Chapter 2
I still don’t have any milk.
I grumble that thought to myself as I push open the door to my house, blaming John for that fact too.
The door closes behind me, but it does nothing to shut out the competing feelings of embarrassment and red-eyed anger.
“Go back to your stupid party with your stupid, fake friends and your fetus of a girlfriend, and stop pretending to be the
bigger person here!” I had shouted at him from the fountain.
He thought I was drunk.
He told me to move on.
I told him I would drive away right now if he would stand in front of my car.
Everyone was watching, looking down at me from their perfect little perches, sharing whispers about the crazy lady in the
fountain.
I shut my eyes, my fists, my whole body tight, and hold it, trying not to scream at myself for being so. Incredibly. Stupid.
I kick off my soaked shoes, then peel off my wet sweatpants right there in the mudroom and fling them down the hall at the
washing machine in the laundry room. They land with a mucky squelch a good three feet from the open lid, and I think, Great. Now I have to mop that up.
That’s your fault too, you idiot.
I head upstairs to find new clothes, feeling the footprints I’m leaving with my wet socks.
As I pass the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I stop, move back a bit, and stand fully in front of my reflection.
I take my baseball cap off and my wavy brown hair falls out, somehow wet and greasy at the same time and in dire need of highlights.
I look like I’ve been strapped to the hood of a car that just went through the Super Suds.
I spent years carefully keeping up my appearance—going to Pilates with Roxie and Dana and Marcie, eating only the allotted
number of calories each day, visiting the salon every six weeks like clockwork to keep myself from ever knowing my hair was
possibly turning gray. I got my nails done every other week, waxed my eyebrows, and went for a spray tan regularly.
Misty, the new flavor of the month, looks exactly like that.
And Marilyn looks exactly like a wrinkled version of that.
When we got married right out of college and John insisted we move back to Colorado so he could work at his dad’s advertising
agency, I didn’t put up much of a fight, even though I’d always had my heart set on living in Chicago. But John wanted the
stability of a job that was a sure thing. It seemed like an easy compromise—I was sure I’d end up loving Denver.
But from the very early days, John’s mom was an ever-present force in our relationship. What started as suggestions turned
into expectations. From big things, like furniture choices in the den, down to the little things, like which stamps I put
on an envelope—she had opinions and expectations about everything.
And she made it clear that my appearance was to be taken very seriously.
So I did exactly that. For the entirety of my twenty-three-year marriage. Because I wanted her to like me. Plus, I never really
had a mother of my own, so I was excited at the idea of having her guidance in my life, especially as a newlywed and, eventually,
a new mom.
Never mind that when I got really quiet, the voice I heard guiding me wasn’t Marilyn’s—it was my grandmother’s.
The woman who raised me.
Life in my small Midwestern hometown was very different from here. Slower. Less flashy. More personal.
New man, new city, new life. I had a lot of changes to get used to. But I was determined to fit in. Even after John’s parents
made it very clear that I didn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.
I’d been determined I could change their minds.
I grit my teeth at the image of John’s mother in my mind. It’s so incredibly frustrating to feel completely helpless, with
no retribution, no recourse. It’s like the villains are getting away with their crimes, and I’m screaming into the void.
I shake my head clear of the headache-inducing thoughts of revenge.
And I sigh. Heavily.
I became the kind of wife and mom I thought I had to be, all the while listening to the many, many ways I was lucky John had
chosen to marry me in the first place.
Funny, I don’t feel so lucky anymore
In lieu of mac ’n’ cheese, I make myself a cake.
Because you don’t need a birthday to eat cake.
And I plan to eat the entire thing by myself.
For as long as I can remember, baking has always been a way to relieve my stress. I have Gram to thank for that. I always
carried a lot of stress, even as a little kid. I understand now that giving my mom “one more chance” to raise me led to a
lot of confusion on my part.
Because she got one too many chances, and because they never seemed to work out.
It led to a sort of limbo of living for several years in a row. A few solid months with Gram, a few disastrous weeks with
Mom. That was the pattern, and it took a toll.
But baking helped me cope.
Something about the act of mixing ingredients, stirring them all together to create something new—it calmed me. Something
about not having to make decisions—since it’s all right there in the recipe—is settling. Relieving.
As I pull the flour from the cupboard, I remember the first time Gram popped into my bedroom and tossed me an apron. I’d barely
said a word since I’d moved back into the old farmhouse, but what eight-year-old who’d just been abandoned by her only parent
would feel like chatting?
“Pops brought home some fresh strawberries, and I’m making Strawberry Shortcake,” Gram said. “I need some help with the biscuits.”
In hindsight, I realize Gram didn’t really give me a choice.
My mother and I didn’t bake. Some nights we didn’t even eat dinner. When we did, it was often cereal or something from a box.
I’d find out later that my mother didn’t abandon me so much as my grandma saved me.
If I’d stayed with my mom, I would’ve ended up like her—and Gram knew she had to intervene. She’d given her daughter a chance
to turn her life around, but there was only so much time she’d let her have when my well-being was on the line.
There were a lot of feelings to sort through over the years, but somehow, Gram always knew pressing me wasn’t going to work.
Instead, she gave me something to do and the space to do it. As I measured and mixed and kneaded, inevitably I’d make peace
with the feelings I was trying so hard to bury.
Which is maybe why I still bake when I’m confused, stressed, sad, or lonely.
Tonight it’s Texas sheet cake.
Lots of leftovers with a Texas sheet cake.
My mind clears as I pull out the rest of the ingredients, grab a few bowls, and get to work.
It’s a calm, blessed relief, the muscle memory of mixing, and soon I’m pouring the batter into a shallow pan.
While it bakes, I turn a circle in the too-big-for-one-person kitchen.
“Frosting.” I say this out loud, then walk into the pantry. When I flip on the light, I see the ticks on the wall marking
Minnie’s growth.
Some have exclamation points next to them. All different colors of marker and pen.
I breathe, stiffen my spine, and turn away.
I walk into the living room and flip on the television just to have some background noise.
The house is so quiet. Too quiet.
I walk into the den and look around. The built-in bookshelves are full of books, mostly mine, but I haven’t read anything
new in months. I sit down in the armchair, and when I lean back, I feel something hard behind me. I reach behind the pillow
and grab it. I don’t have to look at it to know what it is.
A journal.
My journal.
The one thing that was supposed to “help me heal.”
It hadn’t been my idea. My therapist, Dr. Lydia Baskin, recommended it in the weeks following that fateful night at the auction.
I was seeing her religiously up until two months ago when she looked me straight in the face and said, “Claire, nothing about your life is going to change if you don’t change it.”
I might’ve rolled my eyes at her because I know that.
But also because I don’t know how to actually do it.
She said to start with small changes. I’ve tried small changes. All they do is bring me closer to having to make big changes.
I open the journal and thumb through the pages, momentarily proud of myself for taking her journaling assignment so seriously.
I’d been a faithful journaler for months.
But my pride is short-lived when I notice that almost every entry is a rehashing of the one before. Page after page of bitter diatribes from a woman who is angry. Devastated. Terrified. Hopeless.
A woman who, even all these months later, is still exactly the same. Well, mostly the same, but now with a smattering of heartbreak mixed in.
I flip to the last page before a series of blank ones.
There, in bold black letters, are the same words Dr. Baskin had said to me. “Nothing about your life is going to change if you don’t change it.”
I’d written it down, underlined it, and circled it, and I have no memory of doing so.
Those words had not been well received, but some part of me, the part that wants to heal, must’ve known they were important.
And while everything about my life has changed in the last year, none of those changes were ones I’d made. They’d been made
for me. They’d happened to me.
Under that quote, in the same bold lettering, is a question. One I do remember writing.
My mind spins back to that day in therapy, sitting in the chair opposite her—me, cross-legged in my black leggings and worn-out
CSU sweatshirt, and her in her pantsuit and stilettos.
The journal is open in my lap, and Dr. Baskin says, “I want you to write down a question, and then I’m going to give you some
time to answer it. Then we’ll talk through it together.”
I look down at the journal, back in the present.
The question is simple, but the answer is definitely not.
It reads, “What do I really want?”
The rest of the page is blank. I never answered it.
And I also haven’t been back to see Dr. Baskin since.
I pick up a pen from the desk nearby and settle back into the chair.
“What do I really want?” I tap the end of the pen on the open journal.
Over the past year, I haven’t changed. Over the past year, I haven’t moved on. Over the past year, I’ve listened to a very specific, very loud voice in my head that is angry and hurt.
This time, though, I listen to a different voice. Not the angry one, not the vengeful one, not the hurt one or even the lonely
one.
This voice, strangely, has a twinge of hope in it.
I sit up.
I look down at the journal . . . and I start writing.
Day One of My New Life:
My New Life. I actually like the sound of that. New. Fresh. A do-over. Underneath I write . . .
What do I really want?
What did I want before everything in my life went pear-shaped? I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, remembering, and
when I open my eyes I write:
I want a job or career I love.
I want to feel creative and helpful and alive again. Which makes me think of the second thing I want.
I want friends. Real ones.
Being lonely sucks. Worse than that is being told who your friends need to be, or what kind of “friend” to be to fit in. Enough
of that. I just want friends.
I think of the things I sacrificed when I moved here. Things I was happy to give up at the time.
I want to live in a new city.
I stare at that one, pen hovering over it like I’m ready to cross it out. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I press my lips together, but a smile sneaks through.
What if I moved to a new city? My stomach flip-flops at the idea.
But then I think of something else I’ve always wanted . . .
I want a dog.
Not a big dumb one. A smart one. One that sits with me and doesn’t bark at leaves blowing past the window.
A more serious thought hits me. I move the pen with purpose.
I want to figure out who I am—apart from a wife and a mom.
This feels big but it feels right to add it to the list. This feels like actual decisions are being made. I’m writing these
as if I’m already doing them.
The last thing I write is simple.
I want a place where I fit in. I want a place where I belong.
The timer on the oven goes off, and I bring the journal with me into the kitchen. I set it down on the counter, grab a pair
of oven mitts, and pull the sheet cake from the oven. I lightly press on the top, and it springs back.
“Perfect.”
I read over my list again. It’s unfiltered and raw and vulnerable, and there’s no one in my life I would share it with . . .
but maybe that’s what makes it important.
Because maybe identifying the things I really want is the first step.
And the next step is to actually do them.