Chapter 3

The next day, I drove to my mother' s house. I put on my best somber expression, the one Sarah had coached me to wear. I found her in the garden, tending to her roses.

"Mom," I said, my voice quiet. "Can we talk?"

She put down her trowel and looked at me with concern. "Of course, Mark. What is it? You look terrible."

We sat down at the small patio table. I took a deep breath. "It' s over, Mom. Sarah and I... we' re divorced."

I slid the official decree across the table. I expected her face to crumple, to see tears, to hear her ask what she could do to fix it.

Instead, a slow, wide smile spread across her face. Her eyes, which had been filled with worry a moment ago, now sparkled with an unmistakable joy.

"Oh, Mark," she breathed, her hand flying to her chest. "Thank God."

She picked up the document, reading it as if it were a winning lottery ticket. Then she looked up at me, her smile even wider.

"I have a bottle of the good champagne I' ve been saving," she said, already standing up. "We have to celebrate!"

I was stunned into silence. "Celebrate? Mom, I... I thought you' d be devastated."

She stopped and turned back to me, her expression softening, but the joy didn' t leave her eyes. "Mark, honey. For fifteen years, I have watched that woman chip away at you. I' ve listened to her criticize you, belittle you, and treat you like her personal bank."

She came back to the table and took my hands in hers.

"Do you know what she did? She' d come over and rearrange my furniture, telling me my taste was dated. She told me my cooking was too salty, then would throw out leftovers I' d packed for you. She told me the gifts I bought for Ethan were cheap and not educational enough. She made me feel like an intruder in my own family. I stayed quiet for you, because I didn' t want to cause more trouble between you two. But I prayed for the day you would find the courage to leave her. This," she tapped the divorce decree, "is the best news I' ve had in a very, very long time."

As she spoke, I felt the last vestiges of guilt I had been carrying simply evaporate. It wasn' t just my prison. It was hers, too. We had both been serving the same sentence. A feeling of profound relief, so powerful it almost made me dizzy, swept through me.

Just then, the back door opened and my eight-year-old son, Ethan, came running out. He had stayed the night with my mom.

"Dad!" he yelled, running into my arms.

I hugged him tight. I would have to tell him. I dreaded seeing the confusion and sadness on his face.

"Hey, buddy," I said softly, kneeling down to his level. "I have to tell you something. Your mom and I... we' re not going to be married anymore. She' s gone to live with Grandma Lisa."

I waited for the tears. But Ethan just looked at me, his expression serious.

"For real?" he asked. "She' s not coming back?"

"No, buddy. It' s for real."

A huge grin spread across his face, a perfect echo of my mother' s. "Yes!" he whispered, pumping a small fist in the air.

I was floored. Twice in ten minutes, the reaction I had dreaded turned out to be one of pure, unadulterated joy.

"You' re... you' re happy about this?" I asked, completely bewildered.

"Dad," Ethan said, his voice taking on the tone of a child explaining something obvious to a dense adult. "Mom is always yelling. She made me throw away my LEGO Star Destroyer because she said the little pieces were messy. She made me practice the piano until my fingers hurt. When you were on your business trip, she didn't let me watch cartoons, only documentaries about boring old paintings. And she always said your clothes looked cheap."

He listed her offenses with a calm, methodical clarity that was heartbreaking. He had been suffering, too, in his own quiet, eight-year-old way. He had been living under the same oppressive regime.

My mother came back outside with three glasses. She poured champagne for us and a glass of sparkling apple cider for Ethan.

She raised her glass. "To freedom," she said, her voice ringing with happiness.

Ethan raised his glass of cider. "To freedom!" he echoed.

I clinked my glass against theirs, a genuine smile on my face for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The divorce wasn't a tragedy. It was a liberation.