“Frank,” she said again, more breathless this time. “It’s really not what you think.”
He barked out a bitter laugh. “Right—because you just fell naked on top of my brother. ” He really should have just walked away. Abby and his brother didn’t deserve a single word. Actually, they deserved less than that.
“Frank—”
“You’ll hear from my lawyer in the morning.” His grip tightened around the keys. He needed to leave before he did something he’d regret. He tried to remain calm, his voice even and leveled, betraying none of the ache and heartbreak pouring through him. “I want you out of the house by the end of the weekend.”
She stopped short at the top of the porch steps, nearly tripping. “You can’t just kick me out, Frank!”
“Actually,” he said coldly, “yes, I can. I paid for the house. It’s in my name. Not yours.”
“Frank,” she was shaking her head now. Had she finally realized what exactly her affair had cost her? “Where am I supposed to go?”
“Not my problem anymore,” he said. “If you aren’t out by Monday morning, I’ll call the police.”
“What about the kids, Frank?” She asked. “You can’t just do this.”
“The kids are with my mom for the weekend,” he told her. He had told her that morning at breakfast, but now he wasn’t sure if she was even listening. “We can talk about them after you leave.”
His brother, James, came out the door, still buttoning his shirt. “I—”
Oh, great. This ought to be good. Frank wondered what kind of bullshit excuse James had ready. When they were kids, the only thing bigger than James’s ego was his lies.
“Just calm down,” James said, holding up his hands. “We can talk about this.”
“Oh fucking don’t , James.” Frank opened the car door and hurled his bag into the passenger seat. “Nothing you say is gonna fix this. I hope you’ve both got good lawyers because you’re gonna need them.”
Abby had gone white as a ghost. “You’re overreacting, Frank,” she said quietly. “Just... breathe. We can fix this. We always fix this, don’t we, baby?”
Baby? God, how could she—
“ Overreacting? ” he snapped, turning to face her. “I think I’m being damn reasonable considering I just found my wife in bed with my brother on our anniversary. Happy five years, Abby.”
“Our anniversary?” she echoed, blinking.
She didn’t even remember. Of course she didn’t. For fuck’s sake, she didn’t even remember the day they got married. Five years ago, they stood in a church and promised forever. He never knew forever had an expiration date.
“Don’t do this, Frank,” she begged as he moved to the other side of the car. “It was a mistake. It won’t ever happen again.”
“Sleeping with my brother wasn’t a mistake, Abby,” he said, forcing the door open. “ Marrying you was.”
“Frank—” she said, her voice rising. “That was uncalled for. Be rational.”
“How many times, Abby?”
She didn’t answer. That was the only answer he needed. How long had they been together, sneaking around behind his back?
“Frank—”
He didn’t even know if he wanted to know. But the silence made his blood boil.
“Goddamn it, Abby,” he growled. “If you ever want to see your kids again, tell me the truth. For once in your life, tell me the fucking truth. ”
He knew it was a low blow, threatening her access to the kids, but right now, he didn’t care. He’d never actually keep them from her, but he wanted to see her sweat. Wanted her to feel something close to what he was feeling.
“The first time was August 19th,” she said finally. “Five years ago.”
He blinked. “The day before our wedding?”
She looked away. She didn’t deny it.
He took a shaky step back, like the words had shoved him. “Jesus Christ. Why did you even marry me?”
Abby just rolled her eyes. “Because I loved you. But you were always working, always angry, always... exhausted. You weren’t present . James was.”
Frank’s chest clenched. “You’re blaming me ? You seriously have the audacity to blame me for you cheating?”
“You pushed me away,” she said coolly. “Don’t act like you were some perfect husband. You’re an addict.
“I was an addict, Abby,” he said. “I was sick. I’m fine. I have been for two years.” Of course she would mention his addiction. Whenever she wanted to win a fight she’d always bring it up, wielding it like some double edged sword.
James, finally done buttoning his shirt like this was just some casual inconvenience, stepped forward. “I get that you’re upset, Frank,” he said, smooth as oil. “But Abby and I—this wasn’t planned. It just... happened. We love each other. You can’t punish us for that.”
“Frank—”
“I’ll see you in court,” he said sharply. “And by the way—James doesn’t get anywhere near my kids. If I find out he’s within a mile of them, I’m filing for full custody.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “He’s family. ”
“Family doesn’t fuck their brother’s wife.”
“Just calm down, Frank,” James wrapped a protective arm around his wife, and he felt like he was going to throw up. “We love each other. I’m sorry that this happened, but we couldn’t stop it.”
He smiled. “If she really loved you she would have married you, James. Oh wait, she didn’t marry you. She married me.”
James blinked, the smug little smile faltering as the words sank in.
The silence that followed was razor-thin.
Abby sucked in a breath. “Frank, don’t—”
But it was too late.
James’s hand clenched at his side. His face darkened, blotchy with rage, the kind of fury that had no place in words. And then—he swung.
The punch landed hard — a sharp crack against Frank’s jaw that sent his head snapping to the side. His shoulder slammed into the frame of the open car door, and for a second, everything went muffled, like he’d been dunked underwater.
Frank straightened slowly, breath caught between a laugh and a gasp. His lip was bleeding now. He tasted copper and something bitter in the back of his throat.
Abby was yelling something — a frantic, breathless “James!” — but neither of them looked at her.
Frank turned back to face his brother. “There he is,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “There’s the real you. I’m sure it's been exhausting pretending to be someone you aren’t.” James stood frozen, chest heaving, like he didn’t even realize what he’d done until it was already over. His hand shook.
“You think I’m the problem?” Frank said, his voice low, rough around the edges like a blade dulled from use. “Go ahead. Lie to yourselves if it helps you sleep at night. Pretend I drove you to this. Pretend this was some tragic love story and not just two selfish people screwing each other behind closed doors.”
He looked between them — James with his fists still clenched like a teenager caught red-handed, and Abby with her arms folded, her face already hardening into something cold and familiar.
“But let me tell you something. The world isn’t going to see it the way you do. You’re not star-crossed lovers. You’re a punchline. This doesn’t end in some fairytale. It ends in courtrooms and lawyers and custody hearings you can’t afford. James, you’re a line cook who still lives paycheck to paycheck. No shame in that—but you think you're ready to play stepdad in a house you can't even help pay for?”
His eyes flicked to Abby, voice tightening. “And you. You haven’t worked a day in five years. You told me raising the kids was your job. So what now? You gonna raise them in someone else’s apartment while you wait for your half of what I built?”
Abby flinched. James shifted, but said nothing.
Frank shook his head slowly. “You think the worst part of this is that you cheated. It’s not. It’s that you didn’t think . Not about me. Not about the kids. Not about what comes next. I loved you,” his voice caught. Loved. “If you had wanted to be together before the wedding, I would have called it off. I would have sacrificed everything so you could be happy. Even if it meant I wasn’t. But, you didn’t think that, did you? You were so busy feeling wanted that you didn’t stop and think about the lives you were destroying.”
He paused, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders—but his voice stayed steady.
“It doesn’t get easier after this,” he said quietly. “It gets lonelier. And harder. And heavier. Abby couldn’t stand by me when life got hard—so what makes you think she’ll stand by you , James?”
Neither of them answered.
Frank took a step back, jaw tight. “You two deserve each other.”
James opened his mouth to speak, but Frank was already stepping back, already getting into the car.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he said without turning around. “And if you come anywhere near my kids James. I’ll sue you for everything you're worth. Is that clear?”
Abby’s voice was quiet. “You really would have let us be together?”
“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” He smiled at Abby. “This—” Frank gestured to James, and the whole twisted mess in front of him, “—is all yours now. I hope it was worth it.”
And with that, he slammed the door and pulled away, leaving James and Abby behind in the driveway — just two people standing in the wreckage, surrounded by everything they thought they wanted.
~*~
The emergency room was already packed.
The waiting area was a blur of too many people and not enough space — parents with crying toddlers, an elderly man hunched in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank, a teenager holding a bloody rag to his forehead. A baby screamed from somewhere deep in the back.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Phones rang. The scent of disinfectant clung to the walls, layered over coffee and body odor. It was all too loud, too bright. But Frank barely registered any of it.
He stepped through the sliding doors and stood there for a moment, like he’d forgotten how to walk. His right hand throbbed in his jacket pocket, raw and hot. The skin was split across the knuckles, blood crusted at the edges. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers anymore.
He wasn’t sure why he’d come. He could’ve cleaned it at home. Taped it up in the bathroom, like he had a hundred other small injuries before. But home felt impossible right now. Like walking into a tomb.
He just needed… somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t empty.
He approached the check-in desk, blinking against the fluorescent glare. Princess was at the desk, charting.
“Name?” she asked, without looking up at him.
“Frank Langdon.”
She started typing. “And what brings you in today, Mr.—” She looked up again, her eyes widening in shock. “Frank? What the hell are you doing here? You look terrible. What the hell happened to your face.”
Frank blinked again, like the question was too complex to answer.
“I need someone to look at my head. I think I might have a concussion and a broken nose.” he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours.
The nurse stood. “What did you do, run into a pole?”
He smirked, blood still on his teeth. “Something like that.”
“Okay. Let me…hold on,” Princess said, eyes flicking over Frank again. She turned quickly and disappeared through the sliding doors behind the nurses’ station.
Frank stayed planted near the entrance, swaying slightly on his feet. Someone sneezed behind him. A child wailed. A paramedic rolled a gurney through the automatic doors, the wheels clicking loudly against the tile. The smell of antiseptic hit him harder than usual—probably because it was the first time he’d entered this ER as a patient.
A few seconds later, Princess returned, a familiar figure walking in behind her, Dr. Michael Robonavitch.
Robby.
Frank straightened instinctively.
Robby’s expression was unreadable, but sharp. It was the same look he wore in trauma bays and tense surgical consults: calm, measured, but taking in everything . Their relationship had been brittle ever since Frank’s substance use had nearly derailed his residency two years ago, but they’d been rebuilding. Slowly. Brick by brick.
“You’re not on until tomorrow,” Robby said—and then stopped short when he saw Frank’s face. His eyes flicked to the bruising, the swelling around the orbit, the split in his lower lip.
“What happened?”
Frank offered the thinnest smile. “It looks worse than it is. I swear.”
“Uh-huh,” Robby said, already reaching for the chart Princess had in her hand. “Come on.”
He gestured Frank through the automatic doors, nodding at a nearby nurse. “Put Exam Six on hold. I need it now.”
Nurses glanced up as they passed—recognition, confusion—but no one said a word. Robby opened the door to Exam 6 himself and held it open. Frank stepped inside, lowering himself gingerly onto the exam table.
“Sit tight,” Robby said. He tugged on a pair of nitrile gloves, pulled a penlight from his breast pocket, and approached with the clinical focus of a trauma attending.
“Pupils equal, round, reactive to light,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Any loss of consciousness?”
“No,” Frank replied.
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Little dizzy, but nothing major.”
Robby gave a soft grunt. He palpated along Frank’s zygomatic arch, then gently over the mandible, checking for instability.
“Jaw sore?”
“Little bit.”
“We’re getting maxillofacial films. Maybe a CT. You’ve got periorbital swelling and a split lip. I want to rule out a zygomatic or orbital blowout fracture. What about your hand?”
Frank flexed it instinctively, winced. “Hurts like hell.”
“Right or left?”
“Right.”
Robby took it, carefully palpating each metacarpal and the carpal bones. “Probably a boxer's fracture,” he said. “You need a three-view X-ray series. I’ll page radiology and ortho. Did you punch him back?”
“No,” he said. “I punched the door of my car after I left.”
Robby didn’t say anything, just continued looking at his hand.
Frank let out a breath, long and shaky. “Thanks.”
Robby peeled off his gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin. “You want to tell me what the hell happened?”
Frank shook his head. “It’s not— Look, I just needed to be somewhere. That wasn’t home.”
Robby leaned against the counter. “Frank. You’re here because something got to you. And that doesn’t happen often. So I’ll ask again—who hit you?”
Frank’s jaw worked. He looked away. “My brother.”
That gave Robby pause. He stared at Frank for a moment before speaking. “Okay. What happened?”
Frank’s voice was flat. “He slept with my wife.”
Robby didn’t react right away. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to call Security? File a report? We can document this now and back you up if you want to go legal.”
Frank gave a dry, humorless laugh. “What’s the point?”
Robby didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, softer now. “Do you want to talk to Psych? Or just… sit here for a bit?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said quietly. He flexed his hand again. “I just couldn’t go home.”
“Well,” Robby said, grabbing the chart again, “you’re here. That’s enough for now. I’ll get radiology down here, and I’ll write you off for the rest of the week. You’re not going back on shift until your head’s screwed on straight.”
Frank nodded. He hadn’t cried. Not in the driveway. Not in the car. Not even now.
But something behind his ribs felt cracked open—like his chest was filled with glass, and every breath shifted the pieces.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep them from slicing through.
“It’s going to be okay, Frank,” Robby said. “I know a good lawyer. We’ll take photos of your injuries for court. Your brother won’t get away with this.”
“Thanks Robby,” he said.
“You’re gonna need stitches,” Robby said. “I’ll have Mel come in and finish if that’s alright?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “That’s fine.”
It wasn’t. But nothing had been fine for hours now, maybe longer. Maybe years.
“It’s going to be okay, Frank,” Robby said. “Why don’t we get a drink after work? My treat?”
He nodded slowly, and Robby gave him a small smile and pat on the back before leaving him.
A few minutes later, Mel King opened the curtain and smiled at him warmly. “Frank?”
He looked up. The fluorescent lights made her look paler than usual. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy twist at the nape of her neck, and there was a faint stain of coffee on the sleeve of her scrubs.
“Hey, Mel.”
Her expression didn’t shift. “What happened?”
“James happened,” he muttered. There was a pause.
“Your brother punched you?” she asked, stepping forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Apparently.”
Her eyes narrowed, hands hovering above the tray she was setting up. “What did you do?”
He blinked at her. “Why do you assume I did something?”
She gave him a look, dry, flat, and too familiar. “Frank, have you met yourself?”
“That’s mean,” he said, but there was no weight behind it. His voice felt hollow in his own ears.
Mel shrugged. “Just saying. You’ve got a short fuse. Like attracts like. Nothing wrong with it.”
She meant it lightly, but the words hit too close to something sore. A truth he'd heard Abby whisper during arguments, under her breath— "You're always angry, Frank. Always ready to explode."
He waved it off. “Mel. It’s okay.”
That silenced her. She nodded once and started working in earnest, dragging over a tray of tools, snapping the light on overhead. Mel moved with that clean, clinical efficiency he’d always admired—fast hands, steady eyes. But he could feel the tension under her skin. The stiffness. Like she didn’t know where to put her sympathy, so she stuffed it behind sterile technique.
She tilted his chin up, fingers cool against his jaw. He flinched—not from pain, but the intimacy of it. The last time someone had touched his face like that had been Abby. Different circumstances. Very different.
“This is gonna sting.”
“Go ahead.”
She dabbed at the cut with antiseptic. The sharp burn lit up his senses, but Frank barely blinked. He welcomed the pain—it was cleaner than everything else. “I assume this wasn’t just a spontaneous punch,” she said finally.
Frank stared at the tiles on the floor. “Walked in on them.”
Mel paused, gauze held midair. “…Them?”
“James. And Abby.”
Her hands froze inches away from his skin. Her eyes looked up at him wide, filled with disbelief. “Jesus, Frank.”
“Yeah.”
She went back to work, a little slower now. She threaded the needle with practiced hands. The sound of the thread unspooling filled the room—sharp, deliberate, too loud. Frank watched it with detached interest.
The first stitch pulled at the skin of his nose. A tug. A pinch. Not quite pain, not quite relief. He’d be happy to feel pain, or feel anything at this point.
“I came home early to surprise her for our anniversary and found them in bed. She didn’t even remember.”
Mel didn’t say anything. He swallowed, jaw clenching as she tied the knot and moved to the next. “I didn’t even yell. I just stood there like an idiot, watching them scramble like teenagers getting caught.”
She glanced at him briefly, but not long enough to hold the look. “You’re not an idiot.”
“I should’ve seen it coming.”
“You’re not an idiot,” she repeated, sharper this time.
Frank didn’t respond. The room felt too small, the chair too stiff. His skin itched with invisible tension. Another stitch. Another tug. The thread pulled tight again.
“Did you hit him back?” she asked softly, looking at his split hand.
He shook his head. “Didn’t even move.”
Mel looked up. Their eyes met—and for a moment, everything else fell away. The fluorescent light flickered above them, humming softly like a warning. Frank wondered if she could see everything he was holding in. The humiliation. The rage. The grief that hadn’t found a place to go yet.
“You’re gonna bruise,” she said.
“Yeah. Seems appropriate.”
She tied off the final knot and pressed gauze to the wound, lingering a second longer than necessary. Her thumb brushed his cheek. Just lightly. Just once. And then she stepped back.
Frank exhaled. “Thanks.”
Mel started peeling off her gloves. “You don’t need to thank me. You’ll be okay, Frank. If there is anything you need at all you know you can ask me, right? Abby was—I thought she was my friend.”
“I know,” he said. “We thought a lot of things about her, didn’t we?”
~*~
On Monday Abby was gone.
The first thing he did was hire a locksmith to change the locks. He walked through their home— his home now, like a zombie.
But, there were still tell-tale signs of her touch. He caught himself reaching for her mug—the stupid white one with the faded gold lettering that said But First, Coffee —but the cabinet door opened to empty space. His fingers hung in the air, twitching. He shut the door quietly, like he was afraid to wake something.
In the bedroom, the absence hit harder. Her dresses, once lined up like color-coded flags, were gone. Empty hangers swayed gently, as if mourning the loss themselves. Her perfume still lingered—soft and cloying—vanilla and bergamot. It clung to the air, the walls, the folds of the bedding. He wanted to open all the windows. He couldn’t bring himself to.
The children would be back by noon, and he needed to pull himself together before then. He needed to hold it together. For them. For now.
The call to the lawyer had been short and brutal. Thanks to the prenup—his father’s idea, not his—Abby would leave with little more than a checking account and a bruised reputation. She hadn’t worked a day in their marriage. She had been charming, radiant, good with the children. But, that was all.
Had his father known? Had the old man seen something in Abby before Frank ever did? The timing, the insistence on a prenup... it felt more like foresight than fatherly protection now. Had everyone seen it before he did? Was he really that stupid?
The loud thudding on the door broke him out of his stupor. He looked down at his broken watch. It was already noon. For hours he’d been walking around his own home like a ghost.
He stepped toward the door, smoothing a hand down his shirt, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like the therapist had taught him years ago. One, two, three. Inhale. Exhale.
He opened the door.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
His mother stood on the stoop, tight-lipped and stone-eyed. She gave a single nod.
“Frank.”
And then, before he could brace himself—
“Daddy!” Two small voices tore through the air like birds let out of a cage. Tanner and Millie hurled themselves into his arms, their backpacks bouncing against his shins. He crouched down to catch them, arms circling both of them with practiced ease. He buried his face in their hair, breathing in the safety of them. Warm, familiar, loud, real.
“Daddy!” Millie cried into his shirt. “We missed you.”
“I missed you too, kid,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair still smelled like strawberries and shampoo. Tanner wrapped around his side like a vice grip, clinging with all the force his toddler arms could muster.
“Where’s Mommy?” Millie asked, pulling back just enough to look up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “I made her this!” She fished a crumpled drawing from her backpack and held it up proudly. A stick-figure family stood smiling in front of their old red-brick house. Abby had a crown on her head. Frank’s figure had a big smile. Millie had drawn herself between them with huge pink pigtails.
His heart seized.
He stared at the drawing like it was a bomb he didn’t know how to defuse. The crayon lines were jagged but cheerful, a child’s perfect world rendered in wax and innocence. He could barely look at it.
“Millie…” he started, his voice raw, cracking just beneath the surface. What was he supposed to say? That Mommy left? That she chose someone else? That she walked out of their lives like it was easy?
Before the silence could stretch too long, his mother stepped in with that clipped, no-nonsense voice she’d perfected over five decades.
“Millie, Tanner,” she said brightly, “remember it’s nap time? Let’s let your father rest, hmm?”
Millie pouted. “But I wanna give this to Mommy—”
“She’ll see it later, sweetheart,” his mother said, already ushering them forward with gentle hands on their backs. “Come on, up the stairs. I put your sheets on the beds and Flopsy Bunny’s waiting.”
Frank watched as his children reluctantly shuffled inside, Millie’s drawing still clutched in her fist. Tanner cast one last look over his shoulder, worry written across his little brow, but said nothing.
Frank didn’t say a word as his mother led the children upstairs. He just stood in the foyer, hands dangling at his sides, staring at the crooked photo on the wall—the one from last summer’s beach trip. Abby had insisted on matching outfits. Millie wore sunglasses too big for her face. Tanner had sand in his teeth. They all looked happy.
It made him nauseous. It had all been a lie.
Upstairs, he could hear the creak of floorboards, the muffled voices of bedtime negotiations—Millie protesting, Tanner whispering about needing another story, his mother’s even, patient cadence cutting through both of them with practiced authority.
A door closed. Then another. Then silence. He let out a breath that felt too loud in the quiet. After a few minutes, her footsteps returned.
She came down the stairs slowly, hands smoothing the front of her cardigan like she was preparing herself. Frank didn’t move. He stood by the hallway table, one hand gripping the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
His mother entered the living room and stopped a few feet away, folding her arms across her chest again. She looked tired but composed. His mother was always composed. He couldn’t remember a single moment of his childhood when she looked disheveled.
“They’re down,” she said. “Millie wanted to sleep with the drawing. I let her.”
Frank didn’t respond. He just nodded.
“I told them Mommy’s resting. That she needed some quiet time today.”
“She didn’t take anything I expected,” Frank said, his voice low and brittle.
His mother tilted her head, brows knitting ever so slightly. “No?”
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Left the wedding album. Took the damn egg timer.” His mouth twisted. “You remember the one? That cracked, rusted thing from Target that didn’t even work right?”
His mother said nothing. The silence in the room thickened.
She shook her head slowly, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “What happened, Frank? You just said she left?”
He stared at the floor for a long beat, the floorboards warping under the pressure in his jaw.
“I—” He hesitated, the words clawing at his throat. How could he tell her that her other son had completely ruined his life?
He looked up, straight into her eyes. “I caught her and James in bed together.”
The words dropped like a stone.
He half-expected her to gasp, or cover her mouth in shock, or offer some kind of motherly outrage. But instead, her expression crumpled—not in surprise, but in guilt. Her gaze fell to the floor.
Something inside him snapped.
His stomach turned to fire and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “You knew,” he said, voice cold and shaking.
She didn’t deny it.
“Frank—”
He stumbled back a step, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ. You knew.”
The weight of it hit him square in the chest. The betrayal had layers now, generations. “For fuck’s sake, did everyone know?” His voice rose. “Was I just the last to find out? Why didn’t you say anything? Why would you let me keep living like this?”
His mother lifted her eyes slowly. There was regret in them, but not enough.
“They were going to tell you eventually,” she said quietly.
He barked out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. “Eventually,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Right. Once they finished screwing in every room of the house?”
She flinched.
“I guess James really is your favorite son after all,” he said. The words were venomous, sharp enough to slice. “Always was, huh?”
“Frank, you know that’s not true.”
“No,” he said, eyes burning. “I don’t. You chose him, Mom. Over me. Over your grandkids. Congratulations.” She reached for him, but he stepped back like her touch would burn. “You never have to see me again.”
“Frank—”
He began ushering her out of the house. “Forget about babysitting tomorrow. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
Her voice sharpened. “Frank, be rational—”
“Rational?” His laugh this time was louder, more feral. “You want rational ? I don’t trust you. You lied to me. You stood in my house, hugged my kids, kissed Abby on the cheek, and you knew. What makes you think I’d trust you with my children now? What makes you think I want to see you ever again?”
“Frank—”
“Get out.”
She blinked. “Frank, you’re being ridiculous.”
His face darkened, jaw clenched. “I told you to get the fuck out.”
She didn’t moved, so he did. He flung the door open. “Get out. Tell Abby I’m coming for everything,” Frank practically spat. “Full custody. You all thought you could play me? Lie to my face like that and walk all over me? Did you really think you could get away with it?”
His mother stared at him, stunned into silence. Something moved behind her eyes—guilt, maybe, or pity—but he didn’t care. He never wanted to see her face again.
She walked slowly out of the house like she couldn’t believe it.
He realized then. Abby, James, and his mother were all stupid. Maybe they weren’t as stupid as him. But, they were idiots to believe he would just let them get away with everything they had done.
No, he was done with them. He didn’t need them. All he needed was Tanner and Millie. The rest of his family could go to hell.
With a violent shove, he slammed the front door shut.
BANG.
The sound exploded through the house like a gunshot. The walls shook with it. A framed photo of the kids fell from the entryway shelf and shattered on the floor, glass splintering like ice. The echo of the door vibrated through his bones.
Frank stood frozen, his hand still pressed to the door, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The rage was still there, but it had nowhere to go—no more words, no more people to throw it at. And beneath it, something darker was rising. Something heavier.
He stumbled backward, eyes darting across the living room like he didn’t recognize it anymore.
The kids’ toys were scattered across the rug. A plastic dinosaur half-buried in the couch cushion. Millie’s tiny sock balled up under the coffee table. A juice box on the mantle. Everywhere he looked, it was like someone had died.
Something had died a long time ago. He’d just been too stupid to notice.
His knees gave out. He collapsed to the floor, spine hitting the wall with a hard thud . The air left his lungs like he’d been punched. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Then, all at once, the dam broke.
A sound clawed out of him—half sob, half gasp. He sucked in a breath like a man drowning, and the first tear hit his cheek before he even realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried when he found them in bed together—his wife and his brother. He hadn’t cried when he’d changed the locks, or packed up her side of the closet. But now—alone, in the stillness, in the wreckage of what used to be his life—he wept.
He broke .
Sobs racked his chest, loud and raw and heaving. His whole body shook with them. He curled forward like he was trying to disappear into himself, forehead pressed to his knees, hands tangled in his hair.
He couldn’t stop. Every breath was a fight. Every inhale felt like it might crack a rib.
It wasn’t just about Abby.
It was everything. The years he spent building a life and a family with a woman who never cared to build something with him. The birthday parties, the late-night feedings, and Goodnight kisses. All of it—for nothing.
He wasn’t a husband anymore. He didn’t even feel like a son. All he had left were his kids—and they didn’t know. Not yet. But someday they would. They would probably blame him for everything too.
He dragged in another breath, shivering. His throat felt like sandpaper. His face was soaked. His shirt was clinging to him with sweat and tears. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.
“God,” he muttered hoarsely. “God, what the fuck did I do to deserve this?”
There was no answer. Just the dull hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint creak of the house settling around him, like it, too, was exhausted.
He reached for his phone with a trembling hand, fumbled with the passcode. His thumb hovered over the screen. Abby’s contact was still there. So was James’s. He almost pressed one of them—almost. Instead, he deleted their contacts, praying that he would never have to talk to either of them ever again.
He called the first person on his contact list. He didn’t care who it was, but he knew he shouldn't be alone. He needed someone, anyone to help him.
The phone rang and rang and rang.
Eventually, someone picked up.
Frank?” Her voice, warm and instantly alert.
He choked on her name. “Mel—”
“Frank, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t breathe—I—fuck—I can’t—” Oh god, he was an idiot. Why had he called her? She didn’t need to get pulled into all his shit. He should just hang up and figure it out himself.
“Where are you?” he heard her on the other end of the phone.
“The house,” he said. “She knew. Fuck, she knew”
“I’m on my way.”
“You don’t have to—I just—”
“I am ,” she cut in firmly. “I’m already in the car. Stay on the phone, Frank. Just keep breathing. You’re not alone. Not tonight.”
He didn’t believe her. He’d never felt more alone in his life.