Chapter 3

The day after the text, the air in the house changed. It felt thin, charged, like before a storm. Jess moved through the motions—making breakfast, packing lunches, wiping down counters—but her skin prickled with awareness. Every sound, every glance from Ben, felt loaded. He watched her. Not constantly, but in flashes. When she opened the fridge, his eyes slid over her. When she called the kids for dinner, he studied her like she was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet. She kept her phone in her pocket, face down, vibrating with a silence that screamed. Maria hadn't replied. Or maybe she had, and Jess just didn't know. Ben had taken her phone that morning, claiming he needed to make a call. “Yours has better reception,” he said. She didn't argue. She couldn't. The argument would be worse. By noon, the house felt empty. Jamie was at school, Jermaine at a friend's, Layla napping on the couch. Ben sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a magazine, a coffee cup growing cold beside him. Jess stood at the sink, washing a dish she'd already washed twice. “You're quiet today,” he said, not looking up. “Just tired.” “You said that yesterday.” She turned off the water, dried her hands. “Because it's true.” He set the magazine down, folded his arms. “I don't believe you.” Her stomach dropped. She faced him, forced a small smile. “What do you want me to say?” “The truth. You've been distant. Ever since that phone call with Maria.” He leaned back, the chair creaking. “I told you, she's not good for you. She fills your head with nonsense.” “Maria is my friend, Ben.” “Was your friend. She's not here now, is she? I am.” He stood, walked over, and placed his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs pressed into her collarbone, not hard, but firm. “I'm the one who stays. I'm the one who loves you. Don't forget that.” She wanted to shrug him off, to scream, to run. But her body wouldn't move. She just nodded, once, and he kissed her forehead. “That's my girl.” When Layla woke, she crawled into Jess's lap, small and warm. Jess held her tight, breathing in the smell of her hair—shampoo and sleep. Layla's fingers traced the collar of Jess's shirt. “Mommy, why is Daddy Ben always looking at you like that?” Jess's throat closed. “Like what, baby?” “Like you did something wrong.” She didn't have an answer. She pulled Layla closer, buried her face in her hair. “It's okay. Mommy's fine.” But she wasn't. She felt the edges of herself fraying. The bipolar, the BPD—they were quiet today, but she knew they were waiting. The depression like a weighted blanket, the mania like a firecracker. Being with Ben made both worse. He fed the anxiety, stoked the fear of abandonment. Every criticism was proof she wasn't enough. Every moment of silence was a test she was failing. That afternoon, she took Layla to the park. Ben didn't come. He had a meeting, he said, but she knew better. He was checking her phone, probably. She sat on a bench, watching Layla swing, her small legs pumping. The sky was gray, heavy with clouds. A woman she vaguely recognized from the neighborhood sat down beside her. “You're Jess, right? I'm Sarah. I live two doors down.” Jess nodded, wary. “Hi.” “I've seen you around. You have a beautiful family.” Sarah smiled, but her eyes flicked to Jess's hands, which were twisting in her lap. “Are you okay? You look… tired.” The word hung in the air. Tired. That was safe. “Just a long week.” “I understand. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm home most afternoons.” She handed Jess a card with a phone number. “No pressure. Just… in case.” Jess slipped it into her pocket, heart pounding. She didn't know if this was a lifeline or a trap. Ben would see it. He would ask. But maybe, just maybe, she could hide it. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Sarah squeezed her shoulder. “Take care.” That night, after the kids were in bed, Ben found the card. He held it up, his face unreadable. “Who gave you this?” “A neighbor. Sarah. She was just being friendly.” “Friendly.” He tossed the card on the table. “You don't need friends, Jess. You have me.” “That's not fair, Ben. I'm allowed to talk to people.” “You're allowed to do what I say.” His voice was low, cold. “I'm trying to protect you. From yourself. From the people who don't understand you. You think they'll stick around when you have an episode? When you crash? They won't. I will.” Tears burned her eyes. She blinked them back. “I know.” “Good. Then throw that away.” She picked up the card. It was just a piece of paper. But it felt heavy, like a stone. She tore it in half, then again, and dropped the pieces in the trash. Ben nodded, satisfied. “See? Easy.” He turned and walked to the bedroom. Jess stood in the kitchen, the fluorescent light humming, the silence pressing in. She thought of the flame she'd felt last night. It was still there, but smaller now. Guttering. She needed to feed it. She needed to remember who she was before him. The next morning, while Ben was in the shower, she took her phone from the nightstand. Her hands shook as she typed a new message to Maria, then deleted it. She couldn't risk it. Instead, she opened a notes app and wrote: I am not crazy. I am not overreacting. I need to leave. I need a plan. She closed the app, wiped her fingerprints off the screen, and placed the phone back exactly as it was. When Ben came out, steam curling around him, he smiled. “Sleep well?” “Yes,” she lied. “Good. Tonight, we're having dinner with my parents. They want to see the kids.” She nodded, her stomach twisting. His parents, who always looked at her like she was broken. Who whispered about her diagnosis when they thought she couldn't hear. The flame flickered. But it didn't go out. She held on to that tiny spark. It was all she had. And she would not let it die.