My mother was probably right. You’re just a small-town girl from Cedar Creek. You’re not my equal.
Take your kid and get out,” my husband, Victor, snarled, shoving me into the dimly lit apartment hallway with our infant son in my arms. I just smiled. A cold, calculating smile that seemed to unnerve him more than any tears ever could.
“Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “You asked for it.”
The deafening slam of the door echoed through the entire five-story building. The walls, which remembered the Nixon era, seemed to shudder from the shock.
From the upper floors, two curious old women, the eternal guardians of the building’s peace, peered over the railings. I clutched my son, Max, closer. He, thankfully, didn’t even stir at his father’s shouting.
He was already used to the constant turmoil, the raised voices that had become the soundtrack of his short life. He just smacked his lips sleepily and nuzzled into my neck, seeking warmth and protection. I, a thirty-two-year-old woman, did not cry.
Not a single tear escaped to trace a path down my face, which had grown gaunt and tired over the last year. Strangely, I didn’t even feel resentment. Only a profound, liberating sense of relief.
It felt as though a crushing weight, a massive bag of cement I’d been hauling on my shoulders for the last three years—the final year with a baby in my arms—had finally tumbled to the ground. “It’s over, little one,” I whispered, descending the stairs slowly, my hand gliding over the rough banister, painted with countless layers of brown and green over the decades. The courtyard, once so cozy and welcoming, met me with a cool September evening.
The old poplar trees, which had charmed me five years earlier when I first looked at this apartment, were now dropping their first yellow leaves. How symbolic, I thought. Autumn in the air, autumn in my life.
But I immediately corrected myself. This isn’t autumn. It’s just a new chapter.
I’m only thirty-two. I have a whole life ahead of me. And this life will be exactly what I make it.
On the way to my parents’ house, I mentally replayed the events of the last few months. No, that wasn’t right. The last few years.
Victor Davenport, the man I once fell in love with for his cheerful disposition, his self-confidence, and his illusion of reliability, had slowly transformed into an exact copy of his mother. Just as petty, just as resentful, just as empty. In college, he had seemed so promising.
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