Lucy was quiet for a moment. Did she miss Eric? The man who had been the center of her universe for thirteen years? The one who decided where they vacationed, what they bought, how they lived? The one who had said, “I’m leaving you,” one morning and walked out without looking back?
“I miss how things used to be,” she said at last. “When we were all together.”
And how had things been, really? Lucy tried to remember and couldn’t. When had they last laughed together? When had they talked about anything besides the children, money, errands? When had he looked at her the way he had in the early years—with admiration, tenderness, love…
“It was good,” she said. “A long time ago.”
Paige said nothing. She only watched her mother with that steady, older-than-her-years look. And Lucy knew her daughter understood. Understood what Lucy herself had refused to admit for years. That love had left long before Eric did. That the last few years they had lived on habit, momentum, and “for the kids.” Only kids always know. They always know.
The next day Lucy called her mother. For the first time in three weeks.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
“What happened, honey? Is it the kids?”
“The kids are fine. Eric left. Three weeks ago.”
Silence. Then a heavy sigh.
“I knew it would happen.”
“What?”
“Lucy, I always knew. From the beginning. He didn’t love you. He loved who he got to be with you. That’s not the same thing.”
“Mom, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would you have listened? You were so in love, so happy. I couldn’t take that from you. Even if it wasn’t built to last.”
Lucy sat at the kitchen table, phone pressed to her ear, and felt another illusion crack. Her mother had known. Always known. And stayed quiet.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“Live, honey. Just live. You’re stronger than you think. Much stronger.”
Two days later Lucy went to work. Margaret met her at the door in an apron, holding a cleaning rag.
“All right then. Show me what you can do.”
And Lucy did. She scrubbed floors like her life depended on it—because in a way, it did. She cooked lunch, simple but good. Washed dishes, dusted shelves, watered plants. By evening Margaret sat her down at the table, poured tea, and said:
“You’ll do. Come Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Nine to two. What do you want me to pay you?”
Lucy blinked. She hadn’t even thought about a number. She would have agreed to almost anything.
“Whatever you think is fair…”
“Don’t do that. What do you need?”
Lucy named a modest amount—modest by her standards, anyway. Margaret snorted.
“You don’t value yourself. I’ll pay double. And don’t argue. Good work deserves good money.”
Lucy walked home through the evening streets and cried. But for the first time in three weeks, they weren’t tears of despair. They were relief. A small victory. The first of many. She had no idea yet how much was still ahead of her.
A month flew by. Lucy settled into a new rhythm: up at six, breakfast for the kids, school and preschool drop-off, work at Margaret’s, lunch, homework with Ben, playtime with Maddie, dinner, bedtime. And then again. The money from Margaret and the child support from Eric barely covered expenses. Lucy learned to stretch every dollar: bought groceries on sale, sewed dresses for Maddie out of old clothes, fixed what she could herself. But it still wasn’t enough for rent.
“You need to find something cheaper,” Susan said, sitting at the kitchen table and turning a cold mug of tea in her hands. “Or work more.”
“When? I’m already running on fumes.”
“What about full-time? After-school care for the kids?”
“That costs money. And preschool only keeps Maddie till five.”
Susan sighed. She helped when she could—groceries, hand-me-downs for the kids—but her own life was no picnic. A husband who drank too much. A teenage son drifting into trouble. Problems of her own.
“Maybe talk to your boss. Maybe she has more work.”
“I’d feel awkward. She already pays me a lot.”
“Lucy, this is not the season for awkward. This is the season for survival.”
