Chapter 14 - I Painted Over the Wall
Ten months after the skillet hit the drywall, I painted the kitchen.
Not because the old paint was damaged anymore.
The contractor had already repaired it.
I wanted a different room.
I chose a warm cream instead of gray.
Moved the table.
Replaced the pendant lights.
Threw away half the kitchen gadgets Agnes had purchased and then insisted I store.
Nothing symbolic.
Just space.
I returned to work gradually.
Healthcare data had always appealed to me because numbers did not care who spoke loudest.
After the surgery and divorce, I appreciated that more.
I also started volunteering twice a month with a hospital support program for women recovering from pregnancy loss.
Not because trauma had made me enlightened.
Because I remembered the first night after surgery.
The automatic glance toward the door.
Then the moment I stopped expecting someone.
Sometimes all I did was sit beside another woman for twenty minutes.
That was enough.
Leo moved into an apartment near his office.
His career survived, though not untouched.
The side venture disappeared.
Natalie changed employers after her own professional review.
We never spoke again.
Good.
Agnes lived in a smaller rental.
She told relatives I had “taken her home.”
Eventually Ruth corrected that story at one family gathering.
Apparently she said:
“It was never Agnes’s house.”
That caused a fight.
I was not there.
Even better.
Emily visited Chicago twice.
The second time, she stood in my kitchen and looked around.
“So this is the famous house.”
“Unfortunately.”
She smiled.
Then touched nothing.
Asked before opening cabinets.
Offered to wash her own coffee cup.
Small behavior.
Huge contrast.
Before leaving, she said:
“I don’t know whether Leo and I will ever have a real relationship again.”
“Do you want one?”
“I don’t know.”
I understood.
Then she asked:
“What about you?”
“With Leo?”
“No.”
“With me.”
The question surprised me.
I did not answer immediately.
Emily waited.
No pressure.
No guilt.
No claim that shared damage made us family automatically.
“Maybe,” I said.
She smiled.
May you like
“Maybe is enough.”
For once, it was.
