But if not them, then who? My family had died a long time ago.
I’m all alone. There was no worse feeling in the world.
I fixed my gaze on the gas stove. I’d heard it didn’t hurt. What would it be like to go to sleep and never wake? At least then I’d stop being a disappointment to everyone, most of all myself.
Without even realizing I’d moved, I found myself standing in front of the stove, my hand on the knob. The scent of gas filled my nostrils.
Dring. Dring.
My phone, with its old-fashioned ring tone, broke me free from the depressed mood that gripped me. I smelled the rotten egg of the gas and snapped the valve shut.
Never would I kill myself. In that I was certain.
I stepped away from the stove—and my moment of insanity—and rubbed at the hair straggling across my face, stuck to damp, snotty cheeks. Gross.
Dring. Dring.
I chose to rinse my face with cool water rather than run for the phone. It would hit voicemail before I reached it. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
They might hear the shame.
And if they asked if I was all right—
Well, that was a question I’d rather not deal with right now. Only once I’d patted my face dry did I peek at my phone. Unknown. Damned telemarketers.
I shuffled from the kitchen into the living room, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Halting, I stared long and hard. Stared at myself in a critical manner that I’d not dared for a long time. I hated the woman looking back at me.
A woman who had let herself go. When was the last time I had my hair cut? The wispy ends of it were dry and split. Gray lined the brown. And it was thin. So thin compared to my youth when I could barely put my fingers around it.
Look at the state of my brows! Shaggy caterpillars that only narrowly missed joining. Just call me Bert.
My shirt probably wouldn’t even make the repurpose bin if donated. It was little better than a rag. In my defense, I’d not expected to get up this morning and get dumped on. But at the same time, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d bought myself something because it looked pretty. It had been a while since I’d bothered trying to doll myself up to look attractive.
For that I blamed Martin. He didn’t care, so neither did I.
And now look at me. The old lady in the mirror had a trembling lower lip and her skin was blotchy.
It would have been easy to start crying again. Just as easy to forget my previous vow of not giving up and go straight for the pills Martin kept in the upstairs bathroom. Wash them down with some booze and then a nice soak in the tub and I wouldn’t have to deal with this…nightmare.
My gaze strayed to the stove again. I knew all the ways I could go. Easy, painless methods, unlike what I’d have to deal with today, tomorrow...
Scratch. Scratch.
It came from the living room. The strange noise drew my gaze to the back of the house. A curtain covered the sliding glass door because Martin hated sunlight in the morning. For once, I didn’t actually mind it, as the gloom suited my mood.
I heard it again, a strange noise coming from outside. I crossed the room in an instant. Yanking the curtain aside, I saw a little furry face. The ears on the smoky gray fluffball were bent. Its fur was matted and wet as if it had spent time in the rain. It had one blue eye, one green, the mismatched set gazing mournfully at me. It raised a paw, and its sharp little claws dragged on the screen.
How had a kitten gotten into the yard? The fence was too high for it to climb.
“Meow.” The cry emerged soft and muffled.
I still slid open the door and then pulled mesh along the metal track before kneeling. “Hello there, little one. Where did you come from?” I saw no collar. Nothing to identify whom it belonged to.
I reached out and stroked a finger over its head. It trembled. Poor little thing.
“What am I going to do with you?” It probably belonged to someone. Maybe they’d come looking for it.
“Meeee-uuu.” The long, plaintive sound tugged at me, and I scooped the wet thing, cradling it to my own damp chest.
“Don’t cry,” I soothed, the gesture and comforting of the trembling body reminding me of my kids when they were little. A time when I used to be if not happy, then content. Back when they still loved and looked up to me.
The little head bumped into my chest. I stroked a finger over its damp head, and the kitten broke into a ragged, rumbling purr.
“Let’s get you warm and dry.” I brought the kitten into the house, ignoring the inner voice that said Martin wouldn’t like it. He hated animals. Forbade us from having any.
Martin could stuff it.
“I wonder if someone is looking for you,” I murmured, bringing it into the kitchen.
I only briefly thought of going and asking door to door if someone had lost it. The thought of facing that many people…I couldn’t do it.
Instead, I created a small poster and stapled it to the fence out front with its peeling paint. It had been years since Martin gave a hoot about anything pertaining to the house. Probably too busy giving his attention to another woman.
Jerk.
With my civic duty done, I made a quick trip to the store, bought everything I needed for the cat and myself, paid for it on a credit card. Then I went and gassed up, where the same card was declined.
I frowned at the machine. Perhaps it had malfunctioned. I went inside and the cashier gave me a bored look as it was declined again.
A good thing I had a few dollars to pay for my gas. I got back into my car, hot with embarrassment, which turned to fury once I got off the phone with the credit card company. Martin had cancelled my credit card.
Glancing at my phone, I wondered if it would be the next casualty. I had no doubt vindictive Martin would try to take everything from me. He’d leave me with nothing.
Then what would I do?
Starting my car, I found my spine and yanked it out of hiding.
If Martin wanted a divorce, I’d give him a divorce, but I was done bending over backwards for him.
He wanted a fight. I’d give him a fight.
2
“I can’t believe the judge is letting you stay in the house,” Martin hissed.
It was a few days later, after my lawyer—who assured me Martin would be paying for her services—got a court order that said it was mine to live in until the divorce was final. My lawyer also got me back a portion of the money Martin had cleared out of the joint account, which was good, because my puny paychecks didn’t go very far. I’d not yet asked for more hours. I’d been too busy digging out every single piece of paper I could find to give my lawyer, Mrs. Salvatore—who specialized in ensuring spouses didn’t get screwed during separations.
I could thank my new kitten for finding Mrs. Salvatore—"Call me Rosy”—given I’d almost thrown out the flyer with her name and number on it. My little furball had attacked the piece of paper when it fluttered to the floor on the way to the recycle bin. The headline had grabbed me with its bold statement. You deserve more.
I did.
One phone call to the lawyer and some of my anxiety had lessened. Today, winning in court, a bit more eased. I still had a home.
Martin didn’t like losing, though. “You’ll regret not leaving.”
I’d regret even more letting this man tell me what to do. I angled my chin. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to stay in it forever.” I hated it with a passion and couldn’t wait to abandon it. “Once we sell it and I receive my half—”