“Because we were husband and wife, but I don’t know if we were ever friends,” he says simply. “Maybe now is the time.”
As a child, I was fascinated by falling stars. I would watch for them in the night sky, sure that each one meant a child somewhere had his or her wish granted. I always made the same wish every time I saw one—that I would live happily ever after. It was how every story I read ended, making the whole book a prologue and the happily ever after the real story. I was sure my life would have a storybook ending, though yet unwritten. Growing up, those childhood dreams segued to reality and the realization that not every ending is fair or happy. That often people get hurt, and there’s no real reason for it. No silver lining in the event. But I kept my hope alive, if only to hold on to that part of childhood where everything felt possible.
“Yes,” I answer him.
I imagine another falling star, but this time I don’t make a wish. Instead I smile, understanding that even though not every story ends with a happy ending or begins with tragedy, along the way there are moments of both. And those moments don’t define you or even break you—they are simply parts of the whole.
I have a lifetime to try to understand what my father did to me and, in contrast, the love he surrounded me with. I may never find a reason or know why I chose to forget his actions. But what I do know, and what I will never forget, is that I still have me and the right to make my own choices. That is what I will hold on to, that and the people whom I love.
I vow to find myself, to learn who I am, never again to be the daughter my father needed or the wife I convinced myself I should be. For as long as the journey takes, I will walk alone, fearless, discovering the woman that I can be. I never meant to hurt Eric, never believed I was betraying him more than I was saving me. With his words, I know how fortunate I am. Maybe, if we are lucky, one day Eric and I will rediscover our love and find a path to healing; but I promise to never forget the past as I redefine my future.
SONYA
I am home alone. Trisha is back at her house and Mom is at the temple, praying. She told me not to wait up, that she would be late. She gave me no reason why and I did not ask for one, both of us most comfortable respecting the invisible boundaries we have erected. Needing something to do, I start a fire in the living room, warming my hands against the roaring flames.
The sound of the doorbell shatters the silence. I start, not expecting anyone. Mom’s friends used to visit, only staying for a short while—to either drop off food or pay their respects for our father’s condition. Now those visits have started to spread farther apart, with fewer people bothering to stop by. It’s as if they have accepted what we refuse to—that life goes on.
“Who is it?” I ask, squinting my eye through the peephole. When I see David’s face staring back, I unlock the door and open it fully. “What are you doing here?”
When I filled out the requisite application forms for the position, David noticed my home address and we talked about the neighborhood. He knew it well, had friends who had bought a house down the street to raise their children in.
“I wanted to speak with you if you have a minute.” He looks wary, and his face seems drawn with concern.
I consider closing the door, stopping this before it begins. But I can’t. Seeing him here, in the home that used to be my prison, helps me in a way I didn’t know I needed. “Come in.” I lead him into the den, where the fire is now roaring, sending sparks flying.
“Is your mother home?” he asks, glancing around.
“No,” I admit, “she’s out for the evening.” I absorb his features, having missed what is not mine. “Are you here to talk about the other day? The decision to stop support for my father?”
“No,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet. “That’s your family’s business, your decision.”