Ready. And somewhere, probably, Adam and Lisa were wondering how they’d lost control of the woman they never really saw. Let them wonder.
The community potluck was held in the basement of a church that smelled faintly of old hymnals and pinesaw. Folding tables lined the walls, covered in plastic cloths and mismatched dishes. A woman with a gray braid and clipboard directed traffic like a general in an apron.
Joyce and I arrived ten minutes early, cakes carefully balanced in her arms. I carried the utensils and napkins. It had been years since I walked into a room where I didn’t know a soul and didn’t care.
You go find a table, Joyce said. I’ll handle introductions. I stood by the coffee station, warming my hands around a paper cup.
People trickled in slowly, mostly women in thick sweaters and sensible shoes, a few men who hovered near the food like it might vanish if they blinked. Someone tapped my shoulder. Did you bring the sweet potato cake? I turned.
A woman with kind eyes and a sturdy frame smiled at me. I did. God bless you, she said.
I thought Clara Porter was bringing her dump cake again. Yours smells like someone still knows what the holidays taste like. I chuckled.
I’ve been known to cook under pressure. The evening was slow and loud in the way small gatherings always are. People talking over folding chairs, passing dishes down long tables, laughter popping like firecrackers.
My cake disappeared before the prayer was done. Someone asked for the recipe. I said it was classified.
Around the halfway mark, Joyce introduced me to a retired school librarian named Marsha and a former bus driver named Terry. They invited us to join their monthly trivia night. I told them I’d only go if the questions were from before 1990.
Later, during dessert, Joyce leaned over and whispered, You look smug. I feel smug, I said. It had been so long since I was part of something that didn’t ask me to prove my worth first.
Back home, we kicked off our shoes and flopped onto the couch. Franklin settled on my lap, heavy and warm. Joyce turned to me.
You know they’re going to show up, right? I didn’t answer. She said it again, softer. Sooner or later.
I know. And I did. The letter, the article, Lisa’s face outside the cafe.
They were warning shots, and I was tired of being on alert. The next morning, a man in a suit stood outside the cafe. He waited until my shift ended, then stepped inside, removed his sunglasses and said, Are you Mrs. Martha Harlow? I didn’t like the tone.
Too formal. Too careful. I am.
My name is Derek Sorenson. I represent Adam and Lisa Harlow. They’ve asked me to speak with you regarding your well-being and your assets.
I blinked. My well-being is excellent, I said, and my assets are none of your business. He shifted uncomfortably.
They’re very concerned, Mrs. Harlow. They’d like to ensure you’re in a safe environment, possibly discuss some next steps. I folded my apron and placed it on the counter.
Tell Adam and Lisa I’m not a pet they forgot to pick up, and there are no next steps unless I take them. He cleared his throat. If you’d just consider- I’ve considered enough.
I walked past him and out the door, leaving him blinking in the light. Arthur was waiting outside. He didn’t look like he came for coffee, he said.
He didn’t. You okay? Yes, I said. Because I’m not going to let anyone convince me I’m not.
That evening, I wrote one more letter. Not to Kieran this time. To Lisa.
Three lines. I know what you did. I know what you didn’t say.
I’m not angry. I’m not coming back. Take care of your own life now.
I’ve finally started mine. I mailed it the next morning with a stamp that had a bird on it. A finch.
The kind that sings even in the cold. I expected silence. Or maybe, eventually, another letter from Adam full of veiled demands dressed up as concern.
What I didn’t expect was Lisa. In person. She showed up on a grey Thursday afternoon.
Heather spotted her first, a woman in a tailored coat, standing stiffly by the pastry display, pretending to read the chalkboard menu. She looked out of place. Polished.
Waiting. I didn’t go to her. I finished refilling the sugar caddies, wiped the counter, and let her sweat.
When she finally stepped forward, her voice was low. Martha. I turned, slowly.
Lisa. The café was nearly empty, just Arthur in the corner booth, and a young couple whispering over muffins. Can we talk? she asked.
You’re talking now. She winced. Privately.
I nodded toward the back. Booth’s free. She slid into the seat across from me like a woman bracing for bad weather.
I didn’t know Adam was sending someone, she said. The lawyer. That wasn’t my idea.
No, I said. But leaving me in an airport lounge was. Her eyes filled.
Genuinely. Maybe for show. I couldn’t tell anymore.
We panicked, she said. The flight was boarding. The kids were cranky.
We thought you were behind us, and then… I raised an eyebrow. Eight hours, Lisa. Eight hours.
You didn’t call, didn’t check in, didn’t even ask someone at the gate. She looked down at her hands. They were perfectly manicured.
Always had been. I didn’t think you’d… leave. I didn’t.
You did. Silence stretched between us like taut thread. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope.
I don’t want anything from you, she said. But Kieran… he’s struggling. He misses you.
Adam’s furious. But Kieran… he’s different. I took the envelope.
Not because I wanted what was inside, but because I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of refusing it outright. He doesn’t need a go-between, I said. He knows how to call.
Lisa nodded. He might. She looked up then.
Not the woman who smoothed over dinner parties and smiled through gritted teeth. Just tired. Small.
I wasn’t trying to replace you, she said quietly. I just didn’t want your shadow in every room. That was the closest thing to honesty I’d ever heard from her.
I stood. I’m not your shadow, Lisa. I’m my own person.
And I finally remembered how to be one. She left without finishing her coffee. That night, Joyce and I sat on the porch, wrapped in blankets.
The air smelled like rain and wood smoke. She really said that? Joyce asked. I nodded.
And? And nothing. She said her piece. I said mine.
You going to see them? No. Joyce sipped her tea. What about the boy? Kieran? I smiled.
He’s different. I’ll see him. But on my time.
Later, I opened the envelope. Inside, a photo of Kieran as a child. Me.
Holding him on my hip in the garden, both of us laughing. Tucked behind it, a note in his handwriting. I remember.
I always remembered. Just five words. But they were enough to hold the rest of the week in place.
I spent the next morning in the kitchen, watching the kettle boil and thinking about the word cut. Not in the violent sense, but in the quiet. Final way a string is snipped.
A tether released. I’d spent so much of my life tied to people who assumed I’d never walk away. But I had.
And every day I didn’t go back. The knot loosened a little more. That afternoon, I went to the bank.
The teller was the same girl who’d cashed my first paycheck. Her name was Mari. She wore purple nail polish and always looked slightly surprised to be indoors.
I’d like to make a transfer, I said, sliding my I.D. across the counter. Sure, she said. From which account? I gave her the number of the small one I’d opened with my old card.