October was rolling in.
The oil tank was dangerously close to empty, and it was going to be a very, very cold month for them.
Sunday evening was eerily quiet.
Gavin and Sloan had gone out to dinner, probably to complain about how stubborn I was being.
I used the empty house to finalize everything.
My suitcase was packed.
My small SUV was parked in the garage, loaded down with the few things I truly cared about.
I took one last walk through the house.
It was a beautiful building, but it wasn’t a home anymore.
It was just real estate weighed down by the entitlement of two people who didn’t know the meaning of hard work.
I didn’t leave a dramatic, angry letter.
I just left a very clinical list on the kitchen island.
It had the trash pickup schedule, the chimney sweep’s phone number, and a note stating that the VAC maintenance contract expired tomorrow.
At the very bottom, I wrote, “I’ve deducted my $800 October rent from the utility overpayments I made earlier this month. We are completely square.”
When they got home late that night, I could hear them whispering in the hallway.
“She’s caving,” Sloan said, sounding smug. “She’ll probably just hand us a check tomorrow. You watch.”
Gavin mumbled something under his breath.
He sounded exhausted.
I sat in the dark of my bedroom, feeling a profound sense of relief.
I wasn’t afraid of being alone at the lake.
I was actually looking forward to a silence that wasn’t loaded with resentment.
I thought about my garden up in New Hampshire.
It was the perfect time of year to cut back the perennials.
Tomorrow, at this time, I’d be sitting on my deck looking out at the water.
Sloan really thought she had backed me into a corner where my only way out was to open my wallet.
She forgot that I was the one who built the damn room in the first place.
I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m.
It was the last time I would ever sleep under this roof.