Chapter 3

Two years later, I finally got myself a washing machine.

The first time I used it, I stood out on the balcony, watching the drum go round and round. Then the tears came.

All those years, the money I made from my breakfast cart went toward Henry's college tuition, his down payment on a house, and even his wedding.

I bought the best medicine for Peter's parents, designer shirts and leather shoes for Peter, and a car and a house for Henry so he could get married. But I never bought anything for myself.

I never felt wronged before. I thought that was how a woman's life was supposed to be.

But now, that 12-dollar pearl necklace was like a needle, pricking through the calm I'd kept up for decades.

I sat in my room until noon.

I ran my hands over every piece of clothing in the closet, every plate in the kitchen. Suddenly, I wanted to cry.

The door opened. Peter came back, carrying a takeout bag.

He barely glanced at me, walked over to the dining table, opened the bag, and ate by himself, ignoring me completely.

He stayed silent the whole time.

That was his usual way.

He was a teacher. He was great at lecturing, but too proud to admit he was wrong.

For over thirty years, whenever we argued, he'd give me the silent treatment, and I'd always be the one to make the first move.

But this time, I stayed put.

When I walked past Peter, he automatically shielded his takeout box, thinking I was about to snatch it away.

But I was just passing by.

He froze for a second, then went back to eating.

After a few bites, Peter finally sensed that something was different today.

For the first time, I didn't walk over and take his takeout box, saying, "Takeout isn't healthy. Let me fix you some noodles instead."

After my nap, I came out of the room.

Peter was already sitting on the couch, watching TV.

The takeout box was still sitting on the table, not cleared away.

Peter was used to everything in the house magically being put away.

There was still more than half the food left in the box.

He was picky and could never stand takeout food.

I opened the fridge. It was bare.

Peter demanded everything be fresh, so I went to the market every single day for groceries.

I grabbed my bag and headed out to the market.

I hadn't eaten all day, so tonight, I deserved a proper meal.

Half an hour later, I came back with beef, carrots, and potatoes.

I washed the vegetables, cut the meat, and got the stew going.

By evening, the smell of pot roast filled the whole house.

I scooped some rice, set the dishes on the table, and turned back to the kitchen to grab the forks.

When I came back, Peter was already sitting at the dining table.

He grabbed a piece of beef, about to take a bite.

I called out, "Put it down."

Peter frowned. "You're always yelling. You'll never grow out of that."

He'd always looked down on me for never going to college, thinking I was uneducated and low-class.

I used to tell myself he didn't mean it, that he had no filter.

Now I finally understand.

How could he not know those words hurt? He knew exactly what he was doing.

He wanted to make sure I always felt like I wasn't good enough for him.

I took the bowl right out of Peter's hand.

He stared at me, stunned. "What are you doing?"

I sat down and started eating. "I cooked this. If you want to eat, make your own."

His face darkened instantly, and he slammed his hand on the table. "Olivia, you're out of line."

I stopped eating and looked at him. "Did you bring me anything when you got lunch today?"

He froze.

I pressed on, "You didn't bring me lunch, so why should I cook for you?"

Peter's eyes went wide, his finger trembling as he pointed at me. "You're being completely unreasonable."

I kept eating, calm as ever. "I'm being perfectly reasonable. You're the one acting out of line."

Peter stared at me like he didn't recognize me.

Suddenly, he jumped up and sent the table flying.

Plates and bowls crashed to the floor, shattering all over the place.

The pot roast spilled everywhere, hot gravy soaking my pant legs.

The broth was sticky and warm, clinging to me the same way the dying warmth of our marriage did.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Henry's voice came through, "Mom, I..."

The rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat.

He stood frozen in the doorway, taking in the chaos. "What happened here?"

He rushed in, looking from me to Peter.

Peter said irritably, "Go ask your mom. She's been acting like she's lost her mind since yesterday."

"Grandpa, how could you say that about Grandma?" My granddaughter, Tina Scott, spoke up, standing up for me.