I stood up and went to the kitchen. I poured a glass of water and drank it in one go. Looking out the window, I saw the gray Ford pulling out of the lot. The trunk wouldn’t close properly; the corner of a black contractor bag was sticking out. Eleanor was in the passenger seat, her silhouette suggesting she was still lecturing her son. Now, they were stuck with each other.
Two scorpions in a bottle. Mark would have to move back into his mother’s house—the one he’d spent my money fixing up. He’d have to listen to her every single day. It was a better punishment than anything I could have devised. I didn’t have to do a thing; reality would catch up to them soon enough.
My stomach growled. I realized I was starving. I opened the fridge. There was a pot of the stew Mark had demanded and the side dishes Eleanor had criticized.
I reached past them and grabbed a container of fresh mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes I’d bought for myself but hidden in the back so I wouldn’t have to hear, “You’re wasting money on fancy groceries again.” I sliced the cheese and tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, and found some crackers. I sat on the windowsill.
Outside, the sun was setting, and the streetlights were flickering on. The city went on, indifferent to the small dramas behind brick walls. I thought about the broken porcelain. It was a shame, yes—but it was a small price to pay for my freedom. Expensive, but worth every cent.
It was a quiet ending, like the calm after a storm. Sometimes, to find your true home, you just have to put the people who turn it into a battlefield out on the curb.
