After They Left Me to Die, I Hoarded, They Begged

The day before the extreme heat disaster hit, my husband brought home his "childhood sweetheart." She'd just gotten divorced, had nowhere to stay, and needed to crash with us for a few days. I wasn't on board. He said I was petty and couldn't stand to see anyone else do well. My stepson called me a mean, wicked stepmother and told his dad to kick me out and keep this aunt instead. The next day, the sun went haywire. Temperatures spiked to a hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and we were all trapped indoors. I told my husband we didn't have enough food and water for three people. He called me selfish and cold-hearted, said I was basically pushing her to die. The heatwave dragged on for eighteen days. The three of them ate through every last scrap in the house. When FEMA finally airdropped supplies and ice blocks, my husband, my stepson, and the "childhood sweetheart" grabbed everything for themselves. I was already lightheaded from the heat and reached for a piece of ice. My stepson shoved me away with his foot. "You've got more body fat and you handle heat better. Don't waste the ice." They banished me to the glass sunroom with no AC. I baked to death in that sweltering box. When I opened my eyes again, it was the day before the heatwave. My husband asked if she could stay. I smiled and said yes. This time around, I'm kicking back with the AC blasting, eating ice cream, and watching them tear each other apart over a single drop of water. …… "Elena, don't be so petty. Chloe just got divorced, she's looking for work around here, and she has nowhere to crash. What's the big deal about her staying a few days?" My husband Ethan Carter stood in the entryway with a suitcase in hand, his brow furrowed. Behind him trailed Chloe Miller in a miniskirt. Chloe blinked, and her eyes welled up instantly. "Ethan, if Elena doesn't want me here, I'll just go find a motel. I know they're gross and full of junkies, but..." Cody Carter, my eight-year-old stepson, slammed his palm on the dining table and jabbed a finger at my face. "You're evil! You're always mean to me, and now you're trying to kick Chloe out too! Dad, throw her out and let Chloe stay with us!" I stared at Cody's little face, flushed red with anger, and felt something squeeze my chest. I had raised that kid since he was three. His biological mom ran off with some guy before he was even two. I was the one who held him every night when he woke up sobbing, who taught him how to write his first letter, who sat by his bed through every fever, pressing cold washcloths to his forehead. On his first day of preschool, he clung to my shirt so hard they had to pry his fingers off, and he screamed bloody murder for "Mommy." That day he really did call me "Mommy." He meant me. And now he was pointing at my face with pure venom in his eyes. Ethan, the man who used to treat me like a queen, stood in the hallway frowning at me. He had not always been like this. The first two years of our marriage, he would drive to my office and wait in the parking lot when I worked late, with dinner warming in an insulated bag on the back seat. On my birthday, he rented out an entire restaurant and got down on one knee to propose all over again, saying he had botched it the first time and I deserved better. The day Cody first called me "Mom," Ethan got so choked up his eyes turned red. He wrapped us both in a hug and said meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to him. When did it all start going south? Probably around the time Chloe showed back up. No, maybe even earlier. Around the time he stopped texting me first. Around the first time he snapped at me with that "why do you always have to run your mouth" tone. I pretended not to notice. I pretended we were still that picture-perfect little family. I told myself it was just work stress. I told myself all men go through phases. I told myself to just grit my teeth and wait it out. I could still smell it in my sinuses, that acrid, burning stench of a hundred and forty degrees frying everything in sight. I looked at the three of them standing there, alive and breathing, and felt a cold laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep. Last time around, I had fought like hell against Chloe staying, and all it got me was two weeks of nonstop snide remarks from both father and son. When the heat hit, they blew through every can of food and bottle of water I had stockpiled. By the time I was delirious with heatstroke and begging for just one tiny cube of dry ice to press against my forehead, Cody kicked me square in the gut. And Ethan personally slid the glass sunroom door shut and locked it from the outside. I baked in there. Dehydrated. Organs shutting down one by one. My fingernails left bloody gouges down the glass walls until there was nothing left but raw bone at my fingertips. Right before the end, through the reflection in the glass, I saw the three of them clinking wine glasses in the living room. Chloe was smiling. "She's finally dead." I opened my eyes again and jerked my head down to look at my hands. Ten fingers. Perfect. Nails smooth and unbroken. I clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked. I was back. Really back. "Elena! Say something!" Ethan's voice was sharper now, laced with irritation. "You're acting weird today." I plastered on a smile and walked over to take Chloe's suitcase. "Are you kidding? I am thrilled Chloe's here. Come on in." Ethan froze. Chloe looked caught off guard too, but she recovered fast and flashed me a syrupy grin. "Thanks so much, Elena!" Cody threw himself at Chloe's waist. "Chloe! Come see my game console!" I watched their happy little backs disappear down the hall, pulled out my phone, and checked the time. Thirteen hours until the mother of all heatwaves descended on this city. This time, I was not running. I was staying right here to watch this house turn into their mass grave.