Chapter 5

I finished eating and went back to the motel. My phone screen was lit up with over a dozen new messages, but I didn't look at them.

I lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The water stain was still there.

I looked at it, and a memory came back to me.

When I was twenty-two, I had just given birth to Emily and wanted to go back to work. David shut it down. "Who's gonna watch the baby?" he said. "My mom's not doing well. Just stay home."

When I was twenty-eight, I wanted to learn computers, so I signed up for evening classes. He found out and got the tuition refunded. "What's the point?" he said. "Not like you have a job."

When I was thirty-five, I wanted to take a trip with a neighbor. "Why waste the money?" he said. "Just stay home."

When I was forty-two, I wanted a smartphone. He laughed at me. "You're too old to be chasing trends."

When I was forty-eight, I told him I wanted to learn to drive. "You really think you can?" he said. "Don't waste the money."

This year I turned fifty, and I was done asking.

I picked up my phone and opened the notes app to write down everything I needed to do.

[1. Learn how to pay the electric and water bills online. 2. Find a job. 3. Learn how to dance. 4. Wear a red dress. 5. Never ask "Is that okay?" again.]

I stared at the five lines, and a laugh slipped out of me.

But the laughter turned to tears before I knew it.

I cried for a while, then wiped my face, set the phone on the pillow beside me, and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, there was still so much to do.

The next morning, a knock on the door pulled me out of sleep.

"Jennifer? Someone's here to see you." It was the front desk clerk.

I opened the door and found two people standing in the hallway.

Emily was one of them, her eyes so swollen and puffy she looked like she hadn't slept all night. The other was Michael, holding a bag of fruit.

"Mom," Emily said, her gaze fixed on me. "Come home."

I looked at them both and took a deep breath. "Come on in and sit down."

But I didn't say I was going back.

*****

Emily and Michael stepped into the room.

The motel room was tiny, barely enough space for three people to stand without bumping into each other.

Michael set the bag of fruit on the dresser and glanced around, his brow furrowing. "Mom, you're staying here?"

"It's fine." I sat on the edge of the bed.

"How is this fine?" Emily's eyes were still red from crying. "There's not even a window."

"There is one. It faces the hallway."

"That doesn't count."

I didn't respond.

Emily crouched down in front of me and took my hands. "Mom, come home. Dad knows he was wrong. He said he didn't mean what he said, and you shouldn't take it to heart."

"He wasn't wrong," I said.

"What?"

"He said I was 'only good for cooking.'" I looked at Emily. "He wasn't wrong. In his eyes, that's all I've ever been good for my entire life."

"Mom."

"But I don't want to live through his eyes anymore."

Emily stared at me. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

Michael had been standing off to the side the whole time without saying a word. I glanced over at him.

I said, "Michael, what do you want to say?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Mom, are you really going through with the divorce?"

"I am."

"But—" He scratched his head. "Where are you gonna live? You can't stay in a motel forever."

"I'll find a place."

"How are you gonna find one? You don't even know how to—" He stopped mid-sentence.

"Don't know how to what?" I asked.

He looked down at his feet.

"Look things up on my phone?" I finished for him. "Michael, do you think your mom can't do anything on her own either?"

"That's not what I meant."

"That's exactly what you meant," I said. "You all think I can't do anything by myself. Because your father has been saying it for thirty-three years, and you've been hearing it for thirty-three years, until you just started to believe it."

The room went quiet.

Emily stood up and walked to the window with her back to me. "Mom," her voice came out rough, "have you even thought about what people are going to say when you get divorced?"

"Say about what?"

"That you're too old to be starting over. That you're being selfish. That you're—"

"Emily," I cut her off, "are you worried about what people will say about your mother?"

"It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?"

She turned around, and the tears spilled over again. "I'm scared you won't be okay. I'm scared you'll be out there struggling on your own. I'm scared you'll regret it and there won't be any going back."