Chapter 6

I looked at Emily.

This was my daughter. I carried her for nine months, changed every diaper, and wiped every tear. On her wedding day, I smiled as I handed her off to her husband, then turned around and cried so hard I couldn't breathe.

She worried about me. I knew she did.

"Emily," I said, "tell me something. What does struggling look like to you?"

She stared at me, speechless.

"In your father's eyes, I never worked a day in my life, so I've got nothing to complain about.

"In everyone else's eyes, I never went hungry or cold, so I've got nothing to complain about either. But do you have any idea how I've spent the last thirty years?"

I didn't wait for her to answer.

"Your dad needed his coffee a certain way every morning, his eggs scrambled just right, and his bacon crispy but not burned.

"When you were little, you wouldn't touch your vegetables, so I'd chop them up and sneak them into casseroles.

"Michael was a picky eater, so I'd make three different dishes for one meal to get him to take one more bite.

"When your grandfather got sick, I spent two months at the hospital taking care of him. I changed his bedpan, cleaned him up, did everything. Your father showed up three times, sat for ten minutes each visit, and left.

"When your grandmother passed, I was the one who bathed her and dressed her for the funeral. Your father knelt by the casket and cried, and I stood beside him until my legs gave out."

My voice was steady the whole time.

Emily was already crying too hard to speak.

"None of that counts as hard," I said, "because I'm a wife, I'm a mother, and I'm their son's wife. It's what I'm supposed to do. But when your father said the only thing I was any good at was cooking, something clicked."

"What?" Emily choked out.

"Thirty-three years of my life. And in his eyes, that's all it came down to."

She couldn't say a word.

I said, "So I'm done."

I stood up and walked over to Michael. "Michael, you're thirty years old. You have a wife and a child. So tell me, how do things work between you and her?"

Michael's face turned red. "Mom, I—"

"Do you help her cook?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you take care of your kid?"

"Yeah."

"Do you do laundry?"

"The machine does it."

"Who loads it?"

He went quiet.

"Your wife?"

He nodded.

I looked at him and said nothing.

"Mom," he blurted out, "I'm not like Dad."

"I know you're not like your dad," I said. "But have you ever stopped to think that one day, your wife might end up just like me?"

Michael froze.

Emily stopped crying and stared at me.

"Mom," she whispered, "are you saying I'll end up like you?"

"You won't," I said. "Because you've already seen what I became. You can look at me and know which way not to go.

"But Michael's wife married into this family and all she sees is how things work here. She watches how your father treats me. She watches how I live my life. And what do you think goes through her head?"

Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"She'll think that's what being a wife looks like," I said. "And she'll turn into me."

"No she won't!" Michael's voice cracked. "I treat her good!"

"You treat her good," I said, "but have you ever stood up for her? When your dad called your wife 'nothing special,' did you say a word?"

Michael dropped his head.

"You didn't," I said. "Because you're used to it. You grew up hearing your father talk about me that way, and after a while it sounded normal. You figured a man running his mouth about his wife was no big deal."

"Mom, I—"

"Michael, I'm not blaming you." I let out a long breath. "I'm telling you that my life is already what it is. But your wife is still young, and you don't want her ending up the same way, do you?"

Michael looked up. His eyes were red. "Mom, I was wrong."

I didn't say anything. I reached over and smoothed my hand over his hair.

He was thirty years old, and I couldn't remember the last time I had done that.

Emily walked over and took my hand. "Mom, you're really not going back?"

"No." I smiled. "I'm not going back."

"Then what do you want to do?"

I pulled out my phone, opened the notes app, and held it up for her to see.

She read it out loud. "Learn to pay the bills online. Get a job. Learn to dance. Wear a red dress. Never ask 'is that okay' again."

She finished reading and looked up at me.

"Mom, you seriously want to learn to dance?"

"Why, I can't?"

"That's not what I mean." She wiped her eyes. "You just seem different."

"I'm not different," I said. "I just want to see what it's like to go one day without asking your father for permission."

Michael sat quietly for a moment, then spoke up. "Mom, let me help you find a place."

I looked at him, caught off guard. "Really?"

"Really." He nodded. "One of my buddies works at a real estate agency. I'll have him keep an eye out for something affordable."

Emily chimed in. "And I'll get you a phone and show you how to use it. You wanted to learn how to pay the electric bill and the water bill online, right? I'll walk you through it."

I looked at the two of them, and my eyes started to sting. "So you're not gonna try to talk me into going back?"

Emily shook her head. "Couldn't if I tried."

Michael shook his head, too. "What you said earlier, I—" He paused. "I need to think about it."

I smiled, "Alright then. Help me out, but don't tell your dad where I am."

"Why not?" Emily asked.

"Let him sweat for a few days," I said. "Thirty-three years, and it's about time he worried for once."

Emily glanced at me and burst out laughing. "Mom, you've gone rogue."

"I haven't gone rogue," I said. "I just finally woke up."

After Emily and Michael left, I lay in bed and stared at the water stain on the ceiling.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Emily: [Mom, I'm with you on this.]

It buzzed again. This time it was Michael: [Mom, I'll ask about apartments tomorrow.]

I stared at those two messages, and the tears came again.

But this time, they were happy ones.

I set my phone on the pillow beside me and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, I would start looking for a place.