“Just go already,” Brittany said, loud enough to slice through the heat. “You’ve been in the way long enough.”
Olivia didn’t answer. There had been a time when words still felt useful, when defending herself felt like it might change something.
That time had passed so quietly she hadn’t even noticed when it died.
Inside the house, a door shut somewhere in the hallway. Olivia’s pulse stuttered for one pathetic second because she thought maybe Jason was coming out.
Maybe he would say her name. Maybe he would stop her. Maybe, after all the silence, he would finally choose her.
But the front door stayed half-open and empty, and no footsteps followed. If Jason was there, he was staying where he always stayed—just out of sight, just out of responsibility, just far enough away to avoid being called a coward to his face.
Olivia adjusted the strap on her bag and stared at the porch one last time. She had cleaned those steps until her knuckles cracked in winter.
She had repotted Sharon’s dying geraniums. She had painted the chipped trim near the kitchen window. She had hosted holidays, set tables, washed dishes, smiled through insults, and stayed calm through humiliations that would have sent a stronger woman packing years earlier.
And still, in the end, she was leaving like someone who had overstayed a welcome she had never truly been given.
“I’m leaving now,” she said quietly.
No one answered.
The silence that followed was so complete it felt arranged. Sharon looked pleased with it. Brittany smirked.
Olivia turned toward the gate before the pressure in her chest could crack into something uglier than tears. She was almost there, fingers closing around the iron latch, when a low voice behind her spoke her name.
Leave a Comment