Donovan dropped a heavy, designer suitcase onto the peeling linoleum. The thud echoed like a gunshot in the cramped flat.
"You're staying," Marshal said. It wasn't a question; it was a realization of a nightmare.
"I am," Marcy replied. She didn't look at the flickering light or the damp walls. She looked at Selena, who was still trembling on the rug. "Your father thinks a wire transfer is an apology. I'm staying here until he realizes a cheque doesn't have a heartbeat."
"Mum, you can't," Donovan muttered, glancing at a corner where a spider sat in a web of dust. "This place is… well, it's a health code violation."
Marcy didn't blink. "Then I suggest you find a blanket, Donovan. You're on the armchair. Marshal, find me a towel that doesn't smell like a basement."
The room shifted. The "charity" ended, and the siege began.
**
Dawn hit the flat with a cold, grey light. Selena woke to the smell of butter and high-end tea—scents that didn't belong in a place like this.
"Drink this," Marcy said. No "sweethearts," no "darlings." Just a command. She handed Selena a cup of Earl Grey.
Selena's fingers shook as she took it. She looked at Marcy—really looked at her—and the guilt she'd been suppressing finally boiled over. "Why? I'm the reason Marshal is stuck in this mess. I'm the reason you're sleeping on a floor. You should be angry."
Marcy paused, a cardigan draped over her shoulders like armor. "I am angry, Selena. I'm furious that my husband is a coward and that my son thinks he has to carry the world alone. But you? You're the one holding the child. That makes you the priority. Now, stop apologizing for existing and eat."
Marshal appeared in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. He looked between the two women, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.
"The water's out," he said, his voice gravelly. "Plumber's coming tomorrow. Maybe."
Selena tried to stand, her face set in a mask of stubbornness. "I can look at the pipes. It's probably just the pressure valve—"
She didn't even make it two steps before her knees buckled.
Marcy caught her by the arm, her grip bruisingly tight. "Sit. Down."
"I'm fine," Selena snapped, the first spark of real fire in her eyes. "It's just low blood sugar."
"It's anemia," Marcy countered, shoving her back toward the bed. "You're trying to be a martyr, and we don't have space for one in this flat. Marshal, the tray."
Marshal moved with a frantic sort of energy, setting a plate of eggs and salted bacon in front of her. He didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't.
Selena stared at the food. It was too much. Too much care, too much calories, too much weight. A tear hit the porcelain with a tiny tap.
"Eat, Sel," Marshal whispered. He picked up a fork and held it out.
She looked at him, her lip trembling. "I don't deserve this."
"Deserve has nothing to do with it," Marshal said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged edge. "You're my wife. Just eat the damn eggs."
Marcy watched them for a second, her expression unreadable. She saw the way Selena leaned into his space, and the way Marshal's hand stabilized hers.
"I'll be in the kitchen," Marcy said, her voice finally softening just a fraction. "Donovan is trying to eat cereal with a fork. I need to go save him from himself."
She left, closing the door just enough to give them the illusion of privacy. In the quiet, the only sound was the rain tapping against the glass and the steady, rhythmic scrape of a fork against a plate.
"This place is a dump, Sel. I know it." Marshal stared at the water stain on the ceiling, his voice raspy with the kind of fatigue that sleep can't fix. "I'm picking up the graveyard shift at the warehouse starting Monday. We're getting out of here. I don't care what it takes."
Selena stopped eating. She looked at his hands calloused, red-knuckled, the hands of a man who was trading his future for a security deposit.
"Stop, Marshal," she said. She didn't whisper. Her voice was sharp, fueled by the bitter taste of her own guilt. "Don't act like this is a solo mission. You're working yourself into the ground for what? Better wallpaper? If you collapse from exhaustion just to prove a point to your father, you aren't saving me. You're leaving me alone."
Marshal's jaw tightened. "I'm not proving a point. I'm being a husband."
"Then be a husband," she snapped, "not a martyr. I didn't marry a workhorse; I married you. We're in this hole together. Stop trying to apologize for the fact that we're poor."