Knowing Martha, David had likely run across the street to borrow her phone after I blocked his and Jessica’s numbers.
I swiped to answer.
“Hello, Martha.”
“Mom!” David’s voice barked through the speaker, breathless and panicked. “What is going on? I found the letter on the island. The landlord just called me. He says we have to be out by midnight, or he’s charging us a daily holdover fee of $300.”
“That is correct,” I replied, my tone flat and conversational. “My lease is up. I handed over the keys. If you wish to stay, you need to sign a new lease and provide the security deposit.”
“We don’t have that kind of cash, and you know it!” David yelled.
In the background, I could hear Jessica sobbing dramatically.
“You stranded us. You took the car. You cut off Jessica’s card. You canceled the electricity. How could you do this to your own family?”
I took a slow breath.
“Your wife slapped me, David, in my home. And you sat there and drank your wine. You stopped being my family in that moment. You are a 32-year-old man. It is time you support your own wife.”
“Mom, please, just pay the renewal. Just turn the card back on so we can get a hotel. We have nowhere to go.”
“You have each other,” I noted calmly. “And you have the $50,000 Jessica was going to spend in Cabo. Oh, wait. You don’t, because it was my money.”
“You’re crazy. You can’t just—”
“Do not contact me again, David. Sort your own life out.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear, hit the red end-call button, and blocked Martha’s number, too.
I would call her back in a few days when the dust settled.
The silence returned to my apartment.
It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
Two weeks passed.
My new life settled into a beautiful, predictable rhythm.
I woke up when I wanted. I bought the groceries I liked without finding half-eaten organic snacks shoved to the back of the fridge.
I joined a morning walking group with some women in the complex.