Part 2Replaced By A Better Man

When the Uber finally pulled up to the brick building, it was past three in the morning.

I dragged my suitcase up the dimly lit stairs of the pre-war apartment building. I reached the door and stared at the keypad lock. I instinctively punched in my birthday.

Error.

I tried our anniversary.

Error.

Before I could try a third time, the door swung open.

Melanie stood there, wearing a pastel pink apron, holding a spatula, a warm, bright smile plastered on her face.

"Regina! You're finally home! Jerry and I are making late-night snacks."

She noticed me staring at the keypad and flushed with mock embarrassment. "Oh, sorry! The code is my birthday. I'm so forgetful, and Jerry was worried I'd lock myself out while helping you guys unpack."

I looked past her into the kitchen. Jerry—a man who absolutely detested cooking and had never once made me dinner in five years—was standing over the stove wearing a matching apron.

Hearing our voices, he looked up and smiled warmly at Melanie. But when his gaze landed on me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, defensive shield.

"You're late," he said, turning back to the stove. "Go wash your hands. Melanie went out of her way to make a welcome-home dinner for us. She's been unpacking all day, and she still insisted on cooking for you."

Melanie played the modest angel. "Oh, stop it, Jerry. We're family now. Your family is my family. Regina, don't listen to him, I was happy to do it."

The apartment was heated, yet I felt a chill deep in my bones.

I didn't say a word. I kicked off my boots and looked around the cramped entryway for my slippers. They weren't there.

Melanie tapped her temple. "Oh! Silly me. I saw those old, ratty wool slippers of yours and assumed you were throwing them out, so I tossed them. I haven't had a chance to buy you new ones yet."

I stared at the cheap, plastic slide-ons she had set out for me. Something inside me snapped. I kicked them aside.

"Who gave you permission to touch my things?"

Melanie froze. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes welled up with tears. "Regina... I'm so sorry. I was just trying to help..."

Jerry immediately abandoned the stove, rushing over to shove himself between us, shielding Melanie.

"Regina, what the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled. "It's a pair of cheap slippers! Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?"

Melanie tugged gently at his sleeve, her voice soft and trembling. "Jerry, please, don't. It's my fault. Don't fight with Regina because of me..."

Jerry's chest heaved with anger. "She spent the whole day helping us move, Regina! She cooked for you! Is this how you show your appreciation? By screaming at her?"

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. The physical pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking down right in front of them.

"Those weren't 'cheap slippers,'" I whispered, my voice shaking. "My mother hand-knit them for me while she was dying in the hospital. They were the last thing she ever made. Melanie, what right did you have to throw them away?"

Jerry froze. The anger died in his eyes, replaced by a flicker of guilt. He rubbed his temples, his tone softening slightly. "Look... you still shouldn't have yelled at Melanie. She didn't know. It was an accident. I forgot to tell her, okay? It's on me."

I looked at Jerry, utterly hollowed out.

I used to get terribly cold feet in the winter. My mother, weak and bedridden with terminal cancer, had spent her final weeks knitting those slippers for me. On her deathbed, she had placed my hand in Jerry's, begging him in her softest, weakest voice to cherish me.

And Jerry had promised. He had held me through the worst nights of my life.

And now, he had simply "forgotten."

"Just eat," Jerry said, his voice flat. "After we eat, I'll go down to the dumpster with you and help you look for them. Just stop making a scene, alright?"

I didn't answer. I turned around and walked out the door, down the dark, narrow hallway.

The old building had no working lights in the stairwell. I was walking fast, my eyes blurred with tears.

My foot caught on the edge of a broken step.

I fell.

It was a brutal, tumbling fall down the concrete stairs. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my abdomen, so intense it stole the breath from my lungs.

I couldn't stand up. When I reached down, my hands came away wet and warm with blood.

"Jerry!" I cried out, my voice echoing in the empty, freezing stairwell. "Jerry, please!"

I called his name over and over. But no one came.

The metallic scent of blood filled the cold air. In the semi-darkness, my mind began to slip. I thought I saw him—not the cold, distant twenty-seven-year-old Jerry standing in the apartment upstairs, but the twenty-two-year-old boy who used to love me more than life itself.