Chapter 6 - Silence on the Line
As December rolled in, wrapping Raleigh in a crisp, frosty chill, the silence from Derek’s household grew deafening. No more frantic texts, no more guilt-tripping phone calls, no passive-aggressive drop-ins from Renee. Cassandra’s pride had evidently taken a massive hit, and Derek, trapped between his wife’s incandescent rage and his mother’s immovable boundary, chose the path of bitter avoidance. Diane spent her days in peaceful isolation, sipping tea by the window, reading thick historical biographies, and organizing her travel documents. The absence of familial chaos didn't feel like loneliness; it felt like a deep, restorative sanctuary. The constant hum of anxiety that had lived in her chest since Leonard’s death finally dissolved into stillness.
Two weeks before her flight, Joanna flew in from Atlanta for a quiet weekend visit, bypassing Derek’s house entirely to stay with her mother. They spent Saturday afternoon drinking hot spiced cider, baking a small apple tart just for the two of them, and looking through Diane’s old photo albums. "Mom, I have to admit, seeing you like this—so calm, so sure of yourself—makes me want to cry," Joanna said, resting her head on Diane’s shoulder as they sat on the living room sofa. "For as long as I can remember, you’ve been running on an empty tank, trying to make everyone else happy while you faded into the wallpaper. I’m proud of you for booking that ticket. Go to Portugal. Eat pastéis de nata, walk on the cliffs, and don't look back." Diane kissed the top of her daughter's head, her heart swelling with a profound sense of maternal completion that required no cooking, no cleaning, and no suffering.
Derek, however, made one last pathetic attempt at control the Sunday before her departure. He sent a brief, formal text message: *“Cassie and I decided to spend Christmas in the mountains with her family since our home won’t be having a traditional dinner. The kids are upset they won't see their grandmother before the new year, but I suppose you’ve made your priorities clear.”* It was a transparent guilt-trip designed to extract a last-minute apology and a promise to cater. Diane looked at the screen, typed a calm, neutral reply—*“I hope you all have a wonderful time in the mountains. Merry Christmas to you and the children”*—and then, for good measure, blocked his number for the duration of her holiday. She refused to let emotional terrorism hijack her final days of preparation.
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TITLE: The Portugal Departure
