Page 75 of Billion Dollar Dispute

Let Chad know I wish I was there to shoot some hoops with him.

It’s not my intention to seek your forgiveness, but rather I hope you find peace and happiness. I’m changing for the better.

Love, Butch.

Working on himself? Glad he has time while I just picked up the pieces and carried on, fixing the mess he left me in. And what times is he referring to? The early ones as a family of three? Well, those times didn’t last. I want to ask when he started using, but then I’d have to reply, and I don’t want to acknowledge him. I hate him. I hate the life he robbed me of. I didn’t want this.

What's the point of writing to me? Does he expect me to praise him or congratulate him on his improvement?

I can’t do that. I’ve filed for divorce. I want to start over.

I look around our apartment, the lighting capturing the worn-out sofa that still has indentations where he used to sit, his presence lingering like a ghost. I can almost see him sitting there, eyes glued to the TV, the loud sounds of horse racing filling the room. The sight overwhelms me. God, I hate it here. There are too many memories, each one a painful reminder. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, and I crave a new place, somewhere to start fresh.

I grip the cold paper tightly, its edges digging into my palm. I can’t bring myself to throw it out, because Chad deserves the truth when he’s old enough to ask. I put the letter away, out of sight but not out of my mind. I never chose anything other than my family, and even now, I put Chad first. My needs, wants and desires always come second.

Turning to the kitchen, I decide to bake, hoping that will distract me. Harvey’s cocky grin at the park earlier flashes in my mind, egging me on. Chad joins me, and his little hands stir the batter. He giggles as he licks the spatula and bowl, batter smearing on his cheeks.

I slide the cake into the oven, and Chad runs back to his toys, the sound of him playing filling the room. But my mind drifts back to the letter. Do I respond? The question eats at me.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I wipe my hands and check the screen, seeing Harvey’s name.

Harvey:There’s a scholarship called The Stars, and they have a basketball program for Chad’s age. They’re known for turning players into pros. Chad could really stand out.

Me:I’ll look into it.

After I hit send, a pang of guilt twists in my gut. I wasn’t as nice as I could’ve been, but my frustrations and self-inflicted pressures, like refusing to ask for help because it feels like admitting failure, only to add to the sense that I’m feeling inadequate as a mother right now. I remind myself it’s not on purpose and that Harvey means well, but it doesn’t simmer down the turmoil inside me. Chad’s talented and deserves the opportunity, so I’ll look into it. As long as it works around school and it isn’t too far, I can get him the scholarship and, most importantly; if Chad wants it, then I can't say no. Life hasn’t been fair to him and seeing him shine in an environment that can support him would be a joy. And God knows, I need that.

The smell of cake fills the apartment. I forgot about the time and get the cake out, just in time. It’s a bit more golden than it should be, but it’ll do.

“Is it ready?” Chad calls out.

I hand him a small cake I baked in a ramekin, just for him.

“Here you go.”

He digs straight in. There wasn’t enough batter for me, but I’ll have some of this tomorrow after I’ve decorated it. And it will be so much sweeter when I’m announced as the winner, because it’s more than just a baking contest. It’s proof that I can do something right, that I can juggle it all and still come out on top. Winning would mean I’m more than just a mom struggling to keep it together. If I lose? I don’t even want to think about it. Because if I can’t pull this off, what else am I failing at? No. I need this.

Chapter 20

Jemima

Morning teatime arrives, andI nervously slide my cake into the middle of the table next to Harvey’s. The boxes hide our cakes so we can't compare. Two vanilla sponges. One winner.

I stand back, rubbing my hands together. Molly enters, her eyes flicking between the two cakes. “Are we ready?”

Harvey lounges in his chair, exuding confidence. “I’ve got this in the bag,” he mumbles.

Molly lifts the lids, and my jaw hits the floor. “You didn’t bake that,” I blurt out, pointing at his cake. It’s a masterpiece with two layers of light golden-colored cakes with a perfect jelly and cream ratio, topped with a sugar dusting and dressed in the same purple flowers he brought me.

Beside sits mine, a three-layered sponge that looks more golden, with strawberries neatly arranged on top.

Molly steps in. “Let’s do the taste test.”

“First, call your grandma on video. I want to make sure she didn't bake this,” I demand, my frustration boiling over.

Molly tries to calm me. “I don’t think that's necessary.”

I plead with her. “There’s no way he made that.”

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