Chapter 7 · I Signed the Divorce First

The next morning, I woke up before six. It wasn't the alarm that woke me. It was pure habit.

After four years of getting up at six every day, my body wouldn't let me sleep in.

I got up, washed my face, and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I looked tired. There were dark circles under my eyes.

I took the tube of foundation Claire had given me, squeezed a little onto the back of my hand, and smoothed on a thin layer to cover the worst of the fatigue.

I filled in my eyebrows and put on some lip balm. It was good enough.

I went through my closet. The only thing I had that was decent enough to wear out was a dark blue shirt dress.

I'd bought it two years ago, and it had gotten a little tight around the waist. I barely managed to button it up.

I paired it with my freshly washed sneakers. They didn't really go together. But it was all I had.

I tied my hair into a low ponytail and left.

*****

The subway was packed. As I squeezed into the car, my phone buzzed several times. They were all from Michael. He was calling from a new number.

I ignored the first call. Then the second. When the third one was still ringing, I hit decline.

Then, he sent a text. [Evelyn, Mom slipped sideways out of her wheelchair yesterday afternoon and hit her head. We still haven't found a caregiver, and I had to handle everything myself until late last night.]

[Can you come back and help for a few days? Just a few days.]

I read it and locked my screen.

Another voice message from Emily came in right after. I didn't play it. I deleted it.

Then her text messages started coming through. [Evelyn, you blocked Michael? What the hell is wrong with you?]

[Mom fell last night. Did you even know that? I don't care if you're divorced now, but how can you be this heartless? Where's your conscience?]

Another message followed. [Don't think getting divorced means you're suddenly free to do whatever you want.]

[You lived off Michael for four years, and now you're just walking away like none of it happened? You're such an ungrateful bitch.]

I read it and deleted it.

The subway announcement came over the speakers. There were three more stops.

I opened the folder on my phone that held my portfolio and looked through the thirty-plus projects I'd completed.

The earliest ones looked rough now. The color choices were inconsistent, and the layouts felt stiff.

But each year, my work had gotten better.

The most recent project was a full branding package for a drink brand called "Springhill." I thought it was my best work so far.

The logo, packaging, storefront graphics, and everything had taken me two months of late nights.

During the day, I had washed Margaret, changed her clothes, fed her, and brought her water.

At night, once she was finally fast asleep, I'd tiptoe back to that narrow bed, prop a pillow on top of the blanket to use as a makeshift mouse pad, and open my laptop.

I'd fine-tune everything pixel by pixel.

When my eyes got sore, I'd rub my nose a couple times and keep going.

I'd lived two completely separate lives, one during the day and another at night, for four years. Now I could finally live only one.

*****

I got off the subway. It felt like I'd stepped into another world.

Office towers crowded the streets, and everyone seemed to be rushing somewhere. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Spectrum Creative occupied the sixteenth floor of an office building in the CBD.

As soon as I walked through the entrance, I saw an entire wall behind the reception desk covered with displays of branding projects the company had done.

I glanced over them and recognized two or three of the brands. They looked impressive.

The receptionist greeted me politely. "Who are you here to see?"

"Rachel Hayes. She's expecting me at two," I replied.

"Alright, please have a seat," she said.

I sat down on the couch in the waiting area. My heart was beating a little faster than usual. It had been four years since I'd stepped inside an office building.

Chapter 7

The next morning, I woke up before six. It wasn't the alarm that woke me. It was pure habit.

After four years of getting up at six every day, my body wouldn't let me sleep in.

I got up, washed my face, and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I looked tired. There were dark circles under my eyes.

I took the tube of foundation Claire had given me, squeezed a little onto the back of my hand, and smoothed on a thin layer to cover the worst of the fatigue.

I filled in my eyebrows and put on some lip balm. It was good enough.

I went through my closet. The only thing I had that was decent enough to wear out was a dark blue shirt dress.

I'd bought it two years ago, and it had gotten a little tight around the waist. I barely managed to button it up.

I paired it with my freshly washed sneakers. They didn't really go together. But it was all I had.

I tied my hair into a low ponytail and left.

*****

The subway was packed. As I squeezed into the car, my phone buzzed several times. They were all from Michael. He was calling from a new number.

I ignored the first call. Then the second. When the third one was still ringing, I hit decline.

[Can you come back and help for a few days? Just a few days.]

I read it and locked my screen.

Another voice message from Emily came in right after. I didn't play it. I deleted it.

Then her text messages started coming through. [Evelyn, you blocked Michael? What the hell is wrong with you?]

[Mom fell last night. Did you even know that? I don't care if you're divorced now, but how can you be this heartless? Where's your conscience?]

Another message followed. [Don't think getting divorced means you're suddenly free to do whatever you want.]

[You lived off Michael for four years, and now you're just walking away like none of it happened? You're such an ungrateful bitch.]

I read it and deleted it.

The subway announcement came over the speakers. There were three more stops.

I opened the folder on my phone that held my portfolio and looked through the thirty-plus projects I'd completed.

The earliest ones looked rough now. The color choices were inconsistent, and the layouts felt stiff.

But each year, my work had gotten better.

The most recent project was a full branding package for a drink brand called "Springhill." I thought it was my best work so far.

The logo, packaging, storefront graphics, and everything had taken me two months of late nights.

During the day, I had washed Margaret, changed her clothes, fed her, and brought her water.

At night, once she was finally fast asleep, I'd tiptoe back to that narrow bed, prop a pillow on top of the blanket to use as a makeshift mouse pad, and open my laptop.

I'd fine-tune everything pixel by pixel.

When my eyes got sore, I'd rub my nose a couple times and keep going.

I'd lived two completely separate lives, one during the day and another at night, for four years. Now I could finally live only one.

*****

I got off the subway. It felt like I'd stepped into another world.

Office towers crowded the streets, and everyone seemed to be rushing somewhere. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Spectrum Creative occupied the sixteenth floor of an office building in the CBD.

As soon as I walked through the entrance, I saw an entire wall behind the reception desk covered with displays of branding projects the company had done.

I glanced over them and recognized two or three of the brands. They looked impressive.

The receptionist greeted me politely. "Who are you here to see?"

"Rachel Hayes. She's expecting me at two," I replied.

"Alright, please have a seat," she said.

I sat down on the couch in the waiting area. My heart was beating a little faster than usual. It had been four years since I'd stepped inside an office building.