You thought about the version of yourself who drove away to urgent care with her skin burning and her marriage still technically intact, and you felt a fierce tenderness for that woman. She had been hurt, yes, but she had not been weak. She had simply stayed too long in a place where endurance kept getting mistaken for consent. The next morning, she corrected that misunderstanding with a locksmith.
When you finally got up to lock the front door, your reflection in the glass caught you for a second.
No dramatic music. No audience. Just you, barefoot on your own hardwood floors, one faint scar at your shoulder, one hand on polished brass, and a whole house breathing quietly around the truth at last. Margaret had screamed, “Get out and never come back.” In the end, she was right about only one part.
She never came back.
THE END
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