I Gave You Everything, But You Gave Me Nothing

When the final guest left and the glittering lights faded, I was still crouched on the floor, scrubbing the stains of spilled wine that had dried into the marble. The sour smell of alcohol and melted wax clung stubbornly to my clothes and hair. My arms ached from hours of cleaning, my knees bruised. Yet the echoes of their laughter still lingered in the corners of my mind—Selena’s laughter, bright and triumphant. Her birthday. Her perfect celebration.

And me? I was nothing more than the help again.

A high-pitched squeal jolted me from my daze. Emmy was darting across the living room, knocking down glassware and the vase I had just finished putting back on the console.

“Emmy, sweetheart, please—slow down. You might break something—” I tried to keep my voice even, though my throat felt scraped raw from exhaustion.

“I don’t want to!” she shouted, snatching handfuls of confetti from the carpet and tossing them in the air like a spoiled princess playing in her own kingdom. Her foot caught the rug’s edge, and she tumbled with a loud thud before bursting into tears.

I exhaled shakily, closing my eyes. I didn’t even know what stories Selena had filled her head with anymore. To everyone here—Victor, Clara, even Leo—I was the unwanted presence, the villain haunting what used to be my home.

“Don’t cry, darling. Aunt Selena’s here.”

Her voice floated into the room, sweet and false. She lifted Emmy gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead as though she were some sainted savior. Then she turned her gaze to me, a faint smile curling on her lips—a smile soaked with mockery.

Victor and Leo appeared a moment later, their footsteps heavy. “What did you do this time?” Victor barked.

I didn’t even glance at him. I continued gathering shards of glass, my voice quiet. “She was running wild. I only told her to stop.”

Leo scoffed. “You can’t even handle a kid without causing drama. No wonder everyone’s tired of your whining.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, holding back the anger. Finally, I straightened up and brushed my apron. “I’m heading out to buy groceries.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Now? At this hour? Where do you think you’re going?”

“To get food,” I said flatly. “Unless you’d rather have Selena fetch it for you too?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I didn’t wait for his reaction. I grabbed my worn-out coat and stepped into the cold night. The chill wind slapped my face, sharp and clean—a painful kind of freedom.

When I returned, arms weighed down with plastic bags of cheap vegetables and instant noodles, I noticed a parcel sitting on the porch. My name was written neatly on the label: Mrs. Marisol Vaughn.

For one foolish heartbeat, I let hope bloom in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, this was one of those rare apologies—a peace offering after another cruel night.

I sat on the hallway bench, tearing the tape open with my keys. My fingers trembled as I pulled out glossy brochures filled with bright cartoon castles and families smiling beneath fireworks. Disneyland.

My heart thudded painfully. Twenty years ago, Victor had promised to take me there—a dream he used to keep me tethered to his lies.

I flipped through the itinerary—four tickets neatly printed.

Victor Vaughn. Leo Vaughn. Selena Lopez. Clara Diaz. Emmy Diaz.

Not one for me.

Leo snatched the papers from my hands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s not yours.”

I looked up slowly. “It was delivered in my name.”

“Oh, that!” Selena’s voice chimed from behind him, light and amused. “I used your name for the delivery. I’m hardly home, so it made sense.” She giggled softly, her eyes sliding over me like I was something sticky she couldn’t wait to scrape off her shoes.

My throat tightened. “Can I come with you?”

Victor’s laugh was cruel and sharp. “You? Why on earth would you go to Disneyland?”

“Because you’re all going,” I said, my voice trembling. “I thought maybe, this time—”

“It’s a business trip,” Leo interrupted, cutting me off. “You’d just be in the way.”

“Because none of you ever let me try,” I said, the bitterness spilling out before I could stop it. “I gave up everything for you—my career, my life, myself.”

Victor’s eyes flashed with that familiar fury. “Don’t start with the blame game, Marisol. You made your choice when you married me. No one forced you.”

And maybe he was right. I had chosen this. I was foolish enough to believe love could replace the life I left behind. Foolish enough to think devotion could save me.

Selena rested a dainty hand on my shoulder, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “Maybe we could let her join? It is her dream after all.”

Clara crossed her arms, smirking. “Mom can’t even afford a taxi ride. What would she do there? Beg for tickets?”

Victor clapped his hands once, signaling the end of discussion. “Enough. Marisol, pack our bags. We’re leaving in three days. You’ll stay here to feed the dogs and watch the house. Make yourself useful.”

I nodded, voice hollow. “Of course.”

The day they’d board their flight to my dream would be the same day I walked away from this prison.

That night, I stood in my room surrounded by boxes. Half of my things were already gone; the rest—memories I no longer wanted—waited for the flames. I dropped an old scarf into the fire. Then photos. Then his suits. Silk and leather curled and blackened. The scent of smoke filled the air, strangely liberating.

A voice broke the quiet. Selena. She stepped from the doorway, arms crossed, eyes gleaming in the orange light. “When are you finally leaving, Marisol? You’ve got guts, staying here like you still belong.”

I turned slowly, meeting her gaze. “Soon,” I said.

Her smile widened into a sneer. “Good. Don’t bother coming back. Victor, Leo, your daughter—they’re mine now.” She flipped her hair, her laugh echoing as she walked away, vanishing down the corridor.

The house phone rang. Victor’s voice cut through the static, cold and clipped. “Confirm the travel details with the agency. Make sure everything’s settled.”

I stared at the fire for a long moment, then picked up the phone.

“Hello,” I said when the travel agent answered. My tone was steady—calm in a way that frightened even me. “I’d like to cancel the Disneyland reservation under Mr. Victor Vaughn and his companions.”

A brief pause.

“Instead,” I added, a faint smile curling on my lips, “please book a single ticket. Under my name.”