Her perfectly highlighted hair was tied back in a messy knot, and she was wearing plain sweatpants, a far cry from the silk loungewear she used to parade around in.
She must have begged my new address out of a distant relative.
I watched as she walked up to my front door.
I didn’t hide.
I walked out of my patio door, around the corner, and met her on the front walkway.
“Bethany,” she gasped, spotting me.
She immediately forced a trembling lip, trying to push tears into her eyes.
“Bethany, please. We need to talk.”
I stood tall, my arms folded across my chest.
“There is nothing to discuss, Jessica.”
“Please,” she begged, stepping closer, though she kept a cautious distance from my stern expression. “The motel is awful. David’s truck broke down. We just need a loan. $2,000, just to get an apartment. I’m sorry about the slap. I was just stressed.”
I looked at her, searching for any genuine remorse.
There was none, only the desperate panic of a parasite that had been detached from its host.
“You aren’t sorry you hit me,” I stated clearly. “You’re sorry the ATM shut down. I will not give you a dime. You are an adult. Get a job.”
“You’re a monster!” she suddenly shrieked, dropping the fake tears instantly, her face contorted into the familiar rage. “You’re leaving your own son on the streets!”
“My son made his choice when he watched you strike me and defended you,” I answered, my voice never rising. “Leave my property, Jessica, before I call the property manager to have your car towed.”
I turned my back on her, walked into my apartment, and locked the deadbolt.
She pounded on the door twice, yelled an obscenity, and finally drove away.
As the months rolled by, I found myself thoroughly enjoying my independence.
I joined a local book club, started volunteering at the community library, and redesigned my entire wardrobe.
I looked younger.
I felt lighter.