Chapter 4: Letting Go and Finding Myself

When I picked up my son from school, he told me Grandpa had called and missed him, asking if he could stay at Grandpa’s for a week. He wanted me to take him over.

His little face lit up, backpack swinging as he skipped beside me. I squeezed his hand, promising he could pack his favorite pajamas and the battered stuffed lion he’d carried since preschool.

I was surprised, but took my son home to pack a small suitcase. He was so happy, saying Grandpa promised to play with his drone with him.

He chattered all the way home about flying the drone over Grandma’s garden, his excitement contagious. I helped him fold his clothes, tucking his favorite book into the corner of the suitcase.

I took him over.

The drive was short, sunlight glinting off the dashboard. My son bounced in his seat, humming along to the pop song on the radio. When we arrived, Grandpa was waiting on the porch, waving like he used to when I was a kid.

My mom walked me out. "Rachel, cheer up. Go out and get some fresh air."

She pressed my hand before I left, her eyes searching my face for signs of hope. “Take time for yourself, honey. Go somewhere new.”

When I got in the car, my mom stood there watching me, not going inside for a long time.

I saw her reflection in the rearview mirror, arms folded, standing guard. I knew she wouldn’t move until I was out of sight.

I flipped down the car mirror, looked at my pale face and tired eyes. I picked up my makeup, touched up, and put on bright lipstick.

I traced the outline of my lips, watching color bloom back into my cheeks. For the first time in weeks, I almost recognized the woman staring back at me.

I went back to tidy up the house. Then I went on a week-long trip, rushing from place to place, seeing new faces and scenery, and hearing all kinds of stories along the way.

I tossed a few outfits into my overnight bag, booked a last-minute flight, and let Google Maps pick my destinations. In Nashville, I listened to live music and ate barbecue with strangers. In Chicago, I wandered the Art Institute, losing myself in the paintings. I let the miles wash away the ache.

When I returned, I felt much better.

I walked into my house, the new bedding still smelling faintly of lavender. I brewed a fresh cup of coffee and sat by the window, letting the quiet sink in. I was still standing. I was still me.

I looked at the calendar: divorce countdown, 21 days.