Reclaimed By The Mafia Boss

Nowhere Feels Like Home

Freedom was supposed to feel lighter than this.

I stood on the sidewalk long after the divorce office disappeared behind me, my purse hanging from my shoulder like it belonged to someone else. Cars rushed past, people moved with purpose, and I stayed still, frozen in the unfamiliar space between endings and beginnings. I was finally free, legally untethered from a man who never loved me, yet an ugly feeling curled in my stomach, heavy and unkind. It felt like fear mixed with exhaustion, like grief wearing the mask of relief.

I had nowhere to go.

That truth hit harder than the divorce itself.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen, my thumb hovering uselessly. There was no family group chat waiting for me. No mother calling to check if I was okay. No childhood home with a bedroom that still smelled like safety. My life had been built around Noah for so long that when it ended, everything else looked painfully empty.

My mother came to mind first, and I dismissed the thought just as quickly. She had never been cruel, just distant, like motherhood was a role she performed without rehearsal or passion. When my father died, she checked out emotionally, leaving me to grow up early and alone. She never asked about my dreams, never warned me about men who take more than they give. If I told her I was divorced, she would shrug and say life goes on. She always did.

My younger brother was worse. Angry. Reckless. Running with people who scared me. He called me only when he needed money, his voice always tight, impatient, like I owed him for surviving. I loved him because he was blood, but love did not equal safety. I could not go to him. I would not drag myself into another chaos.

My father’s face floated into my thoughts without warning. I was ten when we buried him. Ten when the world taught me that men leave, sometimes by choice, sometimes by fate. He had been gentle, steady, the kind of man who fixed broken things with patience. Losing him felt like losing gravity. Everything after that drifted.

I swallowed hard and wrapped my arms around myself. The city suddenly felt too loud, too bright, too indifferent. I walked aimlessly, my feet moving on instinct while my mind spiraled. Free did not mean safe. Free did not mean certain. It only meant alone.

Two options kept circling my thoughts like unfinished sentences.

Mexico.

My uncle Peter Clayton lived there now, in a quiet coastal town where the air smelled like salt and slow mornings. He was my father’s younger brother, and the closest thing to stability I had ever known. After my dad died, Uncle Peter tried to step in, sending birthday cards, calling when he could, reminding me that I mattered. Life pulled him away eventually, but the bond never disappeared. If I went to him, he would not ask too many questions. He would give me space. He would let me breathe.

But Mexico felt like running.

Leaving everything behind. Starting over in a place where no one knew the version of me that failed at marriage. It was tempting and terrifying all at once.

Then there was Daisy Killok.

My best friend. My chosen family. The one person who knew every ugly truth and loved me anyway. Daisy was loud where I was quiet, fearless where I hesitated. She had held me while I cried over Noah more times than I could count, always telling me I deserved better even when I refused to believe her. Moving in with her would mean laughter mixed with pain, healing tangled with honesty. She would ask questions. She would push me. She would not let me disappear.

I stopped walking and leaned against a building, closing my eyes. My body ached like I had run a marathon without moving. The divorce had drained me in ways sleep could not fix. I felt hollowed out, scraped raw, like the woman I used to be had been peeled away layer by layer, leaving someone unfamiliar behind.

Who was I without being someone’s wife.

The question scared me.

I imagined myself in Daisy’s spare room, surrounded by clothes that smelled like freedom and chaos. I imagined Mexico, waves crashing, mornings without expectations. Both futures felt possible. Both felt wrong. Both felt right. I hated that I had to choose.

I opened my phone again and scrolled to Daisy’s name. My finger hovered. I was not ready to hear her voice yet. I needed silence before comfort. I needed to sit with the truth before letting anyone soften it.

I tucked the phone away and looked up at the sky, the sun dipping lower, painting everything in gold. Somewhere inside me, beneath the confusion and fatigue, something small but stubborn refused to break. I had survived neglect. I had survived loss. I had survived a loveless marriage. I would survive this too.

I just did not know where.

As night crept closer, I took a slow breath and started walking again, not toward a destination, but toward possibility. Mexico or Daisy. Escape or rebuilding. I would decide soon. For now, it was enough to keep moving.

Even if home was still a question mark.