Divorced from her sickly husband
I dated Ethan because I owed his family a debt.
It took three years to finally feel accepted by
that possessive, obsessive man. I married him
at twenty, unexpectedly got pregnant, and had
Evan. Even after seven years, there was still no
wedding. He was always insecure, constantly
testing my boundaries, needing constant
reassurance that I loved him. And Evan,
mimicking his father, never learned to respect
- me. Then, Mom died.
I handled the cremation alone and dragged
myself home, exhausted. Only to find myself
locked out by my own son.
It was pouring rain. I draped my coat over the
urn and pressed the doorbell over and over. It
was only early evening, but the sky was already
dark. Heavy clouds hung overhead, punctuated
by flashes of lightning and the roar of wind
like the end of the world. It mirrored how I felt.
My choked sobs were swallowed by the
downpour. The sky wept with me, the rain
—
85
soaking me through. By the end, I was
practically pounding on the door. Inside our brightly lit house, I could see the flickering light of the TV playing some cartoon. Ethan was out of town on business, but my son, Evan, was inside, warm and dry. He heard me. He was doing this on purpose. He’d occasionally pull
–
this stunt changing the door code after I left
the house.
Annoyed by my persistent ringing, he finally pressed the intercom button. “Why didn’t you take the spare key, dummy? Figure it out yourself!” His childish voice, distorted by the speaker and the surrounding noise, sounded alien.
I leaned against the wall, wiping the rain and tears from my face, trying to shield the urn with my body. I didn’t want Mom to get wet. I hadn’t taken care of her well enough when she was alive; this was the least I could do now.
Swallowing my grief, I said, “Evan, I’m telling you one last time. Open the door.”
The intercom light flickered, I heard a snippet
<
of the cartoon, then it went dark. Silence. I
slumped against the wall, eyes burning, body numb. A statue in the rain.
After a while, or maybe it was only a moment, I calmly accepted that I had lost my son. Then I laughed, blinked back the tears, and whispered to Mom, “It’s okay, Mom. Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”
I turned and walked away. I had lost my mother today. And Evan had lost his too.
I took a cab across town to the south side, a world away from Ethan’s family estate. This area was full of older, more modest apartment buildings. But it felt…peaceful. Safe. As I climbed the dimly lit stairs, the motion–sensor lights flickered on above me, one by one. Like they were saying, “Welcome back. It’s been a
while.”
But when I reached the fifth floor and stood in front of my old apartment, I patted my empty pockets. No keys. The rain dripped from my
pants, forming a puddle at my feet. A draft
chilled me to the bone.
<
I didn’t hesitate. I turned and knocked on my
neighbor’s door. It opened quickly, revealing a
young woman in her pajamas, hair messy, half an apple in her mouth. We stared at each other, equally surprised. I’d expected Mrs. Johnson,
our elderly neighbor.
I blinked, letting the raindrops on my lashes fall. “Hi, sorry to bother you. I think my mom left a spare key here? Would you mind?”
Ashley, my once–best friend, took the apple from her mouth and looked me up and down, her expression unreadable. “Hold on.” She
returned with the key. I mumbled my thanks. We stood there awkwardly. I didn’t have the energy to deal with our fractured friendship right now. I forced a smile, took the key, and went inside. I flipped on the light. The sudden brightness stung my eyes, and fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. The apartment was spotless, everything just as I remembered. Like Mom had just
stepped out to the store. I carefully placed the urn on the table. My fingers brushed against a layer of dust, and I broke down.
<
I had helped her escape her abusive marriage,
promised her a better life, a bigger house. But
she always refused. She said she was happy.
That her daughter was married now, and she
didn’t want to be a burden. She had saved
almost all the money I’d given her over the
years. It was all in a small savings book, now
one of her few remaining possessions, along
with her ashes.
After the divorce, Mom’s favorite thing to do
was look at photos of Evan and me. Her rough
fingers traced the images, leaving faint lines of
longing. But whenever I brought her to Ethan’s
house to visit Evan, she’d leave after just one
meal. Ethan didn’t like outsiders in his home,
polite but distant. And Evan, despite my
scolding, always made his dislike for his
grandmother clear.
