Chapter 8 - The Basement Cleared
It took Cal forty-five minutes to pack his things.
He didn't choose option two. He didn't call the police, and he didn't try to negotiate. He packed his clothes into two plastic storage bins and a duffel bag, his movements jerky and humiliated, casting glances out the window toward his mother’s idling Buick.
When he finally walked out the front door, he didn't look back. The door clicked shut behind him with a dry, final sound that felt less like a loss and more like a lung finally taking its first deep breath of clean air.
As soon as his taillights disappeared down the street, I walked down the basement stairs.
Iris was sitting on her folding cot, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the yellow curtains we had hung together. She hadn't unpacked her backpack in weeks.
“Is he gone?” she asked softly.
“Yes, honey,” I said, sitting down beside her on the narrow mattress and wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “He’s gone.”
“Is Nadine gone too?”
“She’s gone.”
Iris turned her head slowly, looking up at me with those cautious, wise-beyond-her-years eyes. “Are we going to have to move?”
“Not a chance,” I said, pulling her tighter against me. “This is our house. And tomorrow morning, we are going upstairs, we are carrying every single one of your things back into your real bedroom, and we are going to paint whatever color you want.”
May you like
A tiny, hesitant smile broke across my daughter’s face—the first real smile I had seen on her in months.
We spent that evening dragging the folding cot, the fairy lights, and the Rubbermaid tubs out of the basement and into the garage. We carried Iris’s heavy winter coat, her clothes, and her books back up the stairs, restoring her room to the bright, coastal-blue sanctuary it was always meant to be.
