Page 9 of The Last Road Trip

I turn and walk back through the sliding door. The kitchen feels too bright after the darkness of the deck, the fluorescent lights harsh against my eyes. Christine stands at the counter, a dish towel clutched in her hands. She’s been close enough to the door this whole time to hear everything.

The twins follow me through the kitchen, their voices overlapping as they call after me.

“Mom, wait!”

“You can’t just leave!”

“We need to talk about this.”

Brushing the wall for balance, I keep walking. My chest feels too tight, my throat too narrow. Each breath comes short and quick. I love the twins, but this is my breaking point. It’s not only about their father, but about them, too. They are women building their own futures, and I fail them as a mother if I let them normalize this. If I don’t stand up for myself now, I am teaching them that it is okay to accept this kind of treatment.

“I need time alone,” I say, not wanting them to follow me. There’s no point, anyway. What’s done is done.

Behind me, Buck’s voice carries through the house, loud and confident despite the distance. “You’ll be back,” he calls. “And when you do, I expect an apology.”

The nerve of that man.

I continue through the dining room, past the living room with its flickering TV, toward the front door and whatever comes after. I’m almost there when Christine steps out from the hallway near the kitchen. Her face is tight with concern. “I’m sorry, Harriet,” she says, her voice low.

A quiet sadness cracks open in my chest. All I’ve wanted is a loving family to spend time and connect with. I could have found one in Christine, but my husband went and ruined it. Christine wraps both arms around me, her hug careful at first, then firmer when I don’t pull away. I hug her back, my face pressed against her shoulder, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say, the apology slipping out by pure reflex. Having to witness this disaster must be stressful for her. “For ruining dinner and making a scene.”

“No,” she cuts me off. “Don’t apologize.”

We stand in the hallway, two women holding each other up, while somewhere in the back of the house, Buck’s loud voice continues. After a moment, I pull back, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I expected. “I can’t go back to being the woman who apologizes for existing and the type of mother whose needs come last every single time.”

Christine’s eyes are warm with understanding.

“What will you do?” she asks.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I know I can’t stay here.”

She nods and steps back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, I reach for my purse on the entryway table. The reality of figuring out where I’m sleeping tonight makes my palms sweat. What matters most is getting out of this house and giving myself room to consider my options. So, I leave the house and take the family car—it’s Buck’s car just as much as mine, damnit—to Green Lake Park.

Chapter 6

Harriet

Ipull into the parking lot of Green Lake Park, the tires of the car crunching over tiny pebbles that have found their way several hundred feet from the lake. The place is beautiful, especially around sunset. It’s got a small patch of beach, gorgeous multi-story houses surrounding it on all sides, and patches of daisies throughout. It’s the sort of place where you can sit for a while without being bothered.

My hands stay on the steering wheel after I turn off the engine. My knuckles are white, my shoulders tight. I stare at everything and nothing at the same time.

The park has two other visitors tonight. A man walking a small dog along the far edge of the grass, and a young woman sitting on the beach surrounded by sand, head bent over her phone. Neither looks up as I finally push open the car door and step out into the cool evening air.

I walk to the nearest bench and sit down. My purse lands beside me with a soft thud, the sound of car keys and phone and lip balm settling. Once settled, I twist the wedding ring on my finger. It’s a simple rose gold band with a dot for a diamond. Buck had wanted something bigger, something that would “make the other guys jealous.” I was the one to talk him down from it, wanting something practical I could easily wash dishes or cook meals with.

The ring comes off easily. I turn it over once, watching the thin band catch the light from the distant streetlamp. All the years I spent with Buck reduced to a tan-line where my ring once sat. Minus our children, of course.

I set it down on the bench beside my purse, not looking at it as I turn away. Let someone else find and keep it. Hopefully, they’ll have better luck with it than I did. My hands go flat on my thighs, palms down, fingers spread. Breathing evenly, I lift my chin. Never again will I willingly reduce myself to micro-humiliations all for the sake of avoiding arguments and keeping peace.

Twenty-five years of marriage, reduced to an essential truth: I haven’t loved Buck in a long time. And for him, it seems as if he never really loved me at all. Actually, looking back, it feels like he enjoyed taking ownership of me.

I take out my phone, the screen lighting in the darkness. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before I type “divorce attorney near me”. The search returns all local firms. I tap the first one on the list, a family law office with a website that shows a woman in a suit smiling professionally at the camera.

Even though it’s late, I decide to call and leave a message requesting a call back. I don’t want to wait until morning. I want to feel like I’m doing something now, even if nothing can be done at this time of night. Surprisingly, the phone rings three times before someone picks up.