Chapter 6

By the time I had my boarding pass, the broker's wire had already hit my account.

The brownstone had come to me through the Harrington Family Trust. Selling it wasn't betraying anyone.

As for what Richard and Ethan would think when they came home and realized they couldn't even get through the front door — well, that wasn't my problem either.

Before I boarded, I bought a new outfit at the airport — a soft cashmere sweater, wide-leg trousers that actually fit me. Nothing dramatic. Just mine.

Nothing else about me had changed yet. But the second I'd walked out of that house, my face had stopped looking gray.

I wasn't waking up every morning to a mountain of someone else's chores.

I'd picked Boston. Beacon Hill, specifically — narrow cobblestoned streets, bay windows, the smell of old brick and wet leaves.

The money from the brownstone was more than enough to buy me a neat little row house there. The rest would carry me through retirement easily.

In forty years of marriage, I'd thought about divorce more times than I could count.

When Ethan was young and exhausting, when the laundry never ended, when Richard's cold silence at night felt like sleeping next to a wall — I'd thought about it then.

Alone in the dark I used to imagine where I'd go. I wanted a house that belonged to me. Not to anyone else.

I wanted to wake up on my own schedule. Rest when I was tired. Not start every day with lunches, school runs, dinner prep, laundry before I'd even had coffee.

Every time I got close to stepping out, I stopped.

I'd been out of the workforce for decades. What would I do for money? What about Ethan? First grade turned into middle school turned into high school turned into college.

So I waited. Four decades.

Until today.

And it turned out the hard part had only ever been the first step. Once I was out — it was easy. It was easy to breathe on this side of the door.

I'd dressed every fear up in elaborate excuses. Forty years of them. And in the end they'd been just that — excuses.

Late. But I was finally free.

The realtor who handled the Beacon Hill row house was young, twenty-something, efficient. She treated me with the detached professionalism she'd give any client. As if women my age came in every day looking to start over.

While she printed the paperwork, something made me say, "Do you get a lot of clients like me?"

I hadn't specified what kind of client.

She didn't even pause at the printer. "It's incredibly normal. All kinds of people walk through this door every day choosing to start over. All kinds."

My head felt looser than it had in years.

Of course.

The world was enormous. I wasn't the first, and I certainly wouldn't be the last.

People might think I'd woken up too late.

But I still had a life left. Every month of it was precious now.

And so I settled in Beacon Hill.