Chapter 6
The curfew had been his invention.
After we got married, we’d moved into a brownstone not far from my parents.
Sometimes I’d have dinner with them, lose track of time in conversation, and
realize it was past midnight.
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Ethan never called to check where I was. But when I got home, I’d find the
apartment completely dark except for the red glow of his cigarette in the corner
chair.
“Finally remembered you have a husband, huh?” he’d controlled. “Or did you forget you’re married?”
- v. his voice cold and
When I’d explain I was just at my parents‘ house, he’d scoff coldly.
“From now on, 10PM curfew. Any later than that, don’t bother coming home at all.” After that, I always made it home on time, sometimes literally running the last few blocks to avoid being late. I’d arrive breathless, heart pounding, just to find him sprawled on the couch watching TV, not even acknowledging my entrance. It was never about missing me–it was about control.
My parents thought we were obsessed with each other, grinning whenever I’d rush off from their place.
“Look at you, grown woman with a curfew! We never set rules like that even when you were in high school.”
Now standing in the San Diego airport terminal, I stared at his message, a mixture
of disbelief and exhilaration washing over me.
My finger hovered over the reply box, unsure what to say to this absurdity.
It felt like being served an elaborate meal only to discover it had no taste at all.
He’d already sent another message: [wtf Liv we had a deal. where r u???
The pre–booked airport shuttle was waiting outside. After a moment’s thought, I replied:
[News flash: we’re DIVORCED]
I climbed aboard, my one suitcase tucked beside me. My phone immediately began to ring. Ethan’s name flashed on the screen.
12:56 PM Mon 10 Mar
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06
I declined the call, but he kept calling back relentlessly.
When I finally answered, his voice came through sharp and demanding. “Olivia, where the hell are you?”
The driver glanced back, asking, “The Pacific Surf Hotel, correct?”
I nodded, and Ethan exploded on the other end of the line.
“A hotel? You’re going to a fucking hotel instead of coming home? Who’s withi you?”
His voice was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. The driver raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror.
I instinctively started to explain, to defuse his anger as I always had. Then stopped myself mid–sentence.
What was I explaining? And to whom?
Just hours ago, we’d signed divorce papers in front of a dozen witnesses.
The world had suddenly opened up before me. I no longer needed to decipher his moods or walk on eggshells around him.
I’d never felt so calm, so justified in my response:
“Ethan, I don’t need to report to you anymore.”
The moment I hung up, an unexpected sense of power flooded through me. After years of submission, I could finally disconnect from him–literally and figuratively.
Including blocking his number entirely.
In that moment of quiet defiance, I felt more alive than I had in years. My finger trembled slightly as I held it over the “Block Contact” button, but when I finally pressed it, a wave of relief washed over me so intense I nearly gasped. It felt like cutting the strings of a puppet I didn’t know I’d been.
© 20
