I read the glowing text twice. I closed my eyes and visualized her standing on the stairs, her head tilted, weaponizing my children’s stability against me.
I typed a brief, sterile response. I thanked her for reaching out. I reiterated that I was currently focused on my immediate household and needed more time.
She hasn’t stopped trying. Every few weeks, another message appears, increasingly frantic, increasingly aware that she severely miscalculated the power dynamic. I read them. I leave them on ‘read.’ I take all the time I require.
Landis has not reached out once, which is a loud, clear answer in itself.
My father mailed a generic greeting card at Christmas. Inside, scrawled in his familiar blue ink, were the words, Thinking of you. I didn’t frame it, but I did use a magnet to stick it to the refrigerator. I did it for my children, because it was their grandfather’s handwriting, and they deserved to know he existed, separate from the sins he committed against me.
But my true vindication wasn’t found in their desperate attempts to crawl back. It was found on a random Tuesday, in an email from corporate.
Chapter 5: The Masterpiece of Apathy
