I didn’t wait around to watch him figure it out. I grabbed my coat, my keys, and my purse.
For the past three years, my life had revolved around maintaining Greg’s grand home in Carmel, playing the dutiful stepmother, and managing every administrative detail of our blended existence. But I wasn’t just a housewife. Twice a week, I worked morning shifts at a local, family-owned diner downtown—a place I had taken a job at months ago just to have something that was entirely my own.
As I backed my car out of the driveway, I felt a strange, thrilling lightness in my chest. For the first time in years, I wasn’t carrying the weight of people who only valued me when I was serving them.
PART 4
The diner was busy that morning, filled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, sizzling bacon, and the low hum of small-town chatter. Working there kept me grounded. The customers didn’t care about social status or suburban posturing; they just wanted a warm meal and a friendly face.
