Page 2 of Casita Casanova

“You’re doing it again, Mom.”

“What am I doing again?” I attempt another reach for the tape gun, missing when she pulls her arm back further.

“That deep, martyr’s sigh you do sometimes.” She sighs loudly, apparently mimicking her poor, recently-divorced mother.

I chuckle softly. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Oh, you definitely do.” She hands me the tape gun, but then the amusement fades from her eyes, sympathy and sadness seeping back into the baby blues she inherited from her father. “This will be over soon, Mama. You’ll feel better when we move you into the beach house tomorrow.”

I bite back a retort, because she has this grandiose idea that all of my problems will miraculously disappear into the ether once I make the move from wine country to the beach, but as smart as she is, she’s overlooked one monumental detail.

I can’taffordthe beach house.

I walked away without alimony. Stupid? Probably. Prideful? Oh, hell yes. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to take a dime from that man just so he can lord it over my head. Eddie counted on the fact I would never leave him, because where would I go? What would I have without him?

And he was right… to an extent.

My daughter is grown; I’m no longer her caretaker.

My marriage has ended; I’m no longer a wife.

Time to work for a living like everyone else.

So, yeah, I can’t afford the beach house, paid for or otherwise. Even the cost-of-living increases once I move from the Inland Empire to the coast will be painful.

I withhold the heavy sigh that wants to escape from my lips. Ari’s right: I don’t justsoundlike a martyr, Ifeellike one. Time to pull up my Big Girl Panties and get my life together. I finish securing this box and push it aside, then slide another empty one between my outstretched legs and begin to wrap more dishes in moving paper.

I’m starting a new chapter of my life, getting to justbe mefor the first time in, well, decades, if I’m honest. I should be excited. But the whole job thing is a dark cloud hovering over me at all times. I know I have to get a job—I’m not an idiot. I need to find a new purpose that doesn’t involve raising Ari or… well, raising Eddie, I guess, too. I need to figure out who I am without thoseMotherandWifetitles to define me.

Without those titles to box me in.

Who is Maryn without that?

But let’s be real: who wants to hire a recently-divorced, recently empty-nested, middle-aged woman with zero skills?

Sure,Iknow I’ve run the household in a million little ways for the past nineteen years, from accounting to chauffeuring to remembering every little detail about myself, my husband, our daughter, the house, the dog, the HOA… but household duties don’t translate well to resumés, and an employment gap that spans two decades isn’t favorable no matter how well you spin it.

Proficient in reciting Disney lyrics.

Excellent time management skills.

Can hold a puke bucket and rub a back all at once.

Expert level laundry master.

Sometimes has to wash the load twice, though, because[see next skill]

Totally and utterly scatterbrained.

Impressive resumé indeed.

Originally, my plan was to sell the beach house, but the market has gone to shit and is definitely a buyer’s market, so my goal is to get any job I can find—plural, probably—and hang on for dear life until the market circles back to makingsellershappy, then offload the beach house, buy a little townhome somewhere a bit more affordable, and start my life over.

Easy peasy.

Except that the only interview I’ve had was a flop because I accidentally cried in the middle of it, so we’re really off to a great start.

But I’m not about to tell my daughter any of this.

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