Chapter 2

At nine that evening, I finished Margaret's last leg massage of the day.

Her right leg was severely atrophied. There was hardly any muscle left below the knee. The doctor ordered that I had to message her leg three times a day, half an hour each time, to keep it from deteriorating further.

After four years of doing it, her leg hadn't gotten any better, but my back had given out first.

When I reached the 20-minute mark, she suddenly spoke. "You and Michael are really getting divorced?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Who asked for it?"

"He did."

She was silent for a couple of seconds before saying, "You should have gotten divorced long ago. You're not good enough for him."

I rubbed her ankle joint while she mumbled, "How much is he making now?"

"Eight thousand three hundred dollars."

"Eight thousand three hundred dollars? With that kind of salary, he could find any young, pretty, working woman he wanted." She grew more animated as she spoke, drool trickling from the corner of her mouth. "And you?

"After living in our house for four years, you go out looking like a servant. Who would even want you?"

I took a tissue and wiped her mouth. "Margaret."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not a servant."

She froze for a second before smacking the bed. "What did you say? If you don't take care of me, then who will?

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to raise Michael? He married you, so you should take care of me for the rest of your life. If you won't do it, then who will?"

The study door opened down the hallway, and Michael came over after taking a look at what was going on in the room. "What are you two arguing about?"

"She said she's not a servant." Margaret pointed at me, looking deeply offended.

Michael glanced at me.

I tucked the blanket around Margaret, then stood up. "All done. Time to sleep, Margaret."

As I walked out, I could hear Margaret grumbling behind me and Michael quietly trying to calm her down. "Mom, that's not what she meant. Don't think too much about it."

He had always been like that, never saying I was right or wrong, only telling her not to think too much.

I went back to the bedroom. Calling it a bedroom was being generous because it was really only a tiny 86-square-foot room with a single bed, a closet, and a chair.

When Margaret first moved in, she took the master bedroom, so Michael and I squeezed into the second bedroom.

But later he complained that I made too much noise getting up in the middle of the night to take care of his mother and disturbed his sleep.

So he moved into the study, leaving this 86-square-foot room as the only space in the house that was truly mine.

I opened the wardrobe and found my clothes crammed into the far right corner, taking up less than a third of a section, with only a few cotton lounge sets, two pairs of loose pants, and a shirt dress I'd bought years ago.

I owned only two pairs of shoes, a pair of sneakers and a pair of plastic slippers.

I pulled the gray 20-inch suitcase out from the corner.

When I first moved in, it was packed full. But now everything I owned was barely filled half of it, including my identification documents, bank cards, charger, and a few clothes for the changing seasons.

All I had left in my skincare bag was a tube of moisturizer and a lip balm that Claire Reed had slipped into my hands the last time she visited.

My jewelry box was completely empty because the bracelet and necklace Margaret had given me when I got married had been taken by Michael the following year when she was hospitalized.

He said they needed the money for her treatment and promised to replace them later.

He never did, and I never asked him about them either because I knew it wouldn't have made a difference.

I zipped up the suitcase and left it by the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room.

There was a patch of peeling paint in the corner where a leak had seeped through last winter, and I'd bought some wall filler and patched it myself. But I hadn't done a very good job, so a faint mark was still there.

On the nightstand sat a small lamp, its shade cracked from the time I'd bumped into it while getting up in the middle of the night to turn Margaret over.

Every mark in this room belonged to me. But the room itself didn't.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Claire. [What time are we going tomorrow? I took the day off.]

[I've already put fresh sheets on the bed at the new place, and I checked the water heater, so everything's good to go. All that's missing is you, my fearless heroine.]

I replied: [Nine thirty.]

[Got it. Bring your documents. Get some good sleep tonight.]

Good sleep. It had been a long time since I'd had any.

I turned off the light and lay down.

From the room next door came the muffled sound of Margaret turning over, followed by another vague groan.

I waited a few seconds. She didn't call out again. She was only talking in her sleep.

This was my last night here.