Page 27 of Broken Trails
And that’s where the madness starts.
11
Something in the Water – Carrie Underwood
I’m pushing the world’s squeakiest trolley down aisle four, pretending I’m anywhere but here. I should’ve just ordered takeaway for the rest of my life, lived on caffeine and two-minute noodles until my insides shrivelled into seasoning packets. But no, apparently basic nutrition is necessary for survival. Wattle Creek’s supermarket is too bright. Too clean. Too full of people who smile too much.
And of course, my mother is here.
She hums beside me, way too chipper for a woman dragging her depressed daughter through a fluorescent-lit battlefield ofold memories and cereal boxes. “Ooh, look, Zoe—quinoa is half-price.”
I deadpan at the tiny, overpriced packet she waves around like a golden ticket. “Thrilling.”
She sighs, clearly unimpressed with my lack of enthusiasm. “You need fibre. And something green in your life.”
I ignore her and walk further down the aisle before yanking open the freezer door. I don’t hesitate to grab a tub of triple choc chip ice cream. Tossing it into the trolley with a satisfying thunk, I catch her look of horror.
“Zoe,” she breathes, clutching the quinoa packet to her chest. “That’s full of sugar.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, shoving the trolley forward.
We walk through the aisles—her, pointing out kombucha and lentil snacks, me grabbing chips and instant noodles with the precision of a soldier on a mission. The gap between us has never felt wider. A silent tug-of-war: her optimism versus my reality. We’re halfway through the cleaning supplies aisle when she drops the bomb.
“So… have you spoken to Liam?”
My fingers freeze around a bottle of dish soap. I stare at the label—it’s lemon-scented—and avoid eye contact. “Don’t.”
She pauses beside me, shifting her basket to her other arm. “Zoe, he’s still your husband.”
My grip tightens on the bottle. “Was. He was my husband.”
“You can’t hide out here forever, darling. You have to go back. Talk to him. Fix your marriage.” And there it is. That word. Fix. “You’re still legally married. That means something, right?”
I stop walking, turning to face her fully. “Why the fuck should I have to fix my marriage?”
Her eyes widen. “Keep your voice down.” She places her basket on the floor like she’s grounding herself before I explode. I don’t lower my voice. If anything, I let it rise.
“What for? Are you worried people will talk? Good. Let them. Let them know I’m done. Done playing it safe, done pretending, done being the perfect fucking housewife.”
“Zoe, stop. I didn’t bring this up to cause an argument.”
The sound of my bitter laugh fills the space around us in the quiet aisle. “Bullshit. You knew exactly what this would do. You always do. And yet, you bring it up now? In the middle of the supermarket?”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off, the words tumbling out like a confession I’ve been holding in for too long. “We’ve been separated for over a year, Mum.”
Her brows pull together. Confusion. Disbelief. “What do you mean? You live together.”
“Under the same roof, sure. But not together. We slept in separate rooms. I even attended events alone.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to deny it, but the truth is right there, plain as the linoleum beneath our feet. Can you imagine that? Living with the one person who once promised to love you through it all, and feeling like a ghost in your own home? Breathing the same air yet passing like strangers in the hallway. You get good at pretending. At smiling in public, at acting like the foundation isn’t cracking. But inside, it eats you alive. The distance. The shame. The slow suffocation of realising you’re nothing more than a placeholder in your own life.
I step closer. “Do you want to know the last time he and I slept together? Over a year ago. You want to know why?” My voice breaks, but I don’t stop. “Because he’s an abusive, manipulative bastard who’s been too busy sleeping with other women while gaslighting me into thinking everything was my fault.”
Her hand lifts to her mouth. Eyes glassy. Silent. She’s finally listening. But it’s too late for her tears. I place a bar of soap into the trolley slowly.
“Zoe, I’m just… trying to help you,” my mother insists, though her voice wavers.
“No, you’re trying to drag me back. Back to the version of me you were proud of. The one who smiled on cue. Who hosted dinner parties with bruises under her sleeves and made excuses for a man who broke more than just promises.”
