Wrapped in a blanket against the December chill, I sit on Heidi and Nicole’s front porch, watching the lights flick on in the house across the cul-de-sac. My house…or whatwasmy house for the last twenty years. It’s just Richard’s house, now. And strangely, he still hasn’t gone back to Pittsburgh.
That’s the part that unsettles me the most. Richard lives for his work. His business trips aren’t optional. They’re the backbone of his entire operation. The fact that he’s chosen to stay here, lurking in that house like a spider in a web, means he’s not done with me yet.
Heidi slides open the glass door and hands me a steaming mug of chamomile tea. “You look like you need it.”
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the warmth, remembering the sweet, milky version Ian made for me last week on that horrible night. I feel like a totally different person, and a lot of that is due to Ian being there for me through this bizarre nightmare of a separation. “He’s still there.”
She follows my gaze across the street. “I noticed. Nicole’s been checking the cameras every hour.”
I snort. “That seems excessive.”
“She’s worried about you.” She settles into the chair beside me. “So am I. How are you holding up? And don’t say ‘fine.’ I can smell bullshit from a mile away. It’s a middle school teacher superpower.”
I take a sip of tea to buy myself time. How am I holding up? My soon-to-be-ex husband is trying to systematically dismantle my life. I can’t talk to my own daughters without risking their education. I’m living out of a suitcase in my best friend’s TV room. And I’m a few weeks away from giving birth to triplets.
“I’m… weirdly okay?” I admit. “I feel like I should be more upset.”
“Maybe you’re still in shock.”
“Maybe.” A silhouette moves behind Richard’s curtains, just a flicker of a shadow. “Or maybe I’m just relieved. Like I’ve been holding my breath for twenty years, and I finally get to exhale.”
Heidi reaches over and squeezes my hand. “That’s not weird at all.”
We sit in comfortable silence until the cold drives us inside. Nicole has dinner ready, a yummy Indonesian curry that delights my pregnancy-enhanced sense of smell. We eat and talk about nothing important, and for a little while, I pretend my life isn’t imploding.
But later, alone in the TV room with the pull-out sofa and my borrowed phone, a little bit of reality settles back over me like a heavy blanket.
I can’t keep avoiding my mom.
It’s morning in Korea, which means she’ll be awake and probably elbow-deep in some household project. I dial her number from my contacts, grateful that Ian was able to add me to his plan.
She answers on the third ring with a politeyeo-bo-se-yo, like I’m calling from the bank.
“Eomma, it’s me.”
“Ji-Woo!” I can hear the concern sharpen her voice. “Why are you calling from a different number? What happened?”
I take a deep breath and tell her everything. The confrontation with Richard. The canceled credit cards. The repossessed car. Ian’s help with everything. I keep my voice steady, clinical even, like I’m reporting facts instead of describing the demolition of my marriage.
When I finish, there’s a long silence.
“Gaesaekki,” she spits, which loosely translates to “son of a bitch.” It’s one of the few times I’ve heard her curse.
“Eomma.”
“Don’t ‘Eomma’ me. I knew he was bad, but this?” She makes a sound of disgust. “And he’s threatening the girls’ tuition? Hurting his own children?”
“He wants to hurt me. They’re just collateral damage.” Saying it out loud makes my chest ache. “I can’t risk contacting them directly, not until I know he won’t follow through on his threat. But I need them to know what’s happening. Can you tell them for me?”
“Of course. What should I say?”
I’ve been rehearsing this in my head for days, but it still hurts to say it out loud. “Tell them that their father and I are getting divorced. That it’s not their fault, and I love them more than anything. Tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t make it work, but I need them to focus on school right now. Tell them...” My voice cracks. “Tell them I’ll explain everything when I can, and I hope they’ll understand.”
“They will.” My mother’s voice is firm. “They’re smart girls.”
“They love him a lot.”
“They know their father,” she says grimly. “Just like you knew yours.”
