Page 37 of Letting Go

“For what it’s worth,” I say, not looking at her, “I hope someday you grow into the woman you think you already are.”

Then I walk out. No dramatic exit. No storming off.

Just me, the scent of peppermint wax in my nose, and the sound of my own heartbeat getting a little quieter with every step away from her.

Chapter 14

I get home and immediately regret it.

The second the door clicks shut behind me, the silence rushes in, it’s too loud, too sharp. Like the walls are waiting to ask,so, how does it feel to be humiliated at the molecular level?

Answer: It feels like acid. It feels like glass in my throat. It feels likefuck this house.

I toe off my shoes and make it five steps before I freeze in the middle of the living room, eyes locked on the couch. The stupid beige sectional we picked together because it “looked neutral and adult.” I want to set it on fire.

Did he screw her here?

Did she sit onmycushions, onmythrow blanket, legs tucked under her like some rom-com mistress cliché, sipping wine frommyfavourite glass?

Of course she did. Of course he did.

I let out a bark of laughter, she can’t even legally drink yet.

I don’t sit. Can’t sit. My body won’t let me.

Instead, I march into the kitchen like it’s a war path, grab the biggest wine glass we own; which, let’s bereal, is basically a crystal bucket on a stem and pour until the bottle makes that littleglug-glugsound of surrender.

“One glass,” I mutter. “This is one glass.”

I take it and retreat to the guest room. My safe zone. My new sad corner. My emotional bomb shelter. Honestly, it smells like lavender and betrayal in here.

I shut the door, lean back against it, and just breathe for a second. Then immediately start spiralling.

Lorna said not to touch the house. Not yet.Don’t say a word about selling, Leni, or they’ll assume it’s shared property and hand him half just for being alive and having a penis.

Which is unfair. I’m the one with blood in the grout. I’m the one who’ll have to sage the memory of his sweat out of the drywall.

But she’s right. If I stay, if I play my part, if I keep smiling like this home is my castle and not my crime scene, the judge is more likely to let me keep it.

Because it’smine. Ithasto be.

It’s not like I can go live with my parents. That ship sailed, sank, and got picked apart by emotional barnacles years ago.

This is what I’m down to now.

No marriage.

No dignity.

No couch I can sit on without visualizing a porno I didn’t consent to.

Just me. A bottle of cabernet. A well-lit vendetta.

And yeah. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel small. Powerless. Poor. I want his bank account to tremble when he hears my name. Because if there’s one thing Michael “Call Me Mike” Miller actually cares about, it’s money.

That, and impressing his father.

Which is why I’m seeing the Judge tomorrow. Yes,theJudge. Not “my father-in-law.” That man might treat me like a daughter but he has no warmth or humanity, especially when it comes to his son.

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