Chapter 6 - Cold Reality
The morning sun filtered through the cheap blinds of the recovery room, casting long, golden bars across the linoleum floor. Maya was propped up on three pillows, sipping apple juice through a bendy straw. The color had fully returned to her cheeks, and for the first time in six months, the dark, bruised shadows under her eyes had faded.
“Mom,” she said, setting her juice cup down on the rolling tray. “When is Dad coming to pick us up?”
I froze mid-breath, holding a plastic hairbrush I had brought from home. I hadn't slept a single minute. The divorce papers were tucked into the bottom of my purse, burning like hot coals against my side.
“Your dad... is busy with work today, sweetie,” I lied gently, smoothing her soft brown hair. “I’m going to call an Uber to take us home once the doctor signs your discharge papers.”
Maya looked down at her hands, her fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “He’s mad at me, isn’t he? Because of the hospital money?”
“No, Maya. Listen to me,” I said, cupping her cheeks so she had to look me in the eye. “None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? You were sick. You needed help, and getting you help was the only right choice in the world. Whatever happens between your father and me has nothing to do with you.”
She nodded slowly, though her young eyes carried a weight no fifteen-year-old should ever have to bear.
At 1:00 p.m., Dr. Lawson completed his final round, signed the discharge papers, and handed me a stack of postoperative care instructions along with prescriptions for pain management and antibiotics.
As we walked out of the sliding glass doors of Riverside Medical Center, the bright sunlight hit my face. Maya was walking slowly, holding my arm for balance, but her posture was upright. She wasn't hunching over her stomach anymore. She was standing tall.
When the Uber dropped us off in front of our suburban home, my heart sank into my throat.
The driveway was empty. Robert’s car was gone. But more ominously, sitting on the front porch was a stack of heavy cardboard boxes labeled in bold black marker: SARAH’S PERSONAL BELONGINGS.
I hurried up the wooden steps, pulling my house key from my pocket, and slotted it into the front door lock.
It wouldn't turn.
Robert had changed the locks.
I rattled the brass knob violently, slamming the palm of my hand against the painted wood. “Robert! Open this door!”
Silence.
Maya stood at the bottom of the porch steps, holding her fresh surgical incision with one hand and her small overnight bag with the other, her eyes wide with shock. “Mom... we’re locked out?”
I stepped over to the front window and peered through the blinds. The living room was pristine, completely untouched. On the kitchen island sat a single piece of paper.
May you like
I pulled out my phone and dialed Robert’s number. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail: “The subscriber you are trying to reach has blocked your number.”
I leaned against the locked front door, the warm summer breeze blowing through my hair, feeling completely trapped. I had forty-two dollars in my personal checking account, a recovering daughter standing on the lawn, and a husband who had locked us out of our own home.
