“He won’t. He’s a coward. All bullies are. He broke the second he felt a real threat.”
I stood up and started picking up the paper scraps. Susan rushed to help. We crawled on the floor together, picking up the pieces of our broken family.
“You know, Susan,” I said, tossing the scraps into the trash, “I’m selling everything.”
She froze with a handful of paper.
“Selling? The house?”
“The house, the car, the garage. I can’t live here anymore. Every wall smells like Eleanor. Every floorboard whispers about the lies.”
“I can’t breathe in here.”
“Where will you go? To our place? Mike won’t mind. We have the guest room.”
“No, honey. I’m an old wolf; I need my own space. I bought an RV.”
“What?” Susan’s eyes went wide. “Dad, you’re seventy-eight. You can’t drive an RV across the country.”
“It’s a nice one. A Winnebago. Bill’s cousin was selling it. It’s warm, has a bed, a little kitchen.”
“What else does an old man need?”
“Dad, this is crazy. It’s winter. You’ll get sick. What about your medicine?”
I smiled. For the first time in days, I felt the muscles in my face relax.
“I’m going south, Susan. To the coast. Eleanor always wanted to see the ocean in the winter. She spent her life saving for a dream she never got to have. I’m going to have it for her.”
“I’ll take her favorite scarf and let the sea breeze catch it. And I’ll see it for myself. Maybe I’ll stay down there. South Carolina is nice this time of year.”
“Dad…”
“Don’t argue, honey. My mind is made up. The money from the house sale goes to you. Pay off your mortgage. Put the rest away for the kids’ college.”
“Just live your life. Honestly. Without any secrets.”
She hugged me. Hard, like she did when she was a little girl. She cried into my shoulder.
I stroked her hair, which was already starting to gray, and I thought: this is my real legacy. Not Greg and his Rolex, but this tired, kind woman who knows how to forgive.
The move took two weeks. The house sold fast. It was a good neighborhood, near the park. The buyers were a young couple, excited to start a family.
I watched them walk through the rooms, planning where the nursery would go. I hoped they’d never have a “blue notebook” of their own.
The RV was parked at the curb. A sturdy, well-kept machine. Inside, it smelled of cedar and new upholstery. I took only the essentials.
A suitcase of clothes, my tools, the old photo albums—the ones without Greg—my fishing gear, and a small wooden cross my mother had given me.
On the last day, I went to the cemetery. Eleanor’s grave was covered in fresh snow. The headstone was simple and elegant. Her photo was in a small oval frame.
I cleared the snow with my hands and laid two roses. I pulled the blue notebook from my pocket. Here it was—the ledger of betrayal. I clicked my lighter.
The flame licked the corner of the cover, then caught. The paper, soaked in forty years of lies, burned bright. I held it until the heat reached my fingers.
“Goodbye, Eleanor,” I said to the wind. “I’m not angry anymore. You were a mother. You loved him the only way you knew how. It was a tragic, blind love, but it was yours.”
“Rest now. The bill is paid in full.”
The black ash fell onto the white snow. The wind caught it and carried it away toward the trees.
I turned and walked to the RV without looking back. The interstate stretched out before me like a gray ribbon. Outside the window, the snowy fields and small towns blurred past.
The cabin was warm. The radio was playing something soft. I gripped the wheel, feeling the vibration of the engine. It was the vibration of a new life.
My phone buzzed. A text from Susan.
“Dad, how are you? Did you make it past Virginia? Mike sent some money to your account for gas. We love you. Be safe. Call us tonight.”
I smiled. Everything was as it should be. Life wasn’t over. It had just taken a long-overdue turn.
Ahead of me was the ocean. I’d never seen it in the winter. They say it’s gray and powerful, like steel. That’s fine. I think we’ll get along just fine.
I pressed the accelerator. The engine hummed, picking up speed. The odometer clicked away the miles. Miles of freedom.
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