Chapter 4: Trying On a New Life

For the first time in decades, I let myself sleep in. The chaos outside the bedroom was none of my business.

Derek burst in, already late for work, voice panicked. “Mom, where’s my white shirt? I have a meeting today. Did you iron it?”

“Didn’t wash it,” I said, voice muffled by the comforter.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

Derek stood in the hallway, dumbfounded, not used to fending for himself. I listened to him mutter under his breath, rifling through the laundry basket.

Frank followed, voice sharp. “You didn’t do the laundry, fine. But the boy has to go to work. Get up and make some eggs so I can eat before I go out. I have an appointment with Dave to fish.”

I just pulled the quilt over my head and said, “I don’t feel good. You guys can handle it.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then Frank huffed. “If you don’t cook, I’ll eat out. I don’t believe the world stops without you. Try not cooking for your whole life. If we spend all our money eating out, let’s see how long you last.”

I smiled under the covers. Let’s see how long we last. Six days, maybe? After that, if you don’t cook, you’ll have to.

When the house finally emptied, I got dressed, combed my hair, and went to visit an old friend from church. She’d been lucky—her husband died years ago, and the insurance payout meant she didn’t have to answer to anyone. She spent her days dancing at the rec center, going on bus trips with friends, living for herself.

When she heard I was going abroad, she practically dragged me to the big mall on the edge of town.

“If you’re going overseas, you need some decent clothes. Look at what you’re wearing—faded, and I’ve seen you wear these for ten years.”

The mall was blasting country music, the dressing rooms smelled like new denim and perfume, and my friend kept waving coupons at me. The dressing room mirrors were unforgiving. They showed my graying hair, the wrinkles at my eyes, and the white cuffs on my sleeves—yellowed, threadbare from years of scrubbing. I stood there, staring at myself, remembering a girl from thirty-five years ago who used to love bright colors and lip gloss. When I’d married Frank, he promised I could be his little girl forever. I almost laughed, seeing what I’d become.

My friend picked out three or four outfits, waving away the price tags. “My treat. You deserve it.” I refused again and again, but finally picked one—a blue blouse with a soft collar. Even that felt extravagant, fifty dollars for a single shirt. But then I remembered Frank’s fishing rods—stacked in the garage, worth ten times that. I threw in a pair of pants, making it a clean hundred.

I came home, bags in hand, to find Frank already back. He was slouched on the sofa, looking everywhere but at me, stealing glances when he thought I wasn’t watching. I quickly looked away and saw a plastic grocery bag on the coffee table.

He caught me looking and lifted his chin, feigning indifference. “Over six bucks a pound—look at the trouble you make me go to. Hurry up and eat, then cook.”

Inside were a dozen or so wilted strawberries, obviously marked down, soft spots blooming along their skin. Not washed. Frank clearly wasn’t planning to eat these—he’d left them for me, like always.

It had always been this way: Frank, who made the money, ate first; then the kids; I ate what was left. Back then, everyone struggled, so you just swallowed it, bit by bit.

But now, Frank had a pension, the kids were grown, and there was no reason to keep eating leftovers. I tossed the bag of strawberries into the trash can, right in front of Frank’s eyes.

He started to protest, but I cut him off. “They’re spoiled. Can’t eat them.”

I saw the look on his face—confusion, then anger—but I turned and went into the kitchen, letting the trash lid slam shut.

Before coming home, Tanya had called to say her dad was coming for dinner. After all, he was a guest—you can’t just let a guest go hungry. I rolled up my sleeves, let the faucet run, and got to work.

Tanya comes from a single-parent family. Her father had a stroke at the end of last year and now uses a wheelchair, his hands trembling, face gaunt. He looked even more frail now, eyes searching the room for reassurance as Tanya pushed him in.

As soon as we sat down to dinner—barbecue ribs glazed with sticky sauce, mac and cheese bubbling golden, and Tanya’s favorite—potato salad with too much mayo, just how she liked it—she brought it up: “Mom, my dad can’t live alone. I did the math—hiring a nurse or caregiver costs at least two grand a month. Derek and I together barely make six grand, so it’s really not worth it. Once this nurse leaves, let’s bring him here. The whole family can help.”

She went on, practical as ever: “We have a spare storage room—clean it up for my dad. The place he’s living now can be rented out, and the rent can help with expenses.”

Before I could say a word, Frank and Derek nodded, almost in unison.

“Of course, of course. A father-in-law is like family. It’s only right to help out,” Frank said, sounding more generous than I’d heard in years.

“Don’t worry, Tanya. With all of us here, we can definitely take good care of him,” Derek added, flashing a strained smile.

The ribs I’d labored over tasted like nothing in my mouth, cardboard and salt. I looked at Frank and Derek, felt something crack inside me.

“Are you two the ones who’ll take care of him?” I asked, voice soft but clear.

Both Derek and Tanya worked full-time, and Frank had never touched a mop in his life. I could see where this was heading—the burden would land square on my shoulders, just like it always had.

Scenes flashed in my mind: the years I’d spent caring for Frank’s parents, waking every two hours, changing sheets, holding hands through fever and confusion. The exhaustion, the worry, the unending work.

I’d finally seen my in-laws off, finally had the house back to myself. And now, another round? My chest tightened at the thought.

Frank frowned, like he’d just smelled something sour. “You’ve been acting strange lately—what are you up to? It’s just taking care of a half-paralyzed man. You’ve done it before, why not now?”

He put down his fork, clattering it against the plate. “Linda, you spent a hundred bucks this afternoon. What did you buy, clothes made of gold? Never mind, I’ll count it as money spent to ward off disaster. But if you keep this up, I won’t give you a cent.”

“An old woman who won’t care for her son or grandson—what, you want to leave this family and be like those old women who get divorced at your age?”

The word “divorce” hit me like a cold slap.

Divorce. Why had I never considered it before?

Seeing I didn’t answer, Frank paused, then tried a softer tack. “I know you’re upset, so didn’t I go out this afternoon and buy you strawberries? People should be content.”

Derek nodded along, almost pleading. “Exactly, Mom, aren’t I your own son? Is it so hard to help us out?”

Derek looked just like Frank had, all those years ago—same jawline, same set to his mouth. Both of them looked at me, expecting me to cave, to give in like always.

I stared at their faces—so sure I’d just roll over, like always. But something in me snapped, quiet and final. I shook my head. “Do as you please. I won’t take care of it, anyway.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, Frank’s face twisted in rage. He hurled his fork at me. The metal fork clattered against my forehead, a hot sting blossoming above my eyebrow. Blood trickled down, warm and shocking.

I just stood there, dazed, hand pressed to my skin.

Everyone left the table. Derek was still muttering, “Mom, don’t blame Dad. You’re the one making a fuss over nothing.”

Blood still seeping from my forehead, I stared at the slammed door. For the first time, I let myself imagine what freedom might taste like.