Chapter 2

"Jennifer, what the hell's gotten into you?" David's expression darkened. "It's your birthday. Cut it out."

"I'm not messing around," I said. "I mean it."

He stared at me like he was looking at a stranger. "You think you'd survive without me? You can't even pay the electric bill on your own!"

"I can learn."

"You can't even figure out how to use a smartphone!"

"I can learn."

"You—"

"Thirty-three years," I cut him off. "Did you ever let me learn?"

He froze.

I asked, "Did you ever let me learn how to pay the bills? Did you ever let me learn anything at all?"

My voice started to shake, but I didn't stop. "You told me, 'Don't worry about anything else, just take care of the house.'

"And then you spent the rest of your life holding that over my head, telling everyone, 'She's never had to work a day in her life.'"

No one in the living room dared to make a sound.

"Yeah, I don't work," I said. "But do you even know what time I get up every day, or what time I go to bed?"

David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"You don't." I kept going. "You don't even know where the coffee filters are."

"You—"

"All you know is that I cook." I looked him dead in the eye. "And that I'm decent at it."

The room went silent.

"Mom." Emily walked over and grabbed my arm. "Please stop. Today's supposed to be—"

"Today is my fiftieth birthday." I looked at her. "And in fifty years, this is the first time I've ever said what I actually want to say. So don't stop me."

Emily's hand froze in midair.

I turned back to David. "I want a divorce."

"You've lost your mind." His face flushed red. "You've completely lost your mind!"

"Yeah, maybe I have," I said. "Maybe I was out of my mind for thirty-three years, and I just now woke up."

I turned and walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me.

His voice exploded through the wall. "Fine. Go ahead and leave. Let's see how long you last out there!"

I opened the closet and pulled out a suitcase I hadn't touched in years.

The moon outside the window was bright, and it hit me that thirty-three years ago, I had walked into our bedroom on our wedding night under this same kind of moonlight.

Back then, I thought my life was beginning.

Now I realized that was the moment it had ended.

But it didn't matter. I was only fifty. There was still time.

I zipped the suitcase shut. Out in the living room, David was still yelling. "She thinks she can survive without me? She'll come crawling back in three days!"

I didn't respond.

Tomorrow, I was going to show him that I wasn't the one who couldn't live without him.

He was the one who couldn't live without me.

*****

The next morning, I stepped out of the bedroom and found three people sitting in the living room.

David sat on the couch, his face dark with anger. Emily sat beside him, her eyes red and swollen. Michael sat across from them, head down, scrolling through his phone.

All three looked up at the same time when they saw me.

"Mom." Emily stood up.

"Mm." I gave a short response and walked to the kitchen to get some water.

The sink was still piled with dishes from last night. I glanced at them, left them where they were, poured myself a glass of water, and headed back to the living room.

"You're not going to wash those?" David's voice came from behind me.

"Don't feel like it."

"You—"

"Mom, what is going on with you?" Emily came over and grabbed my arm. "You were fine yesterday. How can you just decide to get a divorce out of nowhere?"

I looked at her. This was my Emily, the girl I carried for nine months. She was thirty-two now, married for eight years, with a six-year-old daughter.

"Emily," I said, "would your husband ever sit at a table full of people and say, 'My wife's only good for cooking'?"

Emily froze.

"No." She answered her own question. "If he ever said something like that, I'd flip the table on him right there."

"So you think I should put up with it?"

"But, Mom, it's different for you two. You've been together for over thirty years."

"And because it's been thirty years, I should keep putting up with it?" I asked her. "For how long? Until I'm dead?"

Emily opened her mouth but couldn't find the words.

Michael put his phone down and looked up. "Mom, can you stop making a scene? Dad just runs his mouth. You know how he is."

I looked at Michael. This was my Michael, the boy I raised from diapers. He was thirty now, married for five years, with a four-year-old son.

I asked, "Michael, when was the last time you did laundry?"

Michael froze. "Huh?"

"Laundry," I said. "Your own socks. When was the last time you washed them?"

He thought about it and came up empty.

I asked, "Do you even know how to use the washing machine?"

He answered, "Don't you just press a button?"

"Have you ever pressed it?"

He shut his mouth.

I asked, "From the time you were a kid to now, who washed your clothes?"

"You."

"Who cooked your meals?"

"You."

"Who cleaned the house?"

"You."

"You're thirty years old," I said. "Thirty, and you've never once used the washing machine. So tell me, do you really think your father was right?"

Michael dropped his head.