CHAPTER 5
The second day of my escape started better than the first.
I woke up at seven-thirty.
No alarm.
No small body climbing into bed with me at five in the morning.
No list of chores already running through my head before my eyes were even open.
I just… woke up.
I lay there for a long time, listening to the ocean and watching the sunlight move across the ceiling.
I could get used to this, I thought.
And then the guilt came, right on schedule.
They’ve probably burned the house down by now.
They’ve probably fed the kids nothing but candy.
Sarah is probably crying. Mark is probably lost.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and told the guilt to go to hell.
I was sixty-seven years old.
I had earned four days.
I showered and dressed in jeans and the warm sweater I had packed. I walked down to the motel office, where Marnie was sitting behind the counter eating a donut and reading a romance novel of her own.
“Morning,” she said, looking up. “You look better than you did yesterday. Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in years,” I admitted.
“Told you. The ocean fixes everything. Well… almost everything. It won’t pay your taxes or make your kids call, but it’s pretty good at everything else.”
She pushed a paper bag across the counter.
“Complimentary breakfast. Don’t get excited. It’s a blueberry muffin and coffee from the pot. But it’s free and it’s warm.”
I took the bag.
“Thank you, Marnie. You really don’t have to—”
“Please. I’ve got nothing but time and a surplus of muffins. The summer crowd is gone. Winter guests are rare. Most folks who come to the beach in December are either fishing, running from something, or both. Which one are you?”
I thought about it.
“Both,” I said.
Marnie nodded like this was the most reasonable answer in the world.
“Figured. You want company on your walk? I take my dog out at eight every morning. He’s friendly. He doesn’t talk back. He won’t ask you for money or a ride or to watch his eight children for four days.”
I laughed.
It was the first real laugh I had had in months.
“I’d like that,” I said.
Ten minutes later, we were walking along the empty beach, Marnie’s golden retriever trotting ahead of us, sniffing at shells and seaweed.
The air was cold but sharp and clean.
The sky was that perfect winter blue that makes you believe anything is possible.
“So,” Marnie said, kicking at a piece of driftwood. “Eight grandkids, huh?”
“Eight. Four each from my daughter and son.”
“That’s a lot of bedtime stories.”
“That’s a lot of everything.”
“And their parents just… hand them over? No questions asked?”
“Every time. For years. I never said no. I never even hesitated. It just became… what I did.”
Marnie was quiet for a while.
“I get it,” she said finally. “I raised three of my own. And for a long time, I was exactly like you. I thought if I stopped giving, they’d stop loving me. That my whole value was in what I could provide. That love was just another word for service.”
She stopped walking and turned to face me.
“Let me tell you something my own mother told me when I was about your age, drowning in the same nonsense. She said, ‘Marnie, people treat you exactly how you teach them to treat you. If you show them you’ll accept crumbs, they’ll never give you the whole cake. And if you show them you don’t think you deserve the cake… well, they’ll believe you.’”
The words hit me hard.
Because they were true.
Every single one.
I had spent forty-five years teaching my children that I was infinitely available. That my needs were negligible. That no matter how much they took, I would never, ever leave.
I had trained them to take me for granted.
And then I had gotten angry when they did exactly what I had trained them to do.
“I left a note,” I said. “I told them I heard their plans. That I was tired. That I needed this.”
“Good for you.”
“But now I’m wondering if I went too far. If I hurt them more than they deserved.”
Marnie’s dog came trotting back, dropping a slimy tennis ball at our feet. She picked it up and threw it again.
“Here’s what I’ve learned about kids,” she said, watching him run. “They don’t change because you ask nicely. They don’t change because you hint. They don’t change because you drop subtle little clues that you’re exhausted and overwhelmed. They change when the status quo changes. When you stop doing the thing you’ve always done. When you force them to look at what they’ve been taking for granted.”
She turned to me again.
“You didn’t go too far. You went exactly far enough. Because now, for the first time in their adult lives, your children are standing in your kitchen, looking at eight hungry kids, and they’re thinking, Oh my God. How did she do this every single year? And that, my dear, is the beginning of respect.”
We walked in silence for a while.
Somewhere down the beach, a group of seagulls took off all at once, white against the blue.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Did your kids ever get it? After you changed things? Did they ever really understand?”
Marnie smiled.
“Some did. Some didn’t. The oldest two, they fought it at first. Called me selfish. Said I’d changed. Said I didn’t love them anymore. But the youngest… she got it immediately. She called me and said, ‘Mom, I’m so sorry we made you feel like you had to do all that.’ And you know what? That one call made every fight worth it. Made every lonely dinner worth it. Made every second of guilt worth it.”
She put her hand on my arm.
“You can’t control how they’ll react. You can only control whether you keep drowning. And honey, you were drowning. I could see it on your face the second you stepped out of that car yesterday. You were one bad Christmas away from something really ugly.”
She was right.
I had been drowning for so long I had forgotten what breathing felt like.
I had forgotten that I was allowed to breathe.
We walked back to the motel as the sun climbed higher.
Marnie had to get back to the office.
I decided to drive into town and find a bookstore. Maybe a nice lunch somewhere.
I was sitting in my car, checking my hair in the rearview mirror, when I saw it.
A dark blue SUV.
Maryland plates.
Parked two spaces down from mine.
There was nothing remarkable about it.
Except that I would know that SUV anywhere.
It was Sarah’s.
My heart stopped.
Then it started again, hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.
They found me.
They drove six hours to drag me back.
They’re going to yell. They’re going to cry. They’re going to make me feel guilty for ever leaving.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I could drive away right now.
I could pull out of this parking lot and keep going. North to Delaware. South to Virginia. Anywhere.
But I didn’t.
Because Marnie was right.
The status quo had to change.
And if they had driven all this way to find me, then the least I could do was listen.
I took a deep breath.
May you like
I opened my door.
And I walked toward the SUV.
