By one in the morning, they were gone.
Gloria said I’d pass away alone. That I’d be unloved, childless, and cursed forever. That no man would ever tolerate me again. She said I’d regret this moment for the rest of my life.
I didn’t respond.
Then I walked into the kitchen. The soup had dried in streaks across the floor. The broken ceramic was still there, scattered where I had left it earlier.
My space. My boundaries. My sense of self.
I threw away the pieces slowly. I mopped the floor, and watched the water swirl everything into the drain.
I hadn’t felt that kind of peace in a long time.
The next morning, I woke to a text from Scott.
“You owe my mom an apology, Hope. You should have known better. I can’t believe this is who I married.”
I cried at the screen for a long moment, not because I didn’t understand what to say but because I wanted to be sure he know my silence before I gave him my final answer.
“Lawyer.”
That was it.
Our marriage was ended. It felt clean, like something that had run its course, like a house you loved but had to leave.
But my peace? My home?
All of that was still mine.
