Dad walked in and tried his usual voice. “Carol, let’s not do drama.”
Mom folded her hands. “Alright.
I think we’re done.”
He laughed once. “Done?”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
The next morning, without telling any of us first, she filed.
I learned that only later. At the time, all I knew was that something had shifted.
She was too quiet, too sure of herself.
That evening, I smelled smoke.
There was a bonfire in the middle of the yard.
My father stood beside it, throwing in armfuls of my mother’s clothes.
I ran down the stairs. “What are you doing?”
Then I saw what else was burning. Her silk blouse, which she had been saving for my sister’s graduation.
Shoes. Scarves. A cardigan my grandmother made before she died.
Then he picked up the wedding dress.
I screamed, “Stop!”
He looked at me with a wild look in his eyes.
“She filed for divorce. That means she thinks she walks away with what’s hers.”
I pointed at the flames. “That is hers.”
He gave a cold, little laugh.
“No. Everything in this house is mine. She came into my life with nothing, and she’ll leave the same way.”
