Part 3I Traded My Body To Save My Mother

I returned to Mom’s room to gather her belongings. I pulled open her drawer and saw rows of brightly colored pain medication, all neatly stacked. Too many. I checked the hospital’s automatic payment system. The withdrawal amounts had been noticeably reduced for the last several months. She had been hoarding them, afraid of becoming a financial burden.

I remembered her last call to me before the jump: “Kendall, happy New Year. Next year won’t be as painful as this one.”

I hadn’t even had the chance to say, “Happy New Year, Mom.” The unsung blessing became a wave of tears that choked my throat.

The cremation and memorial were scheduled for three days later. Before that, I needed to see Reid. He despised me; he would welcome the chance to sign the papers.

I didn’t even make it through the front door of our Upper East Side penthouse when I heard his voice, laughing. "See? I told you. Pay up. She always cracks."

“Seriously, Reid? You can recognize your own wife’s footsteps?”

I froze, gripping my handbag. They were running a pool, betting on how long it would take me to come back and beg. How much was the stake? What was the value of our entire relationship? I no longer cared.

I walked in. Phoebe was there, wearing my silk pajamas.

My possessiveness was a known quantity. I hated people touching my things, my possessions, my husband. Now, watching her lean half-heartedly against Reid, I didn't feel the old, hysterical rage.

She straightened quickly, offering a faux-apologetic smile. “I accidentally spilled wine, Kendall. Reid made me borrow a clean set.” She looked at me innocently. “You don’t mind, do you, big sister?”

I gave her a flat look. “I don’t mind.” I was done with both the pajamas and the man. She could have the leftovers.

Reid watched me, a faint frown creasing his brow.

Phoebe scanned me head to toe, then covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Kendall, you didn’t even bring Reid a present? Even when you’re pouting, you shouldn’t embarrass him in front of guests.”

Confetti and balloons littered the floor, shouting "Happy Birthday." I’d forgotten. It was Reid’s birthday. For years, I had baked his cake myself, never missing a single one.

Everyone was waiting for my answer. Even Reid’s cigarette burned down to his fingers, unnoticed.