She Walked Up To Me On The Beach After Three Years Of No Contact… And I Knew Why She Was There.

The comments were harsher this time. You destroyed a good man and expected applause. Actions have consequences.

Welcome to reality. She deleted the video six hours later. Drew sent me a final update on day twelve.

“She’s hired an immigration lawyer trying to argue for an extension based on hardship,” he wrote. “It’s not going to work. She made her choices.”

I closed the laptop and looked out the window of the cabin I’d rented under James Hartford.

Snow was starting to fall—light and quiet—covering everything in white. Somewhere in Boston, Samantha was realizing that the life she’d built was collapsing. And somewhere deeper, in a place I didn’t want to examine too closely, I wondered if Oliver was okay.

But I didn’t call. I didn’t reach out, because some bridges, once burned, don’t get rebuilt. You just learn to live on the other side of the river.

Three weeks into my disappearance, I got a message I didn’t expect. It came through an old gaming platform—Discord—on an account I’d created years ago to play some strategy game with Oliver. We’d stopped using it when he got into high school, moved on to other interests.

I’d forgotten the login existed until my laptop pinged with a notification. The message was from Oliver. Jason, you there?

I stared at the screen for a full minute. Smart kid. He found a way to reach me that bypassed Samantha entirely.

I typed back. I’m here. Oliver’s next message came quickly.

Mom’s losing it. She keeps calling her office. They won’t tell her anything.

I know, I responded. Are you okay? That question hit harder than I expected.

I sat back in the chair, looked around the cabin. Wooden walls. A fireplace I’d learned to use.

Shelves of books I’d bought from a secondhand store. Was I okay? I didn’t know yet.

I typed:

I’m managing. You? Oliver wrote back.

She cries a lot. Brett moved in. I hate him.

My jaw tightened. Brett—the artist, the mirror, who showed Samantha her true self—was now living in the house I’d paid for, sleeping in the bed I’d bought, probably eating dinners at the table where Oliver did his homework. I’m sorry, kid, I sent.

His response came fast. It’s not your fault. She did this.

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