Rise of the Formidable Ex-wife (Lucia and Alex) novel Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Lena knocked on Lucia’s door. Saturday afternoon. Cold outside. Warm inside.

“Come in.”

Lena entered carrying a folder. Thick. Bursting with papers. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m applying to art school. For next year. I need a portfolio. But I don’t know how to organize it. What to include. What makes it good.”

Lucia set down her book. “You’re asking me? I don’t know anything about art school.”

“But you raised kids. Helped them with applications. Projects. Figuring things out.” Lena sat on the bed. “And you’re good at seeing things. Understanding what matters.”

Raised kids. Past tense. Accurate. Painful.

“Okay. Show me what you have.”

Lena spread papers across the bed. Sketches. Paintings. Photographs. Collages.

All beautiful. All talented. All Lena.

“These are incredible,” Lucia said. Touching a charcoal drawing. Mountains. Sky. Birds. Familiar somehow. “That’s from the beach house. The day we became family.”

Family. The word still caught Lucia off guard. Still made her chest tight.

They worked through the afternoon. Sorting. Organizing. Discussing each piece. Why it mattered. What it showed. How it fit.

Lena talked about technique. Process. Inspiration. Eyes bright. Hands moving. Passionate.

Like Monica used to be. Before Margaret. Before everything.

No. Don’t think about that. Focus on Lena. On now.

“This one,” Lucia said. Holding up a painting. Abstract. Blues and grays. “What’s the story?”

“My mother. After she died. How it felt. Like drowning. Like being underwater. Like nothing made sense anymore.”

Lucia looked at the painting. Really looked. Saw the grief. The confusion. The loss.

“It’s powerful. Should be in the portfolio.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. It’s honest. Raw. Real. That’s what makes art matter.”

Lena smiled. Grabbed another piece. They kept working.

Hours passed. Coffee brought by Marie. Snacks. More coffee.

By evening. The portfolio was organized. Sequenced. Ready.

“Thank you,” Lena said. “I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

“You could have. But I’m glad I got to.”

Lena hesitated. Looked down at her hands. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Always.”

“Would it be weird if I called you.” She stopped. Started again. “I never had a real mother figure. Not since mine died. And you’re the closest thing to that I’ve ever had.”

Lucia’s breath caught.

“I know you have kids. Real kids. Daughters. And I’m not trying to replace them or pretend I’m. I just. You feel

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like what a mother should feel like. And I wanted to ask if it would be okay to call you.” Lena’s voice dropped to whisper. “To call you Mom.”

The word hung in the air. Heavy. Precious. Terrifying.

Lucia’s eyes burned. “Lena.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want. If it’s too much.”

“No. It’s not too much.” Lucia pulled Lena into a hug. Tight. Fierce. “You can call me whatever you want. Mom. Lucia. Anything. I’m honored. Truly.”

Lena hugged back. Hard. Crying now. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to ask for weeks but I was scared you’d say no. Or think I was replacing your real daughters.”

“You’re not replacing anyone. You’re Lena. You’re yourself. And I care about you. So much. More than I expected. More than I knew I could after everything.”

They stayed like that. Holding each other. Crying. Healing.

When they pulled apart. Both wiping eyes. Both smiling through tears.

“So,” Lena said. “Does this mean we can do mother–daughter stuff? Like actual traditions?”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Whatever mothers and daughters do. Coffee in the mornings? Museum visits? Cooking together?”

Lucia laughed. Wet. Messy. Real. “Yes. All of that. Whatever you want.”

The next morning. Lena appeared on the terrace. Seven AM. Carrying two cups of coffee.

“Morning coffee ritual,” she announced. Handing Lucia a cup. “Starting today.”

They sat. Watching the lake. Drinking coffee. Not talking much. Just being.

It became routine. Every morning. Seven AM. Coffee on the terrace. Sometimes talking. Sometimes silent. Always together.

Sunday. Lena knocked on Lucia’s door. “Want to go to the Kunstmuseum? There’s a new exhibition. Contemporary art.”

“I don’t know anything about contemporary art.”

“Neither do I really. But we can learn together. Mom.”

The word sent warmth through Lucia’s chest. Mom. Said so naturally. So easily. Like it belonged there.

They went. Spent hours looking at paintings. Sculptures. Installations. Lena explaining techniques. Lucia asking questions. Both learning. Both enjoying.

It became their Sunday tradition. Museum visits. Coffee after. Walking. Talking.

Wednesday evening. Lena found Lucia in the kitchen. “Can you teach me to cook? Like real cooking. Not just pasta. Actual recipes.”

“What brought this on?”

“I leave for university next year. I’ll need to feed myself. And I want to know how to make things. Your things. Family things.”

Family things. Recipes Lucia had planned to teach Monica. Ria. Her daughters who’d never cared. Never asked. Never wanted.

But Lena wanted. Lena asked. Lena cared.

“Okay. What do you want to learn first?”

“Everything.”

They started simple. Roasted chicken. Pasta from scratch. Bread.

Lena was terrible at first. Burned things. Over–salted. Under–cooked.

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But she listened. Tried again. Improved.

“My mother used to make this,” Lucia said. Teaching Lena to make risotto. “She taught me when I was your age. I always thought I’d teach my daughters. Pass it down. Keep it going.”

“Did you? Teach them?”

“I tried. But they weren’t interested. Too busy. Too cool for cooking lessons with their boring mother.”

Lena stirred the risotto. Careful. Focused. “I’m interested. I want to learn. I want to know these things. Your things. Our things.”

Our things. Like they were already family. Already connected. Already bound.

“Keep stirring,” Lucia said. Voice thick. “Don’t let it stick.”

Weeks passed. Rituals solidified. Morning coffee. Sunday museums. Wednesday cooking lessons.

Small things. Simple things. But they mattered. Filled spaces Lucia hadn’t known were empty. Healed wounds she’d thought permanent.

One evening. After a cooking lesson. Lena asked. “Do you miss them? Your daughters?”

Lucia paused. Washing dishes. Hands in warm water. “Yes. Every day.”

“Do you think about going back? Trying to fix things?”

“I am going back. Soon. To face their father. To take what he stole. To show them I’m not nothing.”

“But what about after? After you destroy him? What about your kids?”

Lucia dried her hands. Looked at Lena. At this girl. This young woman. Who called her Mom. Who wanted her recipes. Who chose her.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll see. Maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll want me back.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll have you. And Alex. And this life I’m building. That’ll be enough.”

Would it? Would it really?

Lucia didn’t know. But saying it out loud. To Lena. Made it feel possible. Made it feel true.

Lucia found Alex in his study. Working. Always working.

“Can we talk?”

He looked up. Set down his pen. “Always. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

Lucia sat. Hands folded. Nervous. “I’m ready. To go back. To America. To do this. To face him.”

Alex studied her. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’ve trained. I’ve learned. I’ve become who I need to be. And I’m ready. To finish this. To take everything. To show him. To show them all.”

“When?”

“Soon. Whenever you think the timing is right.”

Alex leaned back. Thinking. “The plan is ready. The shell corporations are positioned. The investors contacted. The board primed. We can move whenever you want.”

“Then let’s move. Let’s go. Let’s end this.”

“Okay, I’ll make arrangements. Book flights. Prepare everything. We’ll leave in five days.”

Five days. Such a short time. After six months of preparation. Six months of transformation. Six months of becoming.

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“Thank you,” Lucia said. “For everything. For helping me. For believing in me. For giving me this.”

“You don’t need to thank me. This is what you deserved all along. Justice. Power. Recognition.” “Still. Without you. Without Lena. I’d be nothing. I’d still be hiding. Broken. Lost.”

“You were never nothing. You just hadn’t realized what you were yet.”

Lucia stood. Walked to the door. Stopped. “Lena calls me Mom now. Did she tell you?”

“She did. How do you feel about that?”

“Terrified. Honored. Grateful. Confused. All of it.” Lucia turned to face him. “My daughters never wanted this. Never wanted my time. My attention. My mothering. But Lena asks for it. Wants it. Values it.”

“Because Lena knows what she lost. Your daughters took you for granted. Until they didn’t have you anymore.”

“Do you think they regret it? Choosing him? Laughing at me? Driving me away?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But either way. You’re building something new. Something real. Something that matters.”

“With Lena.”

“With Lena. With me. With yourself.”