Chapter 7
Michael's face went pale.
I kept going. "Your stuff's still at Clara's place. If you want to crash, go back to The Dorm."
"Stop rubbing it in," he said.
"If you don't like it, then don't come here."
I shut the door.
From outside, Michael called softly, "Sarah."
His voice was barely a whisper.
But I heard him.
My hand froze on the doorknob.
Through the door, he said, "I'm really tired."
I stared down at the edge of my slippers.
Back then, hearing him say he was tired would make me soften up instantly.
I'd draw him a bath, cook him some noodles, and give him a temple massage.
But now, there was only one image in my mind.
Michael was standing outside Clara Hart's place, turning back to look at her.
That look wasn't about being tired.
He was totally willing, like he wanted to be there.
I locked the door.
"If you're tired, then deal with the consequences of your own choices," I said.
There was no sound from outside.
The hot pot was bubbling away.
I went back to the table and dropped the beef slices in.
The spicy oil bubbled up, and the aroma washed over me.
Suddenly, I thought, 'This is what it means to really live.'
No more changing my taste for anyone.
No more leaving the light on for anyone.
No more staying up late for anyone.
No more turning myself into a doormat, a nanny with no backbone, for someone else.
Michael started showing up more and more often.
Sometimes he came to grab some files.
Sometimes he came to pick up some clothes.
Sometimes he said he was passing by.
One time, he even asked if I still had any salt at home: he was out of salt and couldn't cook over at his place.
I burst out laughing so hard I almost choked on my water.
" go to the supermarket," I said.
He stood in the entryway, looking so awkward you'd think he wanted to disappear.
"Clara said the kid was hungry and there was no time to go," he mumbled.
"Then tell her to order takeout."
"She said takeout's not healthy."
"Then you cook."
"I don't have any salt at home."
"So you drove twenty minutes to get some salt?"
He went quiet.
I leaned against the shoe cabinet, watching him.
"Ever notice you look like life's been beating you up lately?" I asked.
He looked up, totally wiped out.
"She got back. She's still ading," he said.
"She's been gone for years, and now she doesn't even recognize salt anymore?" I shot back.
His face darkened. "Do you really have to be this mean?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
He was so thrown by my honesty, he couldn't even respond.
I wasn't always like this.
Back then, I was soft, always backing down, always finding excuses for him.
When Clara didn't cook, I'd tell myself maybe she wasn't into it.
When the kid cried, I'd think, being a single mom must be exhausting.
When Michael looked wiped out, I'd figure he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
But I spent all my time worrying about everyone else, and no one ever bothered to worry about me.
So I stopped.
He didn't get any salt, so he left empty-handed.
That night, Clara posted on her feed.
This time, it was a pic of her kid sitting on the floor, crying his eyes out. Her caption said, "Some things, only moms really get."