Chapter 3

"I'm taking Sarah to the hospital now," Mark announced, grabbing his car keys from the hook by the door. He was already helping Sarah into her coat, his movements gentle and solicitous.

"What about me? What about the police report?" I asked, my voice thin.

"There is no police report," Mark said without looking at me. "I told them it was a misunderstanding. The drunk is gone. It's over." He turned to our son. "Ethan, stay here. Make sure your mother signs the papers and leaves without breaking anything."

He then guided Sarah out the door, his arm securely around her waist, whispering reassurances to her. He left me, the actual victim of a physical assault, standing in the middle of the living room with our son as my guard. The front door closed with a soft click, leaving the house in an unnerving silence.

Ethan didn't look at me. He just slumped onto the sofa and picked up his phone, his thumbs immediately flying across the screen.

"Look what you did," he said, his eyes still glued to the phone. "Now Sarah's sick because of you. Dad's going to be up all night at the hospital."

I stared at the back of his head. "Ethan, did you see what happened out there? A man attacked me. He could have seriously hurt me."

He shrugged, a gesture of pure indifference. "You shouldn't have come here at night. You know Dad and Sarah don't like drama."

The words "Dad and Sarah" rolled off his tongue so easily, a new, solid unit that I was no longer a part of. My own son was blaming me for the trauma I had just endured.

"If you really loved me," he continued, finally looking up from his phone, his expression mirroring his father's coldness. "You wouldn't make things so hard for Dad. He's finally happy."

Each word was a separate, painful impact. This was the boy I had raised. The boy whose scraped knees I had bandaged, whose nightmares I had soothed, whose favorite meals I knew by heart. I looked at his face, so much like Mark's, and for the first time, I felt a deep, chilling sense of failure. I had doted on him, perhaps spoiled him, but I had always tried to teach him kindness and empathy. But Mark's influence, his subtle poisoning of our son's mind against me, had been more powerful. In my effort to keep the peace, to shield Ethan from our dying marriage, I had allowed Mark to shape him into this cold, unfeeling stranger.

In that moment, something inside me shifted. It wasn't a loud crack, but a quiet, decisive click. The part of me that was still holding on, the part that was willing to endure humiliation for a shred of a connection to my son, simply let go. I was done. I was done fighting for the love of a husband who despised me and a son who saw me as an inconvenience.

I walked over to the dining room table, picked up a pen, and signed the divorce papers with a steady hand. Then I walked back into the living room.

"I'm going to need to make a statement to the police," I said, my voice calm and even. "I'll need to use your phone."

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Dad said to drop it."

"Your father doesn't get to decide that," I replied. I held out my hand. Reluctantly, he passed me his phone.

I spent the next hour with two different police officers, recounting the assault in detail. I gave them a description of the man, the sequence of events, and pointed out the patch of trampled grass where it happened. Through it all, Ethan stayed inside, occasionally looking out the window with an expression of profound annoyance, as if my seeking justice was the most boring and irritating thing in the world. He never once came out to ask if I was okay.

After the police left, I handed the phone back to Ethan. Just as I was about to turn and leave for good, it rang. He answered it, and I could hear Mark's loud, angry voice through the receiver.

Ethan listened for a moment then held the phone out to me. "Dad wants to talk to you."

I took it. "What?"

"Ava, are you still there?" Mark's voice was sharp, commanding. "I don't have time for this. Before you leave, make sure you clean up that mess on the lawn. I don't want the neighbors seeing trampled flowerbeds in the morning. It looks terrible."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask what the police said. He was just ordering me to perform one last act of domestic service.

Then he hung up. I stood there in the silence, the dead phone in my hand, and felt nothing but a cold, clear certainty. I was finally, completely free.

---