She asked Bruce whether they should replace the crib, whether the curtains were too old, and whether my dishes were “really their style.”
One morning, I walked in while she was eating toast at my table.
“We’re thinking green for the nursery,” she said.
I ignored her and reached for the coffee.
She rubbed her stomach. “Bruce says green feels like a fresh start.”
I looked at him, but he didn’t look back.
That was when I called a lawyer.
Three weeks later, I moved out. The divorce was finalized shortly afterward.
The last thing Mia said before I left still echoed in my head.
“You lost. I WON.”
She said it from the porch while Bruce stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder. I had one suitcase, two boxes, and 18 years of memories packed into the trunk of my car.
I wanted Bruce to stop me, but he didn’t.
So I drove away.
For a while, I barely functioned. I rented a small apartment above a florist shop and cried myself to sleep almost every night. I hated the smell of flowers because it made every morning feel like a funeral.
Then, slowly, I started rebuilding.
I got a better job at a medical billing office. I bought a small house at the end of a quiet street. It had chipped paint, old floors, and a kitchen window that caught the sunrise.
My neighbor, Ruth, came over the day I moved in with banana bread.
“You live alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “You’ll know exactly who left dishes in the sink.”
I laughed, and it surprised me.
Seven months passed. I rebuilt my life and slowly learned how to breathe again.
Then one rainy evening, someone started pounding on my front door.
I was making tea when the knocking began.
