The argument that destroyed Marcus Chen’s marriage didn’t start with shouting. It started three weeks earlier with a positive pregnancy test, two pink lines that should have brought joy but instead triggered something dark and ugly in a man who’d been hiding his true nature behind a carefully constructed facade of devotion.
That final night began like so many others—dinner at the table, the sound of forks against plates, the television murmuring in the background. But the tension had been building for weeks, accumulating like pressure behind a dam, and on this particular Tuesday evening in late October, the dam finally broke.
“We need to talk about the baby,” Sarah said quietly, setting down her fork and placing both hands protectively over her barely visible belly. She was fourteen weeks pregnant now, just beginning to show, and the morning sickness that had plagued her for weeks was finally starting to ease. “We need to start preparing the nursery, buying things, making plans—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marcus interrupted, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on his plate as if the pasta might provide an escape route from the conversation.
Sarah felt her stomach clench with anxiety that had nothing to do with pregnancy. “Marcus, we can’t keep avoiding this. I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby. We need to—”
“I don’t want this child.” The words came out flat and cold, hitting her like a physical blow. He looked up then, and the expression on his face was one she’d never seen before—not anger exactly, but something harder and more final. “I never wanted it.”
The room seemed to tilt. Sarah gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles going white. “What are you talking about? We planned this. We stopped using protection because you said you were ready. You said you wanted to start a family—”
“I didn’t say anything,” he snapped, standing abruptly and sending his chair scraping backward across the hardwood floor. “You’re the one who wanted a baby. You’re the one who kept pushing and pushing until I gave in just to shut you up. But I’m done pretending.”
“Pretending?” Sarah’s voice cracked, tears already forming. “Marcus, what’s happening? Where is this coming from? Three weeks ago, you held my hand during the ultrasound. You cried when you saw the heartbeat—”
“I was acting,” he said cruelly, each word precisely calibrated for maximum damage. “Playing the part you wanted me to play. But I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you. And I sure as hell am not going to spend the next eighteen years tied to a kid I don’t want.”
Sarah stood on trembling legs, one hand still cradling her belly in an instinctive gesture of protection. “You don’t mean this. You’re scared—that’s normal—but we can work through it. We can talk to someone, a counselor or—”
“Pack your things and leave.” His voice had gone deadly quiet now, which was somehow worse than the shouting. “This is my house. You’re not living here anymore.”
The words didn’t make sense. Sarah shook her head, trying to process what he was saying. “Our house. This is our house, Marcus. We bought it together. We saved for three years for the down payment—”
“Check the deed,” he said with a cold smile that looked more like a grimace. “Only my name is on it. My credit score was better, remember? So we put everything in my name to get the better interest rate. You agreed to it.”
She had agreed to it. Three years ago, when they were newlyweds and she’d trusted him completely, when the loan officer had explained that Marcus’s credit score would qualify them for a significantly lower rate, she’d signed the paperwork without hesitation. Why wouldn’t she? They were partners, a team, planning a lifetime together. The idea that he might someday use that legal technicality as a weapon against her had never even occurred to her.
“Marcus, please—” She reached for him, but he stepped back as if her touch might contaminate him.
“I want you out. Tonight. Right now.”
“But I don’t have anywhere to go. It’s ten o’clock at night. I’m pregnant—”
“Not my problem.” He pulled out his phone and started typing rapidly. “There’s a Hampton Inn about fifteen minutes from here. I’ll drive you there, pay for one night, and then you’re on your own.”
Sarah felt the room spinning. This couldn’t be happening. This was the man she’d married, the man who’d promised to love and cherish her in sickness and health, for better or worse. The man who’d held her when her father died, who’d surprised her with flowers for no reason, who’d talked excitedly about baby names just two months ago when they’d first started trying to conceive.
“What about my things?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “My clothes, my books, my—”
“Fifteen minutes. Pack whatever you can carry. The rest stays here.”
She wanted to fight. Every cell in her body screamed at her to stand her ground, to refuse to leave, to call the police or a lawyer or someone who could stop this nightmare from unfolding. But she was also terrified—terrified of the stranger wearing her husband’s face, of the cold calculation in his eyes, of what he might do if she resisted.
Moving like someone in a dream, Sarah climbed the stairs to their bedroom—the room where they’d made love, made plans, made the baby now growing inside her. She pulled two suitcases from the closet and began filling them mechanically: clothes, toiletries, the prenatal vitamins from her nightstand, the ultrasound photos she’d been keeping in her journal. Her hands shook so badly she could barely zip the bags closed.
When she came back downstairs, Marcus was waiting by the front door, car keys already in hand, expression impatient as if she were making him late for an appointment. He grabbed both suitcases without a word and carried them to his BMW, throwing them into the trunk with unnecessary force while Sarah followed on unsteady legs.
The drive to the Hampton Inn took twelve minutes in near-total silence. Sarah sat in the passenger seat where she’d sat hundreds of times before, watching familiar streets slide past the window and trying to understand how her entire life had collapsed in the span of less than an hour. She kept waiting for Marcus to say he was sorry, that he’d overreacted, that they could figure this out. But he stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel, and said nothing at all.
When they pulled up to the hotel entrance, he didn’t even turn off the engine. He got out, hauled her suitcases from the trunk, and set them on the curb beside her as if completing a particularly distasteful errand.
“Marcus, please,” Sarah tried one final time, tears streaming down her face now, her voice breaking with desperation. “Don’t do this. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant with your baby. We can work through whatever’s wrong—”
“There’s nothing to work through,” he said flatly. “I don’t want you. I don’t want this baby. I want my life back.”
“But I love you—”
“That’s not my problem.”
He turned toward the car, and Sarah grabbed his arm, fingers clutching at his jacket sleeve with the desperation of someone drowning. “Please don’t leave me alone like this. Please. I’m begging you—”
He shook her off roughly, causing her to stumble backward. For a moment, she thought he might actually feel something—guilt, remorse, shame—because his face twitched with some emotion she couldn’t identify. But then it hardened again into that terrible mask of indifference.
“Goodbye, Sarah.”
He got back in the BMW, slammed the door with theatrical finality, and pulled away from the curb without looking back. Sarah stood there in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hotel entrance, one hand pressed to her belly and the other covering her mouth to muffle the sobs that were threatening to consume her, watching the taillights of his car disappear into the October darkness.
She was twenty-nine years old, fourteen weeks pregnant, and suddenly, devastatingly alone.
Marcus drove away from the Hampton Inn with his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached, but he didn’t feel guilty. He felt liberated. Powerful. Like he’d finally taken control of a situation that had been spiraling out of his grasp for months. The baby had been a mistake—Sarah’s mistake for pushing him into something he’d never truly wanted—and now he’d corrected that mistake. Clean break. Problem solved.
He drove straight to Jack’s Bar on the east side of town, where three of his college friends were already waiting in their usual booth, already halfway through a pitcher of beer. Tyler, Josh, and Marcus’s cousin Derek—the same guys he’d been meeting for drinks every Thursday for the past five years, the ones who’d been joking about the “old ball and chain” since his wedding day.
“Chen! About time!” Tyler called out, raising his glass. “We thought your wife had you on house arrest.”
“Not anymore,” Marcus said, sliding into the booth and signaling the waitress for a glass. “Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you guys about. I did something tonight. Something big.”
He told them everything—well, his version of everything. In his telling, Sarah had been trapping him with the pregnancy, refusing to consider his feelings, making unilateral decisions about their future without his input. He’d simply stood up for himself, exercised his legal rights as the homeowner, and removed himself from an untenable situation. He was the victim here, the reasonable one, the man who’d been backed into a corner and finally found the courage to break free.
The guys listened with expressions ranging from shocked to impressed. Tyler let out a low whistle. “Damn, man. That’s cold. But I respect it. You gotta do what’s right for you.”
“Exactly,” Marcus said, warming to his theme and pouring himself a generous glass of beer despite having driven there. “Everyone’s always talking about what the woman wants, what the woman needs. What about what I want? I’m supposed to just accept this massive life change because she decided we were ready? Screw that.”
Derek looked less convinced. “But dude, she’s pregnant. That’s your kid.”
“Allegedly my kid,” Marcus corrected, the beer already loosening his tongue and his conscience. “I mean, how do I even know for sure? We could do a paternity test—”
“Jesus, Marcus,” Derek interrupted. “Are you seriously suggesting Sarah cheated on you? Sarah? The woman who worships the ground you walk on?”
Marcus shrugged, uncomfortable with his cousin’s directness. “I’m just saying, I have rights too. And one of those rights is deciding I don’t want to be a father. She can have the kid if she wants, but she’s doing it without me.”
They drank for two more hours, Marcus growing increasingly animated and self-righteous with each round, his friends offering varying degrees of support and concern that he interpreted universally as validation. By the time he finally called an Uber back to his house—even drunk, he wasn’t stupid enough to drive—he’d fully convinced himself that he was the hero of this story, the man who’d refused to be manipulated, who’d taken a stand for his own autonomy.
The Uber dropped him off just after midnight. Marcus fumbled with his keys, still riding the buzz of alcohol and adrenaline, already mentally planning how he’d spend his newfound freedom. Maybe he’d take that trip to Costa Rica he’d been putting off. Maybe he’d buy the motorcycle Sarah had always vetoed. Maybe he’d start dating again—younger women this time, ones who weren’t constantly nagging about babies and commitment.
He rounded the corner onto his street, and that’s when the smell hit him first. Smoke. Thick and acrid, burning his nostrils and throat. Then he saw the lights—red and blue strobing against the houses, the terrible orange glow of flames, the massive fire trucks blocking the street.
His house. His house was on fire.
Marcus started running, his alcohol-impaired coordination making him stumble twice before he reached the police barricade. Flames were shooting from the upper-floor windows, smoke pouring from the roof, firefighters shouting instructions to each other while powerful hoses sent arcs of water into the inferno. His neighbors stood in clusters on the sidewalk, some in bathrobes and slippers, all staring at the destruction with expressions of horror and morbid fascination.
“No, no, no, no—” Marcus tried to push past the barricade, but a firefighter caught him by the shoulders.
“Sir, you can’t go any closer. Is this your property?”
“Yes! That’s my house! What happened? How did this—” His phone buzzed in his pocket. With trembling hands, he pulled it out and saw a message from Sarah. Just five words that made his blood run cold:
“We’ll lose it together too.”
The implication was immediate and obvious. She’d done this. Sarah had set his house on fire. Arson. Destruction of property. Criminal revenge for being thrown out. His shock instantly transformed into rage—white-hot, self-righteous fury that cut through the alcohol fog.
“She did this!” he shouted, grabbing the firefighter’s arm and shaking his phone in the man’s face. “My wife did this! She set the fire! Look—she admitted it in a text message! She’s a criminal! You have to arrest her!”
The firefighter exchanged glances with his colleague, then spoke into his radio. Within minutes, a police officer appeared—a young woman in her early thirties with sharp eyes and an expression that suggested she’d seen enough domestic disputes to recognize one from a mile away.
“Sir, I’m Officer Patricia Hendricks. I understand you’re alleging your wife committed arson?”
“Yes! Yes!” Marcus thrust his phone at her, the text message still glowing on the screen. “She burned down my house! She admitted it! ‘We’ll lose it together too’—that’s what she said! She’s crazy! She’s dangerous! You need to arrest her right now!”
Officer Hendricks examined the message carefully, took a screenshot for evidence, and then looked up at Marcus with an expression that was completely neutral but somehow made him feel like a specimen under glass. “And where is your wife now, Mr. Chen?”
“I don’t know—probably at the Hampton Inn where I dropped her off earlier, or maybe she came back here to watch it burn—”
“You dropped her off at a hotel?” Officer Hendricks’ tone sharpened slightly. “What time was this?”
“Around ten-thirty. But that’s not the point—the point is she committed arson and needs to be—”
“Why did you drop your pregnant wife off at a hotel at ten-thirty at night, Mr. Chen?”
Marcus faltered, suddenly aware that he might have revealed more than he intended. “That’s—that’s personal. That’s between me and her. The point is—”
“The point is that your wife came to the police station at approximately 11:15 tonight,” Officer Hendricks interrupted, her voice now carrying the weight of official authority. “She was in severe emotional distress, visibly shaking, and reported that you had forcibly removed her from the marital home despite her being fourteen weeks pregnant. She provided us with hotel security footage showing you dropping her off, along with witness statements from the front desk clerk who described her as ‘distraught and begging someone on the phone not to leave her.’ She also submitted to a medical examination documenting elevated blood pressure and stress-related pregnancy complications.”
Marcus felt the ground shifting beneath his feet. “She—what? She went to the police?”
“She filed a report, yes. She also consulted with our domestic violence unit about her legal rights regarding the house, given that she contributed financially to its purchase despite not being named on the deed. According to her testimony and the documentation she provided, in the event of a divorce, she would be legally entitled to at least fifty percent of the property’s value.”
“But I—she—” Marcus sputtered, trying to find solid footing in the conversation and failing. “None of that matters because she burned down the house! She admitted it in the text!”
Officer Hendricks looked past him at the burning house, where firefighters were now bringing the blaze under control, smoke still billowing but flames diminishing. “As for the fire, Mr. Chen, the fire marshal has already conducted a preliminary investigation. The point of origin was the electrical panel in your basement. The cause was an overheated wire that sparked and ignited the surrounding materials.”
“What?” Marcus blinked, struggling to process this information. “No, that’s not—she must have tampered with it—”
“The fire marshal found no evidence of tampering or accelerants. The electrical system in your house is twenty-three years old, Mr. Chen. According to city records, it’s never been updated or brought up to current code. The inspector noted multiple fire hazards during your home purchase three years ago, which you signed a waiver acknowledging but never addressed.”
Marcus stared at her, mouth opening and closing, no words emerging. Officer Hendricks continued relentlessly, each sentence another nail in the coffin of his narrative.
“The fire started approximately forty-five minutes after you left the house, based on neighbor reports of seeing flames. Your wife was at the police station during that time, in the presence of multiple officers and being examined by our consulting physician. She has a complete alibi. She could not possibly have started this fire.”
“Then why did she send me that text?” Marcus demanded, grasping at this final piece of evidence. “Why did she say we’d lose it together?”
For the first time, Officer Hendricks’ professional mask slipped slightly, revealing something that might have been contempt. “She sent that text after seeing news reports of a house fire on your street, Mr. Chen. She was watching the local news in her hotel room—probably couldn’t sleep after being abandoned while pregnant—and saw your address. The message wasn’t a confession. It was an observation that the house you’d just used as leverage to throw her out was now gone, meaning you’d both lost it.”
The full weight of what he’d done—and what he’d accused Sarah of—crashed down on Marcus like a physical force. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees on the cold pavement, staring at the smoking ruins of his house while the implications piled up like the debris already littering his lawn.
“No,” he whispered. “No, this can’t be—I didn’t—”
Officer Hendricks looked down at him with an expression that contained zero sympathy. “Mr. Chen, I want to be very clear about something. Your wife came to us for protection after you removed her from her home while pregnant. She brought documentation, witnesses, and evidence. She followed every correct legal procedure. She did everything right.”
She gestured at the destroyed house behind her. “This fire? This was caused by your negligence in maintaining your property’s electrical system. You ignored safety violations for three years. That’s on you, not her. And frankly, you’re lucky no one was hurt, because if there had been injuries or deaths from your failure to address known hazards, you’d be facing criminal charges right now.”
Marcus couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only kneel there on the street while neighbors whispered and pointed, while firefighters packed up their equipment, while the life he’d been so smugly celebrating just hours earlier revealed itself as nothing more than smoke and ash.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Officer Hendricks said, her voice now purely professional and clinical. “You’re going to need to contact your insurance company about the fire. You’re going to need to find somewhere to stay, since your house is uninhabitable and will likely be condemned pending a full safety inspection. And you’re going to want to get yourself a very good lawyer, because your wife has already filed for divorce and is pursuing legal action regarding her share of the property value, child support, and compensation for emotional distress.”
“But I don’t have anywhere to go,” Marcus said weakly, the irony of the statement only hitting him after he’d spoken it aloud.
Officer Hendricks let that irony hang in the air for a moment before responding. “There’s a Hampton Inn about fifteen minutes from here. I hear they have rooms available.”
She turned to leave, then paused and looked back at him one final time. “A piece of advice, Mr. Chen? Don’t try to blame your wife for the consequences of your own actions. You threw out a pregnant woman at night because you legally could, not because you morally should. You neglected fire safety in your home for years. You made a series of choices tonight, and they were all bad ones. Own that. Because trying to make your wife the villain in this story? That’s not going to work. Not with us, not with any judge, and probably not with anyone who hears the full truth about what you did.”
She walked away, leaving Marcus kneeling on the pavement in front of his ruined house, surrounded by the wreckage of his own terrible decisions.
The next few days passed in a blur of insurance claims, hotel rooms, and slowly dawning horror as Marcus began to understand the full scope of what he’d lost and what he’d done. The fire marshal’s official report confirmed the electrical short circuit, completely exonerating Sarah and putting full responsibility on Marcus’s failure to maintain the property. His insurance company informed him that his coverage might be voided due to his knowing violation of safety codes—a fact that had been documented during the original home inspection.
Sarah filed for divorce through a lawyer who specialized in cases involving financial abuse and abandonment of pregnant women. The documentation she provided was extensive and devastating: joint bank account statements showing her equal contributions to the down payment and monthly expenses, text messages between them discussing the pregnancy and making plans for the baby, and the recording she’d had the foresight to make on her phone during their final argument, which captured Marcus explicitly stating he was throwing her out of “his” house despite her contributions.
The legal proceedings moved quickly. Massachusetts family law was very clear on the subject of marital property, and despite the deed being in Marcus’s name alone, Sarah was entitled to fifty percent of the equity. The house was a total loss—the fire damage was so extensive that demolition was the only option—but the land itself had value, and the insurance payout (if it wasn’t voided) would eventually need to be divided.
Marcus had to hire his own attorney, which meant dipping into savings he’d planned to use for that Costa Rica trip. His friends started avoiding his calls after the full story came out—even Tyler, who’d initially supported him, admitted that abandoning a pregnant wife was “a bridge too far, man.” His cousin Derek refused to speak to him at all, leaving Marcus increasingly isolated as his support system crumbled.
But the worst part was the gossip. In a suburban community where everyone knew everyone else’s business, the story of Marcus Chen throwing out his pregnant wife spread like wildfire—faster and more destructive than the actual fire that had consumed his house. Former friends crossed the street to avoid him. His boss at the marketing firm where he worked called him in for a “concerning conversation” about how his personal conduct reflected on the company. His mother, when she finally heard the truth, wept on the phone and told him she’d raised him better than that.
Three months later, Marcus sat in a mediator’s office across from Sarah, who was now visibly and undeniably pregnant. She’d found a small apartment across town, was working remotely for her graphic design clients, and had a support system of friends and family that had materialized the moment word got out about what Marcus had done. She looked tired but determined, one hand resting protectively on her rounded belly while her attorney outlined the settlement terms.
Marcus would pay child support starting immediately and continuing for eighteen years. He would cover half of all medical expenses related to the pregnancy and birth. He would receive standard visitation rights if he chose to exercise them, though Sarah’s attorney made it clear that his initial rejection of the child would be documented should he try to pursue custody later. The property settlement gave Sarah her fifty percent of the land value plus damages for emotional distress—a number that made Marcus’s attorney wince and Marcus himself feel physically ill.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say to your client?” the mediator asked Sarah’s attorney, following standard protocol before finalizing the agreement.
Sarah’s lawyer looked at Marcus with undisguised disdain. “My client would like to make one statement directly to Mr. Chen, if he’s willing to listen.”
Marcus nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
Sarah leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped over her belly, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet but steady. “I loved you, Marcus. I loved you completely. I trusted you with my whole heart. I believed in the life we were building together.”
She paused, and Marcus saw tears gathering in her eyes, though her expression remained controlled. “When you threw me out that night, you didn’t just abandon me. You abandoned your own child. You looked at me—at us—and decided we weren’t worth the inconvenience. That we were disposable. That your comfort mattered more than our safety.”
“Sarah, I—” Marcus tried to interrupt, but she held up one hand.
“I’m not finished. I went to the police that night not because I wanted revenge, but because I was terrified and I needed protection. I had nowhere to go, no plan, no idea how I was going to survive. And when I saw on the news that the house was burning, my first thought wasn’t ‘good, he deserves it.’ My first thought was ‘Oh God, I hope he’s not inside.'”
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Marcus felt shame wash over him like acid. “That’s the difference between us, Marcus. Even after what you did to me, I still cared whether you lived or died. But you looked at me—pregnant with your baby—and felt nothing but inconvenience.”
“I was scared,” Marcus blurted out, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears. “I panicked. I wasn’t ready to be a father—”
“So you said,” Sarah interrupted, her voice hardening slightly. “Over and over, you said you weren’t ready. But you know what? Nobody’s ever really ready. Being a parent is terrifying. But you face that fear together, as partners. You don’t throw the person you promised to love out onto the street like garbage and then try to blame her when your own negligence burns down your house.”
She stood up, gathering her purse and the folder of legal documents. “Sign the settlement, Marcus. Give me what I’m legally owed. Pay for your child’s support. And then stay away from us unless you can genuinely commit to being a father—not because a court orders it, but because you actually want to be one.”
“What if I do?” Marcus asked desperately, standing as well. “What if I want to try? What if I want to be involved?”
Sarah looked at him for a long moment, and he saw in her eyes something that hurt worse than hatred—pity mixed with profound disappointment. “Then you’ll have to prove it. Through actions, not words. Through consistency over time, not dramatic declarations in mediator’s offices. You’ll have to prove that you’re capable of putting someone else’s needs ahead of your own.”
She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back one final time. “The house burning down? That wasn’t karma, Marcus. That was just bad luck compounded by your poor choices. The real reckoning is going to be living with what you did—not to a house, but to the people who loved you. That’s the horror you’ll be coming home to every single day for the rest of your life.”
She left, and Marcus stood there in the mediator’s office, surrounded by legal documents that quantified the end of his marriage in dollars and visitation schedules. Officer Hendricks had been right. He’d destroyed his own life—not through one catastrophic action, but through a series of choices that had revealed his character when it was truly tested.
The house fire had taken his property. But he’d already burned down everything that mattered long before that first spark ignited in the faulty electrical panel he’d been too lazy and too cheap to repair.
Six months later, Marcus held his daughter for the first time. Sarah had gone into labor three weeks early, and despite their estrangement, she’d had him listed as an emergency contact. The hospital had called at two in the morning, and Marcus had driven there with his heart pounding, terrified he’d arrive too late.
But he’d made it. And when the nurse placed that tiny, perfect baby girl in his arms—seven pounds, three ounces, with Sarah’s nose and a shock of dark hair—something fundamental shifted in his chest. She was real. She was his. And she was counting on him to be better than he’d been.
“Her name is Emma,” Sarah said from the hospital bed, exhausted but alert, watching him carefully. “Emma Grace.”
“She’s beautiful,” Marcus whispered, unable to look away from his daughter’s face. “She’s so beautiful, Sarah. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”
Sarah didn’t respond immediately, just watched him hold their daughter. Finally, she said, “Words are easy, Marcus. Being present is hard. Let’s see if you can do the hard thing.”
It took two years, but Marcus eventually proved he could. He attended every scheduled visitation without fail. He paid child support on time and voluntarily increased it when Sarah’s design business had a slow quarter. He took parenting classes, went to therapy to address his issues with commitment and responsibility, and slowly, painstakingly, built a relationship with his daughter that was based on showing up rather than just claiming rights.
He never got Sarah back—that bridge was burned beyond repair—but he earned her trust as a co-parent. And he learned to live with the shame of what he’d done, carrying it not as an excuse but as a reminder of the man he’d been and the man he was determined never to be again.
The horror he’d come home to that night hadn’t been the fire that destroyed his house. It had been the mirror that finally showed him his own reflection—and the long, difficult work of becoming someone he could stand to see looking back.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.