Serendipity

beginning of the end.

The spoon hit the wall with a hard, metallic clatter.

It echoed through the house like a shot.

"Out," Wendy hissed, voice strained and cracked. "Get out of the kitchen—now!"

The twins flinched. The boy grabbed his sister's wrist and bolted, their socked feet sliding against the old tile. Their mother's voice chased them down the hallway, sharp and sour.

They disappeared into their room, the little boy dragging the door shut behind them with a soft click.

"She's mad again," he whispered. His voice trembled like a loose wire. "Mommy's real mad..."

Down the hallway, the silence bloomed again — until it was pierced by another sound.

CRACK.
The second spoon slammed into the wall.

She was still screaming.

The girl covered her ears. The boy climbed into the closet, holding out his arms. She crawled in beside him, and they shut the door behind them.

⸻

The front door opened.

Keys rattled. A coat dropped. A bag hit the floor.

"Kids?" David called into the quiet house, frowning when he heard nothing but the tail end of a sob echoing through the vent. "Wendy?"

He stepped through the kitchen archway and froze.

Wendy stood hunched over the sink. Her hair was a tangled mess of curls. Her knuckles were white. The wall behind her was smeared with something — maybe tomato sauce, maybe blood. A spoon lay on the ground, bent at the handle. Another one clung to the wall like a rusted dart.

She turned to face him, eyes raw.

"I can't do this anymore, David."

"What happened?"

She let out a hoarse laugh, no joy in it. "I told you. From the beginning. I'm not meant for children."

David's stomach twisted. "Wendy..."

"You said you'd handle it," she snapped. "You said you'd be here. But I've been stuck in this house for three years, drowning in diapers and tantrums and crying—God, the crying never stops!"

She gripped the edge of the counter until her fingers ached.

"I don't love them, David. I don't. I only love you. I only wanted you. But you gave me this life I never asked for. I didn't want to be their mother — I never was."

David didn't move.

"They're just... loud little strangers I'm supposed to love. And I can't." Her voice cracked open at the seams. "I'm so tired of pretending. I just want to disappear."

From the hallway: a soft thud. A door closing again.

David's voice dropped to a whisper. "They can hear you."

"I don't care!" she screamed. "Let them hear! Let them finally know!"

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, she was packing a bag.

David blocked the doorway.

"You're not thinking straight," he said carefully.

Wendy shoved past him, dragging the suitcase across the hardwood floor. "I am thinking straight for the first time in years."

"You're just overwhelmed."

She laughed. "No, David. I'm done."

She yanked open the door and stepped into the cold night, barefoot, wearing her coat over a nightgown. A cigarette dangled from her lip but she hadn't lit it.