It took her three hours. When she was done, her hands were raw and red. “Can I rest now?” she sobbed. “No,” Mike said. He led her outside.
He handed her a shovel—the old, rusty one from the shed. “What is this?” “Your next project. You see this turf? You’re ripping it up. Every square inch. My mother loved her garden. You’re going to find her seeds in the shed and you’re going to replant everything.”
“It’s the wrong season! They won’t grow!” “Then you’ll keep planting until they do. Start digging.”
He sat on the patio furniture and watched her. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink. He just watched the woman who had imprisoned his mother do manual labor for the first time in her life. When her friend “Tiffany” called her phone, Mike answered it. “Susan’s busy,” he said coldly. “She’s finally doing some yard work. Don’t call back.” He crushed the phone under his boot.
By sunset, Susan was a wreck. Her designer clothes were ruined, her hair was a mess, and her hands were covered in blisters. She collapsed in the dirt. “Enough for today,” Mike said. “Go inside.”
She hobbled toward the back door, but he stopped her. “Not the master bedroom. You’re sleeping in the closet. On the floor. Just like Mom.”
“No! Please, Mike! Not there!” “Would you prefer the shed?” he asked. She went to the closet. He gave her one thin blanket and a glass of tap water. He locked the door from the outside.
Mike spent the night at the hospital. The doctor told him Martha had a long road ahead. “It’s not just the physical toll,” the doctor said. “She’s traumatized. She might never fully trust anyone again.” Mike sat by her bed, holding her hand, the anger in his heart hardening into a permanent frost.
When he returned the next morning, he woke Susan up with a nudge of his boot. “Time to work.” He made her scrub the floors with vinegar and water, the old-fashioned way. He made her throw away all her expensive makeup and perfumes. He watched her beauty fade into exhaustion and grime.
A few days later, he brought her a stack of papers. “What’s this?” “Divorce papers. And a deed transfer. You’re signing the house back to me, and you’re waiving any claim to my pension or savings.” She signed them without a word. She was too broken to fight.
But he didn’t kick her out. Not yet. He made her stay as his “housekeeper.” She lived in the tiny laundry room. She cooked, she cleaned, and she waited on him and eventually on Martha when she was strong enough to come home.
One afternoon, Mike’s mother was sitting in the garden, watching the birds. Susan was nearby, pulling weeds, her face sunburnt and her spirit gone. Martha reached out and offered Susan a glass of water. Susan looked at her, stunned, and took it with trembling hands.
Mike watched from the porch. He hadn’t found “forgiveness,” and he didn’t think he ever would. But as he watched his mother reclaim her home, and saw the woman who had tried to destroy her reduced to a shadow, he knew that justice had finally been served. In his world, you reaped exactly what you sowed.
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