Not exactly.
You feel distance.
As if you are watching someone else’s nightmare finally become evidence.
After they leave, the house falls silent.
Too silent.
Your mother’s yellow rose vase lies shattered across the dining room floor. The roses from the funeral arrangement are scattered in the water. Your father’s paperweight sits on the table, streaked with blood from Jason’s wrist and your palm.
You stare at it.
Then you begin to shake.
Aunt Ruth catches you before your knees buckle.
“I’ve got you,” she says.
You cling to her coat and finally sob.
Not graceful tears.
Not the quiet crying you learned during marriage.
You sob like a child who just realized the people who loved her most are gone, and the person who should have protected her came back only to steal what they left behind.
Mr. Thompson steps quietly into the hallway to give you privacy.
Aunt Ruth holds you in the dining room where your mother once served Sunday pie and your father once carved Thanksgiving turkey.
“I don’t know how to do this without them,” you whisper.
Aunt Ruth presses her cheek to your hair.
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
The next morning, your face is swollen and your lip is split deeper than you thought.
Aunt Ruth drives you to urgent care. You tell the doctor you were assaulted by your estranged husband. Saying the sentence out loud feels strange, like speaking a language you should have learned years ago.
The doctor documents everything.
Photos.
