I felt my pride crumble, piece by piece.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and it took everything in me to keep my voice steady. “I’ll figure something out.”
I began backing down the driveway, hands pushing the rims in slow, controlled movements, because I refused to leave in a frantic scramble. I refused to give them that.
As I waited for my cab, forty dollars I couldn’t afford for the round trip, I heard their front door close with a soft click that sounded like a lock turning.
Through the window, I could see them in their kitchen, moving around in a calm domestic rhythm, probably talking about how to handle their Helen problem without upsetting the children, without disrupting the routine.
I stared until the cab arrived.
That night, back in my own house, I lay on the living room couch and stared at the ceiling, the fan turning slowly above me.
The couch springs pressed into my back. My hip ached with the dull, relentless throb that had become my constant companion.
In the dark, the house felt too large and too empty.
And I realized something that probably should have been obvious long ago.
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