“Half? I paid for it. It’s mine!”
Maybe in his mind, but according to the law, I was still entitled to at least half of it. And given Martin had been spending his nights with his girlfriend—another kick in the face—the judge had no sympathy for him.
“I’ll have your things boxed and placed on the front porch.” No point in mentioning the fact there might be a little spit mixed in.
Now that I’d had a chance to really mull things over, I’d gone from crying to fighting. Not to save our marriage but to salvage my part in it.
I’d come into it with a small inheritance from my grandmother, who’d died while I was away at college. After I graduated and we married, I was the one who paid the down payment on the house, and while I didn’t contribute to much of the mortgage afterwards, my role at home was recognized by the courts. I was entitled to half, which angered Martin to no end.
“I should have killed you.” The spittle almost hit me in the face.
“Is that a threat?” My heart raced, and I almost trembled with fear, but I wouldn’t let him intimidate me. It turned out standing up to him was easier than expected, if ugly.
So very ugly.
A good thing I had Grisou to keep me company. I’d chosen that name for my kitten because the French Canadian endearment reminded me of my grandmother.
Thinking about her reminded me of the discovery that I still owned her cottage. Kind of. It was held in a trust that passed down to me after her death. I’d completely forgotten about it. I’d only gone once after she died. Martin said it was too far, and he hated the rustic nature of it.
It was a strange offer that arrived in the mail with an offer to buy it that inadvertently reminded me of its existence. My lawyer had immediately researched it and was confident I’d get to keep it. Something about a legal trust and some clause saying it had to stay in the family. Meaning Martin couldn’t touch it. Even if I died, it would go to Wendy and Geoff.
I wondered how it fared. Probably not too well given how long it had been since my last visit. Guilt filled me at the thought. I’d spent happy times in that cottage with my grandmother. It was even my home in high school after my dad disappeared—presumed dead—yet, I’d abandoned it.
So many things I’d given up for Martin, and for what? Other than the children, who barely spoke to me, what had I gotten out of it?
Low self-esteem. An extra hundred or so pounds. And the loss of my youth.
At forty-six, it was too late for a do-over. If only life came with a mulligan like it did in golf.
Arriving at the house I’d shared for much too long with Martin, I parked in the driveway and grimaced. I didn’t want to go inside. I hated everything about it. The taupe color of the walls. The set of leather furniture in the living room. Martin’s idea, not mine. Cold in the winter and sweaty in the summer. I preferred something with fabric that I could sink into, like the big chair my grandmother positioned by her fireplace. From it, she used to tell me stories while I drank hot cocoa, fantasy tales about how the woods were home to fairies and other impossible creatures. About the monster in the lake and the elves that roamed the woods.
I’d loved her fiercely and still remembered how hard I cried when, after my mother died, my father moved us far enough that it became hard to visit. I went from seeing her all the time to once or twice a year. Then Dad didn’t come home, and she was the only person I had left. Not that I cared. By the time I went to live with her as a teenager, I was a moody thing, prone to depression.
She left everything to me. Her only granddaughter.
Funny how I couldn’t stop thinking of her lately. Her and the cottage. I recalled the tranquility of the woods surrounding her place and the gentle sound of waves lapping the shore of the lake.
It had been too long since my last visit. Way too long. I doubted it was still the same.
As I entered the house, Grisou came bolting out of nowhere and flung himself at my calf. Four legs and too many teeny-tiny claws clamped onto my pants, penetrating fabric and digging into skin.
Ouch. I winced, but I didn’t shake my leg to fling him off. I’d learned my lesson. He would only cling tighter.
Instead, I gave him my sternest gaze. “What did I say about climbing my leg?”
“Miii-ooo.” His happy sound as he inched up me until his head butted into my chin. He instantly started to purr.
How could I be mad? I couldn’t. On my darkest day, he’d appeared like some kind of guardian angel and saved me. Or at least gave me something to smile about.
I rubbed at his ears, and he purred so lustily his whole body vibrated. I laughed, a sound that was less and less rusty by the day. “You are such a cutie.” I forgave him the pinpricks on my leg.
With him clinging to my shoulder and neck, I headed for the kitchen. After the afternoon I’d just had, I needed a drink.
Whereas only days ago I would have gone for the soda in the fridge—the sweeter, the better—I now aimed for water. Ever since Martin dumped me, I’d been resisting the temptation to eat my anxiety away. It hadn’t worked for more than two decades.
Time for a change, even if it was painful—like the hour I’d spent plucking my brows. Not something I’d recommend. My skin still hadn’t forgiven me.
My phone rang, which was startling given I’d only gotten it a few days ago. As expected, Martin had cancelled the other line. So far, only the kids and my lawyer had it.
It wasn’t them calling.
I frowned at the number. Unknown. Just like the call I got the day Martin left me. Probably a telemarketing scam. Like that guy who told you he worked for the IRS and you’d better send money or the cops would be knocking down your door. Maybe I should answer and given them Martin’s number to call instead.
Tempting.
I ignored it.
It went to voicemail, and the notification went off. I’d check it later. First, I changed clothes and got on the treadmill, which had been gathering dust in the basement for years.
I huffed and puffed as I quick-marched on it, hating every minute. Those people who talked about the euphoric high they got from exercising? Liars. But I was determined to stick to it. Not because Martin had called me fat but because I was fat and it was time I did something about it.
When we’d married, I’d weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. By the second kid, I was over two hundred and never came back down. Over the years I crept up. Two twenty. Two forty. I got depressed. Two sixty…and my husband left me.
I didn’t want to be a sad, overweight divorcee who stayed in the house and never did anything except collect cats. Although I now understood why you would. There was something very satisfying about having Grisou around.
“Next week, I’m going to learn how to throw axes.” I’d seen a flyer in the grocery store a few months ago. It seemed the most frivolous skill I could learn, and yet, I tingled with excitement at the idea of trying. If the apocalypse came, I’d be ready.
“I am also going to try belly dancing at the rec center and eat at that new sushi place,” I informed Grisou, who’d followed me to the basement and curled up in the blanket on the chair I’d set up for him.
The cat stretched and blinked in reply. It was nice having someone who agreed.
Off went my phone again just as I finished my wretched bout with the machine of leg torture. Seeing a number I recognized, I almost dropped the cellphone as I tried to answer.