To Ruin a Blackwood

Seven years after my divorce from Ethan Blackwood, we met again in the drop-off line for a middle school summer camp.

He was there for his stepson. I was the teacher in charge of the trip.

I went through the checklist with him, my voice professional and clipped. He listened intently, playing the part of a competent parent. The only crack in the facade was a flicker of confusion in his eyes when I called him "Mr. Blackwood."

"Audrey," he said, his voice a low murmur. "You've... changed."

I kept my head down, fussing with the faulty speaker on my megaphone. I didn't answer. If he wanted to talk about change, wed be here all day.

At the very least, I no longer wasted my time waiting for him.

1

"Ms. Shaw! There you are. We were about to leave without you."

Nina, my class president, a bright girl with a perpetually high ponytail, jogged over. She was one of the campers.

"Just confirming some parent details," I said with a smile. "I'll be right there."

Ninas gaze followed mine and landed on Ethan. A look of pure admiration dawned on her face.

"Oh! You must be Leo's dad. I've seen your picture in Forbes."

Her voice was full of teenage reverence. "Everyone says you're one of the most brilliant entrepreneurs in Crestwood. And that you're an amazing father to him. We all think that's so incredible."

Leo. That was the name of Ethan's stepson. The child he had sworn to protect at all costs.

Ethan managed a tight, polite smile, his eyes darting instinctively toward me. "He calls me Dad. Its my job to be there for him."

The paperwork was done. I organized the forms and tucked them away. The old zipper on my tote bag, corroded from years of use, snagged on the fabric. I pulled out a small pair of scissors to free it and, in my haste, sliced my finger open.

A perfect bead of blood welled up and dropped onto the asphalt. Ethans brow furrowed. He grabbed my wrist, a surprising urgency in his voice. "Don't move. Let me see that."

I met his gaze for a second before carefully withdrawing my hand from his grip. "No, thank you. That's not appropriate."

He paused, recalibrating. "Then wait here. I'll get you a first-aid kit from my car."

I flicked the blood from my finger onto the ground and shook my head, my voice calm. "Really, it's fine. I have to go."

As I turned, a single leaf spiraled down, landing at Ethan's feet. The heavy door of the charter bus hissed shut between us.

I settled into the front passenger seat and pulled a wet wipe from my bag, methodically cleaning the spot on my wrist where his fingers had been.

The driver, a veteran with a love for gossip, chuckled as he pulled away from the curb. "That guy in the tailored suit must be some big shot. The woman who landed him is one lucky lady."

I smiled faintly but said nothing.

This was the seventh year since my divorce from Ethan Blackwood. Seeing him again, I felt a placid stillness in my heart. I had accepted that our lives were two parallel lines, never destined to cross again.

He could chase his great love story; I would guard my hard-won peace.

It was almost possible to forget.

To forget that I had once given him everything.

And that he, in return, had cost me child after child, before personally shoving me into the abyss.

2

In the rearview mirror, the school drop-off point shrank until it was just a speck. It struck me then that this was the very place we had first met.

Back then, he had nothing. He stood on that same patch of pavement, shivering and filthy, looking like a stray dog begging for scraps.

The winter wind whipped around him as he kept his head bowed, his voice cracking as he pleaded with the staff coming and going. "My mom's sick. Please, if you'll just help her, I'll do anything."

People walked past as if he were invisible. Only my father, a doctor at the city hospital, stopped. He not only got Ethans mother admitted, but he also pulled strings to get her into a charity care program and even paid for a significant portion of her treatment out of his own pocket.

A few weeks later, when her condition had stabilized, my dad brought Ethan home.

"Audrey," he announced. "I've found you a tutor."

Ethan stood there, all six-foot-two of him, hands clasped nervously in front of him, the tips of his ears burning red. "I... I'm consistently in the top ten of my class. I'm decent at every subject."

That was an understatement. He wasnt just "decent"; he was one of those effortless, incandescent geniuses teachers talk about for years. With the burden of his mother's illness lifted, he shone even brighter. It was no surprise when he got a full scholarship to Crestwood University's elite finance program.

And I, as my father liked to joke, rode his coattails, scraping by with the bare minimum grades to get into the same university.

But life is unpredictable. During Ethans freshman year, his mother's illness returned. This time, she didn't recover.

My dad, a man with a deeply compassionate heart, felt a strange sense of responsibility. He told Ethan that the debt was paid, that hed more than earned his keep by tutoring me. He was free now; he didnt have to feel tied to us.

But Ethan shook his head. "Dr. Shaw, this is a debt I can never repay. You saved my mother's life. In return, I'll take care of Audrey for the rest of mine."

I traced the faint white line of the scar on my finger. The sting was long gone, but a phantom ache remained.

We were so young then. He said it, and I believed it. I clung to him like a burr, shamelessly, refusing to let go. We made plans. Wed make some money, buy a small house in Crestwood, and get married right after graduation. We would live a normal, happy life, just like everyone else.

But as much as Ethan cared for me, his ambition burned hotter. The year we graduated, he threw himself into a project a thousand miles away in Riverton. All our promises evaporated like mist. He was consumed by his work, unreachable for weeks at a time. On the rare occasion I got him on the phone, before the thrill of hearing his voice could even settle, he dropped a bomb.

"Audrey," he said, his voice distant. "I think I'm going to stay here."

No apology. No "we should break up." Not a single word of explanation.

Around that time, my father retired. He couldn't bear to see me crying day after day. "You can't force love, honey," hed say gently. "Sometimes you just have to let go."

But four years of my life... I couldn't accept it. That same day, I packed a suitcase and bought a ticket for the next train south.

I messaged him the whole way, a long, rambling monologue.

Ethan, I'm on my way to you.

It doesn't matter if you stay there. We don't have to break up.

I sent him the train number, the arrival time. I wanted him to be there. I needed him to meet me.

He wasn't.

A torrential rain was falling in Riverton that day. I dragged my suitcase through the downpour, unable to find a single cab. I finally collapsed onto a bus stop bench and cried for three hours. A sharp, cramping pain seized my abdomen, and I felt a horrifying warmth spread down my legs.

I looked down. It wasn't my period. It was our baby. A baby I never even knew existed, arriving and leaving in secret.

Panicked, I looked up, searching for anyone, for help. And then I saw him, walking toward me under a large black umbrella. He was wearing a dark gray trench coat and gold-rimmed glasses, looking so polished and successful it felt unreal.

My hands were covered in blood. My legs were covered in blood. I scrambled toward him, grabbing the sleeve of his coat. "Our baby... the baby's gone."

His expression was flat, but a flicker of anger burned in his eyes. "Who told you to come here?"

The rain fell in sheets around us. Ethan's face was a mask of cold fury.

He asked me again, his voice like ice. "Audrey, who the hell told you to follow me?"

3

The bus arrived at the campsite. I pushed the memories away and stepped out into the fresh air. The camp had its own counselors waiting, which meant my main duties were over. I was free to explore the small resort town for a few days.

My friend Maya picked me up. Her eyes immediately landed on a boy with a basketball tucked under his armLeo.

"That's her kid, isn't it?" she said, her lip curling slightly. "He's got her eyes."

I gave a small nod.

Seeing my detached calm seemed to infuriate her. The anger simmered for a moment before she started railing against Ethan. "How could you have ever agreed to marry that heartless bastard after everything?"

It wasn't that complicated, really. After the miscarriage, I ended up in a Riverton hospital. I was young and terrified, grieving my first child, a thousand miles from home. I couldn't even bring myself to tell my parents. Just when I was at my most helpless, my most desperate for an anchor, Ethan proposed.

I clung to the idea like a drowning woman. He didn't mean for it to happen, I told myself. It wasn't his fault.

So I married him.

After the wedding, Ethan was always busy. An endless parade of networking dinners and business trips. Night after night, I waited for him, the food growing cold on the table. The daily corrosion of loneliness wore me down.

When I unexpectedly became pregnant again, my emotions became a tangled, fragile mess. I was teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown. And that was when Ethan had his affair.

Her name was Isabel. She wasn't a business partner or a socialite. She was a widow with a child. Their meeting was sordidin the private room of an upscale club. Ethan was instantly captivated. He told me later that when she pleaded with him for help, her eight-year-old son hiding behind her, he saw a reflection of his own desperate youth.

He became obsessed, determined to be her savior. He brought the boy, Leo, to our home.

"He's the son of a friend," he lied. "He's been ill, and he just needs a quiet place to recover."

I believed him. I was even happy. Because of Leo, Ethan started coming home more often. Sometimes, Isabel was with him.

"This is Leo's mother," he introduced her. "Her husband was abusive. It's a miracle she got out with the boy. They've been through so much."

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach, but I pushed it down and poured my energy into caring for Leo. When he had a fever, I sat by his bed all night. When he had a craving for a specific snack, I dragged my swollen, exhausted body out to a 24-hour store to buy it for him.

But my kindness was not returned.

When I was seven months pregnant, Leo threw a tantrum because he didn't like the dinner I'd made. He picked up a heavy wooden dining chair and heaved it, with all his strength, straight into my stomach.

Blood gushed out, staining the pale tile floor a deep crimson.

Frantic, I called Ethan. A womans voice answered. Isabel.

"Your husband is with me," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "He's in the shower."

I froze, a chill spreading through my veins that had nothing to do with the blood loss. My strength evaporated.

Seeing the horror hed caused, Leo bolted out the front door. It was a neighbor passing by who found me and called an ambulance.

Unsurprisingly, the baby was gone. My son, beaten out of me by Isabels son.

And what was Ethan doing while his own child's life bled away?

He was in bed with Isabel.

I clawed my way back from the brink of death and woke up a madwoman. I smashed everything in my hospital room I could reach. I ripped out my IV, tore up my own charts, and knocked over a medicine cart. With dark circles under my eyes and my hair a tangled mess, I ran through the halls, screaming for Leo. I shrieked that he had to pay, that he had to give me my baby back.

Doctors and nurses tried to restrain me. Other patients scurried out of my way.

Then Ethan appeared.

He seized my wrists, his grip merciless, and pinned me against the wall. His voice was cold and hard.

"Audrey," he hissed. "Have you made enough of a scene?"

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