Chapter 1: The Drawing She Tried to Destroy
The first thing I heard when I walked through the front door was my daughter screaming.
“Please don’t!””
I dropped my work bag before I even understood what I was seeing.
Maya was on her knees in the middle of our living room, desperately reaching for pieces of paper scattered across the hardwood floor.
Vanessa stood over her.
My wife had a pair of silver scissors in one hand. In the other, she held the last intact corner of Maya’s art project.
“Vanessa!”” I shouted.
She froze.
Maya looked up at me through tears. Her braids had come loose around her cheeks, and her faded yellow T-shirt was covered in streaks of blue and purple paint.
“Daddy,” she sobbed.
“She ruined it.””
I moved toward them so quickly Vanessa stepped backward.
“What did you do?””
Vanessa lowered the scissors.
“It was just a drawing, Marcus.””
I looked down.
It wasn't just a drawing.
For an entire month, my nine-year-old daughter had been working on that painting for the citywide children's art competition. Her teacher, Mrs. Collins, had personally called me to say Maya was one of the strongest young artists in her class.
The theme was Home Is Where You Are Loved.
Maya had planned every detail.
A giant purple tree stood in the middle of the canvas. Beneath it was a little yellow house, with three figures sitting together in the grass.
Me.
Maya.
And a woman with soft brown hair standing behind us.
Her biological mother, Emily, who had died when Maya was three.
"Mommy is still part of me," Maya had explained when she first told me about the painting.
I remembered kissing her forehead.
"Then she absolutely belongs in the picture, sweetheart.""
Now Vanessa had cut through the entire canvas.
The purple tree was split down the middle. My painted face had been separated from my daughter's. The little golden light Maya had painted above her mother's head was hanging from a torn strip of paper.
I crouched beside Maya.
"Hey, sweetheart. Look at me.""
She wiped her nose with her sleeve.
"Can we fix it?""
I swallowed.
"We'll figure something out.""
Vanessa crossed her arms.
"Maybe next time she'll learn to finish her responsibilities before playing with paint.""
I slowly turned toward her.
"What responsibilities?""
"Her chores.""
I glanced around the room.
Laundry baskets covered the coffee table. A mop leaned against the hallway wall. There was a bucket of dirty water beside the kitchen entrance.
"What chores?""
"Folding laundry. Cleaning the kitchen. Bathrooms. The usual.""
"She's nine, Vanessa.""
"And she lives here too.""
Maya lowered her head.
"I washed all the dishes, Daddy," she whispered.
"And I cleaned the bathroom. And I folded Caleb's clothes.""
Caleb was Vanessa's eleven-year-old son from her previous marriage.
I looked at Maya's hands.
Her fingers were wrinkled from water. The skin around her knuckles was red, and a small patch near her thumb looked irritated.
"How long were you cleaning?""
"Since I got home from school.""
I checked the clock.
It was almost seven.
My daughter had spent most of her afternoon cleaning while her stepsister and stepbrother played video games upstairs.
"And when did you get to work on your painting?"" I asked.
Maya's lip trembled.
"I didn't.""
Vanessa sighed dramatically.
"Marcus, you're making this into something it isn't. She was told to finish her chores before touching that project.""
"Her competition is tomorrow morning.""
"Then perhaps she should have thought about that earlier.""
Maya looked up.
"I told you yesterday, Vanessa. I said Mrs. Collins needed it tomorrow.""
Vanessa's expression tightened.
"Don't interrupt adults.""
"But—"
"Enough!""
Maya flinched.
That tiny movement made something inside me break.
I stood.
"Don't shout at her.""
Vanessa stared at me.
"Excuse me?""
"You heard me.""
She placed the scissors on the coffee table with a sharp metallic clatter.
"You have no idea what she does when you're gone. You come home for five minutes, see a crying child, and suddenly I'm the villain.""
"Then explain why she spent the entire afternoon cleaning this house.""
"Because she needs discipline.""
"She's a child, not your housekeeper.""
Vanessa's cheeks flushed.
"You spoil her because you feel guilty about her mother dying.""
I stared at her.
"Don't bring Emily into this.""
"Why not? You do it every single day. Everything has to remind Maya of her precious mother.
Every birthday, every holiday, every little painting. What about this family?""
I looked at the torn canvas.
Then at my daughter.
"She's part of this family.""
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
"Not everything has to revolve around her.""
I bent down and collected a piece of the painting.
Maya immediately crawled closer.
"Careful, Daddy. The blue part is still wet.""
Even now, she was worried about protecting something Vanessa had destroyed.
"Sweetheart, go wash your hands. I'll collect the pieces.""
"Can I still take it tomorrow?""
I couldn't answer.
She looked at me for several seconds before quietly walking toward the bathroom.
When she disappeared around the corner, I turned back to Vanessa.
"You're going to explain everything.""
She rolled her eyes.
"There's nothing to explain.""
"Then why does my daughter look terrified of you?""
Vanessa opened her mouth.
Then she glanced toward the hallway.
Not toward the kitchen.
Not toward the bathroom.
Toward my home office.
The door was slightly open.
A small black notebook lay on the floor just inside.
Vanessa noticed me looking.
"Don't go in there.""
I frowned.
"What?""
"That's private.""
I walked toward the office.
She stepped directly into my path.
"Marcus, I'm serious.""
I looked at her.
"You destroyed my daughter's painting, and now you're telling me I can't enter my own office?""
"You're twisting everything.""
From the hallway, Maya's small voice interrupted us.
"Daddy?""
I turned.
She was standing near the bathroom door, clutching a tiny piece of her painting.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?""
She glanced at Vanessa.
Then she looked at me.
"That's where she writes down all my jobs.""
Vanessa went completely still.
Maya continued.
"She has another notebook too.""
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What other notebook?""
"The one with my name on it.""
"Stop talking, Maya!"" Vanessa snapped.
My daughter immediately lowered her eyes.
I stepped into the office.
Vanessa lunged toward the black notebook, but I reached it first.
The cover was thick and worn.
Four words had been written across it in black permanent marker.
*MAYA — HOUSE RULES / PAYMENTS*
I opened it.
The first page contained a handwritten list of chores, dates, and punishments.
Monday: Kitchen, bathroom, laundry.
Tuesday: Vacuuming, dishes, Caleb's room.
Wednesday: No television until all cleaning is finished.
Then I noticed a column labeled PAYMENT.
Underneath it were numbers.
$5.
$10.
$15.
Beside each amount was a description.
Broken rule.
Attitude.
Disobedience.
Failure to finish chores.
I turned another page.
There were more entries.
Dozens of them.
And then I found a sentence written in Vanessa's handwriting.
*If Marcus asks, tell him Maya wanted this.*
My fingers went cold.
"What does this mean?""
Vanessa reached for the notebook.
"Give it back.""
I moved it behind my back.
"Explain it.""
"It's a parenting system.""
"A parenting system?""
"Children need to learn responsibility.""
I looked at the next page.
A list of deductions had been recorded beside Maya's name.
$20 — Birthday gift.
$15 — Art supplies.
$30 — Christmas allowance.
I turned another page.
Then another.
Every time Maya had supposedly done something wrong, Vanessa had deducted money from her.
Money I had been giving my daughter.
I looked up.
"Where is this money going?""
Vanessa's face had lost its color.
"It's none of your business.""
I stared at my wife.
"Every dollar involving my daughter is my business.""
She took a step toward me.
"Marcus, you're misunderstanding what you're looking at.""
I glanced down at the notebook again.
There was another page.
At the top, Vanessa had written:
*SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT — KEEP FROM MARCUS.*
And underneath it was a name I recognized immediately.
My mother.
May you like
Evelyn.
What on earth had my wife arranged with my mother behind my back?
