Chapter 1 Two Years Ago, the Outskirts of Newark, New JerseyEthan
I stood at the edge of the driveway, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel. My shoulders slouched under the weight of everything that had gone wrong. I watched as the familiar car pulled up, the sound of tires crunching against the gravel making my stomach twist. Sarah, my ex-wife, was behind the wheel, as always, looking like nothing in the world could touch her.
The car door swung open, and Lily, my youngest daughter who was nine years old, jumped out, her backpack hanging off one shoulder. She looked back at her mother, who was still sitting in the driver's seat, hidden behind those oversized sunglasses she loved so much. There was something exchanged between them, a moment too quiet for me to catch, and then Lily turned and walked toward me. She hesitated halfway, glancing back, but her mother was already engrossed in her phone.
"Ethan," she said, her voice as cold as the wind that suddenly picked up. "Make sure you're on time for the next exchange."
She didn't even bother looking at me, her gaze fixed instead on the rearview mirror, probably more interested in her reflection than anything else. Her new husband, a tool named James—the man she left me for—sat in the passenger seat, oozing arrogance. His disdain for me was palpable even from where I stood.
"Hey, sweetheart, welcome home. Your sister is in the house," I called out, keeping my voice steady. She looked up at me, and in that moment, I saw the pain she tried so hard to hide—pain from the way her mother treated Maya, her older sister, and me; pain for the way she'd tossed our family aside; pain for the way her mother had gotten married right after our divorce.
Lily, was in pain. Maya, her older sister by two years, was angry. She was so angry with her mother that she refused to see her. A court order would change that, but right now, I didn't care.
I knelt down as Lily reached me, pulling her into a hug that I needed as much as she did. I glanced back at the car, but it was already moving away, leaving nothing but dust and a hollow feeling in its wake. I stood up, my hand resting on Lily's small shoulder, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.
Just a week ago, I'd shut down the construction company I'd poured my life into, and now the mobile home complex my dad had left me was on the brink of collapse. Everything I'd worked for was slipping through my fingers, and all I had left were these two girls who depended on me.
"Let's go inside, kiddo," I said, forcing a smile as I led Lily toward the house. The sun dipped below the horizon, and I felt a slight chill settling in. It was time to go inside.
Inside, Maya was waiting, her eyes full of questions she wouldn't ask—not yet.
"How was it?" Maya asked her sister.
Lily smiled. "Awful. James is a bad, and Mom is different. The house is nice, I guess."
It was a nice house. I'd seen it. That guy came from money, and that was what Sarah wanted.
I sighed and it must have been louder than I realized. Maya and Lily came to and hugged me. Then they kissed me on either side of my cheeks. Maya spoke, "His house still sucks. Do you want to know why?"
I chuckled. "And why is that, Maya?"
She snuggled against me, as did Lily. "Because you weren't in it."
I squeezed them both. "You realize how corny that was right? I never thought you were so Disney."
Maya smiled. "Whatever I am a straight up Princess."
We all laughed. It was needed.
Some hours later, I realized something—the house was too quiet. I hated it when it was like this. But there was little I could do to change it at the moment.
If you had told me a year ago that I would find out my wife was cheating, wanting to leave me, and didn't want the girls to live with her, I would have told you, you were nuts.
But now, at 27, I was a single parent and a betrayed spouse. Not to mentioned an injury vet, a failed business man and a…well. I've have made some bad choices. It had been a rough six months.
Hell it had been a rough six years.
We all entered the kitchen; Lily and Maya moved to the kitchen table and started on their homework. We settled into a companionable silence; the only sound was the soft scratch of their pencils on paper. I leaned against the counter, watching them, pretending to read on my phone, trying to push away the growing pit in my stomach.
What the hell are we going to do?
I remembered when this house was full of life, before the walls had absorbed too many arguments, too many tears—before Sarah had become a stranger, more interested in the pursuit of something better than the life we'd built together. Now, even the air felt heavy, like it was suffocating us.
Maya looked up from her homework, her eyes meeting mine. She gave me a small smile, one that said she understood more than she let on. I forced myself to smile back, but I knew it didn't reach my eyes.
"Dad, can we should go out tomorrow. Even it's just to the park." Lily's voice pierced my thoughts.
I hesitated. The park was where we used to go as a family, back when things were good. But maybe that's exactly what we needed—a reminder of happier times, a glimpse of normalcy in this chaos.
"Sure, sweetheart," I said, ruffling her hair. "We'll find a time."
She beamed at me, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted. I clung to that smile, to the small piece of happiness I could still give her. But as the evening wore on and the girls went to bed, the weight came crashing back down.
I stood, staring at the empty fireplace, a drink in hand as my thoughts drifted to better times. Sarah had once been my world, the reason I worked so hard. We had gotten pregnant and married young, very much in love. Even though those early days were hard, we got through it. We had done it together. We. Us.
There was no longer a "we" or "us."
I was trying to remember those times and feelings, yet I found them fleeting. Today, she was just a ghost, haunting the life I was struggling to piece back together. And her new husband—God, I couldn't even bring myself to say the man's name. He had everything I didn't: money, power, Sarah. He had taken her away, leaving me with nothing but the wreckage of a life I didn't recognize anymore.
But I couldn't hate her—not completely. I could still remember the good times, the laughter, the love we once had. That's what made it hurt so much.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I needed to move forward, but didn't know how. What do you do when your world had be razzed to the ground?
As I settled the girls in for the night, my phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at it, expecting a message from a friend offering condolences or maybe a reminder for some bill I'd forgotten to pay. But when I saw the name onscreen, my heart sank.
Sarah.
Reluctantly, I swiped the screen open and saw the message: Ethan, I noticed you staring at James today. It makes him uncomfortable. Please keep your distance next time. You don't need to intimidate him.
I clenched my jaw, feeling the tension spread through my body. Intimidate him? I hadn't even said a word. I wasn't the one who left; I wasn't the one who tore apart our family, but here she was, accusing me of making her new husband uncomfortable.
I stared at the words, my mind spinning. The audacity of it—she thought I was the problem, that I was the one causing discomfort. Meanwhile, she paraded this man in front of our daughters, the same man who had everything I used to have.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. There was no point in responding. I couldn't win, no matter what I said. I could already hear her voice, that cold, dismissive tone she'd perfected over the years, telling me to grow up and move on.
But how could I, when every time I looked at Lily and Maya, I saw the life we were meant to have? And now she expected me to just stand by, silently watching while her new husband—the one she left me for—took over?
I typed out a quick response, trying to keep my words neutral: Just focused on Lily and Maya, Sarah. Let's keep it about them. We don't need to talk otherwise.
Then I set the phone down, feeling the frustration and anger bubbling just beneath the surface. I wanted to scream, break something, but I couldn't. Not with the girls in the next room. They didn't need to see me like this.
Instead, I walked to the kitchen and grabbed another beer from the fridge, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. The bitterness of the brew matched the taste in my mouth. I leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular, just trying to calm the storm inside.
Sarah had moved on so easily, slipping into her new life like it was made for her, while I was left here, struggling to keep my head above water. And now she had the nerve to tell me how to act, to protect her precious James from the big, bad ex-husband.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. She could have him. Let her deal with his discomfort, his insecurities. I wasn't about to play their little game. My focus was on Lily and Maya, on trying to give them some semblance of stability in this mess.
The phone buzzed again, and I didn't even want to look. But I knew I had to. When Sarah started, she never stopped until she had the last word. Reluctantly, I swiped the screen.
Ethan, I know this isn't easy for you. I get it. It's hard when your 'dream girl' has moves on. We had good times. But it's over. James is my husband now, and he doesn't need to feel threatened by you every time he comes around. It's not fair to him, or to me.
My grip on the phone tightened as I read her words. Dream girl? Fair? Was she joking? She wouldn't understand fair if it bit her in the ass.
Sarah didn't get it. She never would. This wasn't about clinging to the past or holding onto some fantasy that had died the day she walked out. It was about respect, about the life we built together that she tossed aside like it meant nothing. It was about the family she left without a second thought.
And now, she had the nerve to call herself my dream girl, as if that was all I had left. As if she hadn't crushed those dreams under the heel of her designer shoes the moment she decided I wasn't enough for her anymore.
I stared at the screen, feeling the heat rise in my chest, a mix of anger and something close to despair. I wanted to fire back, to tell her exactly what I thought of her moving on, but what good would it do? She wouldn't listen. She never did.
Instead, I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. I typed out a short reply, my fingers shaking with the effort to keep it civil.
I'm focused on Lily and Maya, Sarah. That's all that matters to me. Not you or your jackass husband. You don't need to worry about anything else. Mind your business.
I hit send and tossed the phone onto the counter, not wanting to see her response. I knew it would come, probably laced with more of her condescending advice about how to handle my feelings, but I couldn't deal with it right now.
All I could do was try to push the anger down, bury it deep where it wouldn't spill out in front of the girls. They didn't deserve to see this side of things. For now, I just needed to focus on them—on getting through another day, another night, and another drop-off where I'd have to plaster on a fake smile and pretend that everything was fine, even as the ground crumbled beneath my feet.
I lay down, trying to fall asleep. It took me a long time.
I woke up early and thought about Sarah's text. I knew I couldn't stay in bed. The frustration was eating at me, gnawing at my insides. I needed to do something to get my mind off of her and that smug husband of hers. The kitchen had always been my refuge, a place where I could lose myself in the rhythm of chopping, slicing, and sautéing. It was where I could create something good, something that made sense.
I pulled myself up, feeling the familiar ache in my back as I stretched. The house was quiet; Lily and Maya were asleep, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. I opened it, scanning the contents. Fresh ingredients always called to me. There was a carton of eggs, some fresh herbs, a block of Gruyère, and a few other odds and ends. It was enough to get started.
I grabbed what I needed and began moving around the kitchen, letting my instincts take over. Cooking came naturally to me. I cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a dash of cream and a sprinkle of salt. The knife felt good in my hand as I finely chopped the chives, the rhythm of the blade against the cutting board soothing me.
Next came the Gruyère, which I grated into fluffy, fragrant piles. I could already imagine how it would melt into the eggs, creating something rich and satisfying. The stove clicked on, and I heated a pan, swirling a bit of butter until it sizzled and foamed. I poured the eggs in, watching them start to set around the edges before gently stirring them, coaxing them into a creamy, soft scramble.
I added the cheese and herbs, folding them carefully. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and comforting, like a hug I desperately needed. I plated the eggs, topping them with a few more fresh chives and stood back to admire my work. It wasn't fancy, but it was good. It was something I had made, something that wasn't falling apart.
Sitting at the table, I took a bite. The flavors were perfect, balanced in a way that made me forget, even if just for a moment, all the things that were wrong in my life. This was what I loved—what I was good at. Cooking was my escape, my solace.
I'd always wanted to be a chef, to open my own restaurant, but life had taken me in a different direction. Everything had come with some dumb choices and a sense of responsibility, including babies, the military, and criminal conduct. I had married young, had children even younger, and decided to join the military to better our situation. Looking back, it's hard to know if that decision had been a good one. Had I stayed? Had I tried to be something else or someone else? Maybe I would not be in the place I am now.
But we will never know that.
I took another bite of my eggs. Cooking. A restaurant? A food truck? The idea began to take root. I wasn't sure how or when, but I knew one thing: I couldn't keep going on like this. Something had to change.
I continued eating my scrambled eggs, letting the warmth and richness settle into me. Just as I was about to get lost in my thoughts again, I heard the soft creak of the floorboards behind me. I turned around to see Lily, rubbing her eyes and yawning, her messy hair sticking out in every direction. Maya wasn't far behind her, looking a bit more awake but still groggy, with that sleepy confusion kids have when they first wake up.
"Daddy, what are you doing so early?" Lily mumbled, blinking at the plate of eggs in front of me.
"Couldn't sleep," I said, pushing the plate toward her. "Want some? They're fresh."
Lily eyed the plate, and then Maya, who was already sniffing the air. "Is that cheese I smell?" Maya asked, her eyes lighting up. "Did you make your famous cheesy eggs?"
"Maya, something cannot be famous if only we know about them," I said, standing to grab a couple more plates from the cupboard.
I piled on the eggs for each of the girls.
Maya grabbed a fork and took a big bite, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Mumm, so good. As far as I am concerned, we are the only ones that matter. But if you're worried about being famous then you simply need to become a celebrity. "
"Hey who said anything about wanting to be famous—"
"Yeah, you could open a restaurant and make us cheesy eggs all the time," Lily added, her voice still thick with sleep, but there was a hint of excitement in it too. "Oh we could get duck eggs they have more fat you know."
Maya snorted. "Your head has more fat."
Lifted her chin to her older sister. "Your bottom has more fat!."
Maya's jaw dropped. 'That was so mean!. My bottom is awesome."
"Oh yeah? And what would we call this restaurant?" I asked interrupting the banter. .
Lily scrunched her nose, thinking hard. "How about… 'Ethan's Eats'? No, wait, that sounds like a food truck. How about 'Lily's Bistro'? But you do all the work."
Maya rolled her eyes. "Please, 'Maya's Café' sounds way better. Plus, I'd be the one making all the decisions since I'm clearly the better business mind here."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Oh, is that so? And what makes you a better business mind?"
Maya grinned. "Because I'm older and wiser, obviously."
"By two years," Lily shot back, crossing her arms. "Besides, I have better taste buds. You eat plain cheese pizza, for crying out loud. Who does that? Pineapple and ham for the win."
"Plain cheese pizza is timeless," Maya defended herself. "Simple, elegant, and you can't go wrong. Just like Dad's cheesy eggs. Putting pineapple on pizza is so wrong it should be a war crime. Fruit? Pizza? With Tomato sauce. Whoever came up with that idea should be punched. Or at least slapped around a little."
Lily rolled her eyes in a perfect imitation of Maya's earlier one. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to work at your boring café when I'm a famous artist."
"Fine, but don't come crying to me when you're starving because all you have to eat are your 'art supplies.'"
"Oh, I'd find something," Lily said, grabbing a piece of toast from the counter. "And it wouldn't be plain cheese pizza, that's for sure."
I laughed at their back-and-forth. The girls had a special bond. They fought like cats and dogs but loved just as hard. It was endearing.
"You know," I said, wiping my hands on a dish towel, "if I ever did open a restaurant, I'd need two very reliable taste testers. Think you two would be up for the job?"
Maya and Lily exchanged a look, their competitive streaks momentarily forgotten. They both nodded enthusiastically, their earlier sleepiness replaced with excitement.
"We're in!" Maya declared, puffing out her chest a little. "But only if I get to decide the dessert menu."
"Deal," I said, feeling a smile tugging at my lips. "And Lily, you can help design the place. Make it as artsy as you want."
Lily's eyes lit up. "Really? Can I draw on the walls?"
"Sure, why not? You can paint a mural right in the dining area."
"Awesome!" Lily said, her mood brightening as she started imagining all the designs she could create.
We spent the next hour together, finishing off the eggs and toasting more bread, talking and joking. It was nice, normal, and something that had been missing lately.
It was a Saturday, so the girls went out to do what 9- and 11-year-old girls do in their free time. We planned to go to the park later, but for now, they wanted to do their own thing.
I walked through the dimly lit hallway and thought about all the things that had brought me to this point. Just as I settled into the worn armchair in the living room, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a call from my mother.
I picked up the phone, already knowing what she was going to say. "Hi, Mom."
"Ethan, sweetheart. How are you doing?" Her voice was warm but carried that familiar undertone of concern.
"I'm managing," I replied, though the word felt heavy on my tongue. "Lily is back. She didn't even take Maya this time because of the fit she threw during their last visit. They are out playing around now."
My mother let out a stream of swear words. My mom could cuss with the best of them. After a full minute of profanity, she paused to catch her breath.
"That dirty tramp—she'd better not let me get my hands on her."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Mom, no one uses the word tramp anymore. I think the proper term is 403."
There was a pause on the other end before she spoke again. "Tramp is classic and will never go out of style, son. But forget your hoe bag ex-wife. If you remember that, you don't have to do all this alone. I know what you did. I know I haven't always been there for you. Ever since your father passed, it's been difficult. Your brother's made it worse. But I am done with all that. I am here for you."
I was a bit shocked at what my mother said. I knew she had been making progress with her own demons. IF what she was saying was true... "I love you, Mom. I will always step up for you and my sisters. I did it then, and I will do it now. This time for my girls."
"You're right," she agreed softly. "But that doesn't mean you have to do it all alone now. You've done so much, dealt with so much. It's okay to let others in. I also know that I've let you down in the past. That won't happen again. I am here for you and my grandbabies. I need you to get back out there and live the life that you deserve."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's not that simple. I have the girls to think about. I don't want them to go through any more upheaval than they already have."
"They need to see their father living, not just surviving," she gently urged. "They need to know that it's okay to move forward, even after all the hurt."
"I know, Mom," I said, leaning back in the chair. "But it's hard. After losing Dad so young, then having Maya and Lily when I was just a kid and losing Sam... I had to grow up fast. Too fast. And now…"
"You're still growing, Ethan," she interrupted. "You've been carrying this family on your back for so long that you forgot there are others that can hold you up."
"Thanks, Mom. I know... I know you're right. It's just... hard."
"Take your time, sweetheart. But promise me you won't shut yourself off from the world. You've still got so much to offer, and those girls need to see that their dad is still the man who once dreamed of being a chef, who has passions and dreams beyond just making it through the day."
I smiled at that. "Yeah. Yes. You're right. I won't give up. Perhaps one day we will see a restaurant with my name on it."
"Good. You were always so talented in the kitchen. Don't let that part of you slip away."
"I won't, Mom. I'll try."
"That's all I ask, Ethan. That's all anyone can ask."
We talked some more, catching up on the mundane details of life. But after we hung up, her words lingered in my mind. I sat there in the quiet, thinking about my father, my brother, my sisters, and the weight of my fractured family. My mother was right—I needed to show my girls that life should be lived, that it was okay to move forward.
I glanced at the kitchen door, and the memory of the morning's cooking session with Lily and Maya brought a small smile to my face. Time always brings about change. It is important to be able to change with it.
After the call with my mom, I sat in the armchair for a while, the silence of the house wrapping around me like a blanket. The weight of her words pressed on my chest, but there was a strange comfort in them too.
But before I could start thinking too much, I knew I needed to clear my head. I had plenty of restless energy, so I got up and headed for the back door. The warm air hit my face as I stepped outside, and I breathed it in deeply, feeling a bit of the tension in my shoulders ease.
In the corner of the yard, hanging from an old oak tree, was the punching bag I'd set up years ago. It had seen better days—worn and weathered from countless hours of use—but it was still solid, still there when I needed it. Like tonight.
I approached the bag, the familiar creak of the chain overhead bringing back memories of when I first started training. It had been a way to cope with the anger, the frustration, and the sense of helplessness that had come after my father and brother's death and, more recently, Sarah leaving. It had also helped in my rehab after my tour of duty, an injury on a distant battlefield on the other side of the world.
Without thinking, I began to wrap my hands, a ritual that had become second nature. The simple act of preparing to hit the bag was enough to help me focus, to channel all the noise in my head into something tangible.
I squared up to the bag, my muscles tense, my breath steadying. For a moment, I just stood there, fists raised, as if waiting for the right moment to strike.
And I threw the first punch.
The impact jolted through my arm, familiar and grounding. I followed it up with a series of quick jabs, each hit harder than the last. The sound of my fists connecting with the bag echoed in the yard, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.
But it wasn't just about the punches. I shifted my stance and threw a solid elbow, feeling the powerful thud as it connected with the bag. The movement was fluid, a natural extension of my training, and it felt damn good. I followed up with another elbow strike, then spun into a kick, my leg cutting through the air and landing with a satisfying thwack against the bag.
The bag swung with the force of my kick, but I didn't let up. I pressed forward, unleashing a flurry of punches, elbows, and kicks, my body moving instinctively. The combination of strikes was a release, a way to channel all the pent-up energy into something constructive. The bag bore the brunt of everything I'd been holding back—anger, sadness, frustration.
I alternated between punches and kicks, the sound of my bare feet striking the heavy bag echoing in the stillness of the night. My muscles burned with the effort, but it was a good burn, one that reminded me I was still alive, still fighting.
As I threw another kick, the bag swung wide, and I followed up with a powerful roundhouse, feeling the satisfying impact reverberate through my body. Sweat dripped down my face, but I didn't stop. I moved in close, landing a series of rapid elbow strikes, each one releasing a bit more of the tension that had built up inside me.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, I stepped back, panting, hands on my knees as I tried to catch my breath. The bag swung gently in front of me. I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling a strange sense of relief, of calm.
I unwrapped my hands slowly, flexing my fingers to ease the stiffness. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a tiredness that I welcomed. I looked up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the light pollution, and took a deep breath.
I looked at my phone's clock. I saw I had been out here longer than I realized or anticipated. I stepped back into the house and made my way to the office. It was a modest space packed with boxes from our move out of the family home Sarah and I shared. I had always had a home office even when I joined the Marines, and there wasn't much for me to do there. It was a bit of a refuge. When Sam and I had started our construction company, we had done so in that office in our old home. Then that office became functional, and we celebrated our success in that office. Now I was in a new office in a rundown trailer park, where I would try to pick up the pieces of my and my daughters' lives.
Did I really need an office?
I looked at the pictures on the wall. There were many, but one in particular I was searching for at that moment. There was a picture of me and my squad members outside a hot zone in Afghanistan. Many of the men in that photo were no longer here, and whenever I felt troubled or tense, looking at that photo gave me comfort. It had been so for years.
My phone buzzed again. It was Dean, one of the few guys from that squad picture with whom I had regular contact.
"Hey, Dean."
"Ethan. How you doing, son?"
"Dude, don't call me that. I am older than you, remember?"
I heard a chuckle. "Semantics. What are you doing?"
"Oh, you know, same old."
"You're not moping, are you?"
I snorted. "I don't mope. What do you want, dude?"
"I've got tickets for a fight on Friday. You're coming with me."
I paused. "I can't man. I've got the girls–"
"Sheri is going to come and keep an eye on Maya and Lily. You need to get out and interact with adults who are not your bitch of an ex-wife."
I laughed. It felt good. Laughter doesn't happen often these days. Sheri was Dean's wife. She was a hell of a woman. Sarah had been all polish and gloss. Sheri was the exact opposite—short, stout, and hilarious. I wasn't even sure she wore makeup. "Alright. I'm in. But only for a few hours."
The smile on Dean's face could be heard over the phone. "Awesome. Bring a gym bag, running shorts, and petroleum jelly. I will be at your place at 7."
Dean hung up.
I looked at the phone. What the hell?