Ever since the storm—ever since Delta sang “Blackbird” while Jonah played guitar—I lie awake in bed, the thunder fading into memory, guilt bouncing around my chest like a pinball. Because the truth is:I’m the monster.I placed an embargo on music like a tyrant with good intentions and terrible coping skills.
My husband is gone. I survived him. I’m free of the man who turned joy into a weapon. So why does music still feel dangerous? Why does the thought of singing make my throat constrict? Why does imagining my mandolin in my hands feel less like nostalgia and more like open-heart surgery?
I should be past this. I’m not.
Now, late at night, through the walls that feel too thin to protect me from anything, I hear Delta sing to her sister when she thinks I can’t hear. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tears leaking sideways into my hair, because this—this ease, this love—is something I lost. Something I taught myself to fear.
I want it back. I want to sing again. I want to play like I didbefore Greg made stages feel like cages and spotlights feel like interrogation lamps. My rational brain knows better—itknowshe lied. And yet there’s a quiet, stubborn part of me that still believes him. That still whispers,You’re not enough.
Fear doesn’t just disappear when your bully dies.
For me, control isn’t just comforting—it’s addictive. It’s how I keep my daughters safe. It’s how I keep myself from unraveling. But the life I stitched together to keep us safe is starting to fray, exposing little gaps for the cold to sneak in. Do I patch them or start over?
“I said no,” I tell Delta, my voice firm but gentle. “Now go wash up for dinner. I can see dirt caked under your fingernails. Tracy will be here in a half hour and you two look like ragamuffins.”
As expected, my offspring protest the decision but eventually accept their fate and head for the bathroom.
Amber prattles on about the pay pig she’s excited to meet up with tonight, but my focus is across the lawn and garden separating my life from Jonah’s. His house is farther back from the road than mine, so I can’t see everything going on, but based on the number of cars and people I watched arrive, Jonah has a large family.
I wonder if they’re all like him—ridiculous and free-spirited—or if he’s an outlier. Are they kind to him? Do they know how generous he is? They must—I mean he’s hosting a family dinner after all.
I daydream what it would be like to be a part of a large family like that. I had my sister and parents of course, but we traveled so much that we only had big family dinners like that on the big holidays. Sometimes not even then because we might have a big Christmas show. The crew we traveled with became our family, but as I think about them now, I don’t even know where they all ended up. There used to be people who cared deeply for me, and now... I don’t know if I’d be able topick them out of a crowd.
He’s so lucky to have a family like this—everyone close enough to drive and show up on a random late-summer Sunday. He’s rich in more ways than one.
But seriously, how wealthy is this family? There are two luxury vehicles in the driveway, but most are mid-range as far as price. How the fuck can he afford his house?
Deep down, I wish I had accepted his dinner invitation, for nothing more than to witness his family dynamics. But as I’ve proven, I’m stubborn as an ox. Isolation and control have been my best friends. They welcomed me with open arms, armed me with a metaphorical pistol, and saidNever again. So, yes, straying from my protective routine, accepting the invitation to be at his family dinner, would be a massive step. It feels unattainable to say the least.
When dinner is ready, the four of us sit and discuss our days, but my daughters only want to talk about Jonah and his music and his animals and his magical ability to find four-leaf clovers. We finish our meal, and Delta and Lo jump up and clear the table without being asked. Each of them makes quick work to remove every last utensil, bowl, and glass. Amber and I are struck by the same eerie shock because these girls are not only loading the dishwasher, but wiping down the dinner table.
Listen, my girls have manners and were taught to clean up after themselves, but to see them voluntarily do it—and with gusto—is weird.
Delta slams the dishwasher closed and runs back to me, Lo glued to her side. “Mother, Aunt Amber, would you like any tea?”
Mother? When did we climb to the upper echelon of society?
I fold my arms. “What is going on with you two?”
“Um,” Delta mumbles, her fingers twisting in knots between us. “My birthday is coming up.”
“Yes, it is.” She only reminds us daily in the month leadingup to it. She cuts back to weekly reminders in the eleven months after.
“We were wondering,” she murmurs, “if instead of the roller rink, could we have my party at Jonah’s?”
My brain takes a moment to buffer. “Wait, what?
It’s Amber’s turn to chime in. “But you’ve been looking forward to the roller rink with your friends all year. I got us sparkly disco outfits. Do you know how hard it was to find matching halter-top jumpsuits that would fit all four of us?”
“We can still wear them,” she says, enthusiasm oozing.
“We better.” Amber huffs. “I had to meet up with a seamstress named Madame Featherhole I found on Craigslist who kept trying to sell me her homemade bookmarks made ofhumanhair. But”—she sighs—“that’s the price you pay for quality. There’s not a stitch of polyester in those suits. You know how cheap fabric gives me panic attacks.”
I ignore my sister. “Why do you want to have a party at Jonah’s?” I ask.
“We want to play with the animals.”
I huff an amused laugh. “Sweetie, we could just have your party at the zoo instead. There are way more, way cooler animals at the zoo.”
