Page 6 of Shattered

I’d learned about the engagement six months ago.

The gala had been one of those industry events where successful people networked and pretended to enjoy each other's company. A tech founder I vaguely knew from conferences hadcornered me—charming in that way entrepreneurs learn early, friendly but never genuine.

Jake Foxx. I recognized the name from articles, from the startup that had gone viral, from the kind of success story everyone in tech talks about. But mostly, I knew him as Delia's boyfriend. He wouldn't know me.

“So I’m making a big decision.” Champagne in hand, that confident smile in place. “I’m going to propose to my girlfriend next week. Got the ring and everything.”

Before his next sentence, my world fractured.

“Her name’s Delia Santoro,” he’d continued. I already knew. He didn't have to tell me.

I must have paused too long. His expression sharpened with interest. “You know her?”

“Family friend,” I managed. “Good person.”

“The best.” His smile was so sure, certain. “We’ve been together five years now.”

Five years.

I congratulated him again, shook his hand, and went home.

I didn't sleep for three days.

Because five years ago, I'd stopped going to Sunday dinners.

Five years ago, I'd been sitting at the Santoro table—something I did once every few months when Daniel's guilt trips became unbearable. Their mother Elena had made her famous lasagna. Daniel was complaining about hospital politics.

And Delia mentioned, casually, like it didn't matter, that she was seeing someone.

“It’s new,” she’d said, pushing pasta around her plate. “Really new. But I like him. He’s ambitious. Smart. Building something exciting.”

I kept my face neutral. Continued eating like my chest hadn't just caved in.

“What’s his name?” Elena asked.

“Jake. Jake Foxx. He’s in tech.”

Daniel asked questions. I sat there, fork in hand, watching Delia's face light up talking about someone else. Watching her be happy about someone who wasn’t me.

I stopped going to Sunday dinners after that.

Made excuses. Work. Travel. Board meetings. Museum openings. Anything to stay away from that table, from watching Delia fall in love with someone else in real time.

Daniel never pushed. He'd always known why I kept my distance.

And now, five years later, I sat in a church watching that relationship culminate in marriage.

My parents died when I was twelve.

My father went first. A car accident on a wet road, instant and absolute. One moment he existed, the next he didn’t. The funeral was small. My father was an only child. My mother too. Just the three of us, and then suddenly just two.

My mother lasted three months before I was completely orphaned.

The doctors said it was an accident. She'd been confused about her medication, taken too many pills without realizing. Depression and grief, they told the social worker. A terrible mistake.

But I’d watched her those three months. Watched her forget she had a son who needed her. Watched her look at me like I was a stranger, some boy who’d appeared in her house without explanation. She stopped cooking, stopped talking, stopped existing in any meaningful way.

The morning I found her, the pill bottle was empty on her nightstand. Deliberate and not a mistake.