I went to their house to pick up some of my things. She, the wife, was young, pretty with red hair and generous eyes. She was friendly, and maybe too friendly, the kind that makes it clear who holds the upper hand, who feels pity for who. I followed her around the house as she collected and handed me my clothes, which she’d kindly laundered. I didn’t recognize the sweater in my hands—gold, wool, and staticky—and wasn’t sure if any of it was even mine. But I accepted everything without question, since my voice was small in comparison to hers.

I knew why I was there. I knew who she was and why she was so friendly and had the upper hand. I knew why I was the one to be pitied. I was meek then, embarrassed, ashamed, bruised by rejection. But when I left, as I was driving away, I looked down on their house from the hillside where I stood tall and knew I had to go back. The clothes were not everything and I would not walk away from what was rightfully mine.

My friends sympathized but I was finished with pity, finished with ducking my head and accepting the charity emotions as though I agreed they were what I deserved. I grew steady and willful and wore the cut as an emblem of everything I knew I could be, everything I knew I could live without, everything I could one day, someday, leave behind.

And when I went back, he was there. He hadn’t expected to see me, and when I looked at him he would not look back at me. Because this was their house, his and hers, and the life I thought he didn’t want, he really just didn’t want with me. He would not look at me, and one day, someday, that would be okay. For now, though, I took what was mine and I left.