When I arrived at the property that Saturday morning and found Laura crying in the kitchen, I knew I had made the worst mistake of my life.
She was standing in front of the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her shoulders slumped as if she were carrying the weight of the entire world. Her hair, usually so well-kept, was pulled back in a messy ponytail. The dark circles under her eyes were so deep it looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and she was crying silently, the way women cry when they no longer have the strength even to make a sound.
Behind her, in the living room area connected to the kitchen, there were at least eight people.
Robert’s mother, that woman who from the first day looked at me as if I were an obstacle in her way.
His two sisters, with their shrill voices and their laughs that sounded like mockery. The younger brother with his wife and their two kids, who were running wild all over the house.
All of them were sprawled out on the furniture as if they owned the place, demanding coffee, asking for more toast, shouting that the jam was gone.
And my daughter, my Laura, was serving. She was serving as if she were the hired help in her own home.
“Laura, where’s the sugar?” one of the sisters yelled without even looking at her.
“Laura, these eggs are cold.
Make me new ones,” Robert’s mother ordered in that tone that allowed no reply.
My daughter moved back and forth like a ghost, obeying every command, wiping every plate, enduring every contemptuous comment.
And I, standing in the doorway, felt the rage begin to rise from the deepest part of my stomach.
This was not what I had planned. This was not what I bought this property for.
It had been exactly one year and six months since Laura left her first marriage. It was eighteen years with a man who abused her in every way possible without ever raising a hand.
He would ignore her for weeks, tell her she was worthless, that she was no good, that she had ruined his life.
When she finally found the courage to ask for a divorce, he took everything.
The house they had bought together, the savings, even the car I had given her for her fortieth birthday.
Laura came to my place with two suitcases and a shattered soul. For months, I watched her walk around my living room like a zombie, unsure of what to do with her life, unsure of how to start over at age forty-three.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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