A Wife's Vengeful Art

tion wasn'

er arm linked through my husband Mark's. The caption read: "So proud to unveil my latest installation, 'Maternal Instinc

wide, proud smile I hadn't seen dir

what made the air leave my lungs. 'Maternal Instincts.' Chloe knew

was, using a word that belonged to me and my s

blanket, now it was just empty space. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, my hand steady. I looked at my reflection i

glass down

to wake me from the fog I lived in. I drove to the address of the gallery listed in Chloe' s post. It was a trendy, industrial-looking building in a

. I saw her through the large plate-glass window, a silh

er face when she saw it was me. She unlocked

at do I owe t

with poison. She was wearing a silk dre

, my own voice sounding roug

. She enjoyed my pain. "Of course. A pr

collection of small, gray, abstract shapes, arranged in a chaotic yet deliberate pattern. They were

a theatrical whisper. "How a mother's love can shatter,

hen, her eyes glea

er than you ever did. He said your work was

with a soul. My world, which was already cracked, began to splinter. I looked at the ugly gray sculpture, at this monument to my failure,

ents felt slow, detached, lik

hloe asked, a flicker o

avy in my hand. It felt real. Solid. For the first time in months, I felt s

rst time, I saw a flash of fear in C

surface. I pressed the tip of the knife against my wrist. I just wanted the noise in my head to stop.

shed

st my skin. It didn' t hurt as much as I thought it wo

hite floor of Chloe's gallery, I felt a strange sense of p