Snow swallowed the road like a white grave.
Claire walked through it with her newborn pressed against her chest, hospital bracelet still on her wrist, blood still dried beneath it.
Her stitches burned.
Her daughter Lily trembled inside her thin coat.
Behind them, her parents’ mansion glowed warm and golden through the storm.
Inside, her mother was probably pouring tea.
Her father was probably checking the locks.
An hour earlier, Claire had stood in their marble foyer, barely twenty-four hours after giving birth.
“Dad, please. The baby’s freezing. Let me take the car.”
Her father’s mouth twisted.
“What car?”
“The Mercedes Grandpa bought me.”
Her mother laughed softly, like Claire was stupid.
“Sweetheart, we had to sell it. Bills don’t pay themselves.”
“But Grandpa sends money every month.”
Her mother’s eyes sharpened.
“Not enough.”
Then Claire’s sister Vanessa descended the staircase.
She was wearing Claire’s cashmere coat.
Claire’s diamond earrings.
And a smile polished cruel.
“Maybe if you hadn’t gotten pregnant by a man who ran off, you wouldn’t be such a burden,” Vanessa said.
Claire looked at the keys in her sister’s hand.
The silver Mercedes emblem swung from the ring.
“That’s my car,” Claire whispered.
Vanessa closed her fist around the keys.
“Was.”
Her father stepped between them like a wall.
“Get out, Claire. We’re done cleaning up your mistakes.”
So Claire walked.
