Chapter 11
I’d only taken two days off work.
At dinner that night, my mother kept piling food onto my plate as if I’d returned
from a famine rather than a month in California.
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“You need to eat,” she insisted, adding another scoop of mashed potatoes to the
mountain already there. “You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
My father examined me like I was a specimen under glass, his eyes narrowing behind his reading glasses.
“You’ve lost weight. Got some sun too,” he noted, concern mingling with things.
left unsaid.
When I mentioned my barista job, my mother froze with her fork midway to her mouth, a piece of salmon hanging precariously.
“A barista? But honey, if you’re interested in coffee, we could set you up with your own shop here. Something to keep you busy while you…” She trailed off, not saying what we all knew she was thinking–while you recover from this disaster of
a marriage.
I cut her off gently: “Mom, I’m doing well there. I like my life.”
She fell silent, dabbing at sudden tears with her napkin. “I just want you to be
happy,” she whispered.
“I am happy,” I said, surprised to find I meant it. “Happier than I’ve been in years.” I hadn’t intended to move across the country permanently, but the freedom I’d found in those few weeks felt intoxicating, like a drug I wasn’t ready to give up. In San Diego, I didn’t worry about turning a corner and running into Ethan or mutual friends who’d take his side. I didn’t have to plan my grocery shopping
around his schedule to avoid awkward encounters. I didn’t have to rehearse answers to intrusive questions about why my marriage failed.
For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe without permission.
I shared stories about my month away, finding myself laughing genuinely for what felt like the first time in years–about the surfer who’d tried to teach me and
ended up with my board smacking him in the face, about the homeless man who
recited
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Shakespeare outside my hotel every morning, about the elderly couple who’d invited me to their 50th anniversary party when they found out I was alone.
In the middle of a story about a surfing lesson gone wrong, my father interrupted quietly: “I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh like that.”
How long had it been?
Even I couldn’t remember. When had I stopped laughing freely, stopped crying when I needed to? When had I learned to swallow every emotion until I became this hollow version of myself?
“Patricia–Ethan’s mother moved back to their old house,” my mother said, quickly correcting herself, as if mentioning her name might spoil the mood.
She explained that Patricia had refused to continue living in the home my parents had purchased for them in our neighborhood.
Shortly after I left, she’d insisted on returning to the Marinas‘ original
neighborhood on the other side of town.
“Do you want to visit her?” my mother asked, hope evident in her voice. Even now, after everything, my mother was still trying to keep the fragile connections.
between our families intact.
Seeing the expectation in my parents‘ eyes, I still shook my head firmly.
“No. Let’s stop inserting ourselves into their lives.”
I’d left in such a hurry that most of my belongings were still in the brownstone. My clothes, my books, the expensive kitchen gadgets I’d collected but rarely used because Ethan preferred takeout.
Setting down my fork, I told my parents: “Could you get my things from the apartment? I don’t want to go back there.”
I couldn’t bring myself to kick Ethan out, but I also couldn’t bear to see him again. The thought of stepping back into that space where I’d been so unhappy made my
skin crawl.
My father nodded, his expression softening. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll take care of everything.”
