Chapter 5
Everyone else stood to leave.
“We’re heading out, Zoey.” Their whispered comments carried clearly to my ears. “Who does she think she is, challenging Sara? As if she didn’t steal someone else’s man.” “Just jealous. Look at Sara – beautiful, accomplished. What’s she got?” “Picks a fight with Sara, and her own husband runs after her. Pathetic!”
Their mocking laughter faded down the hallway, leaving the private room in eerie silence.
Alone, I let out a bitter laugh and poured another drink, downing it in one go.
Truth be told, Sara wasn’t entirely wrong – I hadn’t been to those places. But I knew she was lying. Because of my mother.
I wasn’t always parentless.
My mother served with Doctors Without Borders in conflict zones. Back then, a woman working abroad while her husband raised their child was unthinkable. Neighbors would sneer: “Your mother abandoned you!” I’d fight back with my tiny fists, defending what little pride I had, only to face crueler mockery.
Mother sent letters with exotic stamps, describing her work in vivid detail, always including photographs. When Father read them to me, I’d picture her – my hero in a white coat.
She once wrote: “Zoey, most people live in small worlds, but the real world is vast. See it for yourself. Only by broadening your horizons will you discover what you truly want.”
But when I was five, she died serving in the Kosovo War. Her colleagues recovered only her ID
badge. Inside, among the patient records she died protecting, was a photo of me – from who knows
when.
I was too young to understand “killed in action,” but I remember the neighbors‘ cruel words: “See?
Women who step out of line never end well.”
I lost my mother, but her words stayed with me: Go see for yourself. Document everything. Only
then will you know what you truly want.
Yesterday, finding that old camera, its worn body still seemed to hold her warmth. Her legacy, my childhood guide. Burying my face in my hands, tears slipping through my fingers, I whispered: “Mom, I miss you so much…”
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Chapter 5.
The next morning, a splitting headache jolted me awake. Opening my eyes to a familiar ceiling- home. But how did I get here?
After gulping water to soothe my throat, I noticed Jackson in the living room, face dark with anger. “Is this how a proper wife behaves?” Ignoring him, I headed for the study. The desk was empty. “Where’s my camera?” My voice cracked.
Jackson smiled coldly. “I gave it to Sara.”
My breath stopped. “What did you say?”
Arms crossed, he smirked. “Didn’t you tell her to take more pictures?”
A roar filled my head. He gave my mother’s legacy to Sara?
The glass slipped from my hand, shattering. I lunged, grabbing his collar: “How dare you touch my
camera?! How dare you?!”
Jackson flinched, startled by my fury. “Sara… she’s at theSanta CloudHotel.” “Room number!” “1103.”
I shoved him aside and ran.
Speeding to the hotel, I burst onto the eleventh floor and kicked open 1103. Sara appeared, livid. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Ignoring her, I stormed in. There it was – the camera sitting quietly on the TV stand. I grabbed it and
turned to leave.
“Stop!” Sara yanked me back, voice shrill. “Jackson gave that to me! You have no right!”
I turned and slapped her hard. “This is mine. My mother’s legacy. You have no right.”
She stood stunned, then screamed: “How dare you hit me, you bitch!”
She lunged, clawing and shrieking as we struggled. In the chaos, I heard the camera strap snap. Then Sara, in blind rage, grabbed the camera and smashed it to the floor.
A sharp crack echoed. I stood frozen, watching my mother’s last remnant shatter before my eyes.
