Page 23 of Broken Vows

“I miss you, Mom. So much it hurts sometimes.” I touch the stone one last time. “I’ll come back soon.”

The diner off Main Street blasts cold air conditioning when I walk in, raising goosebumps on my sweaty skin. The bell above the door chimes–the same bell that’s been there since I was a kid coming here with Mom after church. Martha, the waitress who’s worked here forever, looks up from wiping down the counter.

“Alexis?” Her face softens with concern. “Honey, you look overheated. Sit, sit.”

She leads me to a booth by the window, not my usual spot with Jeremy, thank god. The vinyl seat sticks to my legs as I slide in.

“The usual?” she asks, already pouring ice water.

“Yes please.”

As she walks away, I catch her whispering with the other waitress, both glancing my way with sympathy. Word travels fast in small towns. Everyone probably knows about the divorce by now.

The ice water helps clear my head a little, and I gulp it down, letting the cold shock my system. Mom used to say that sometimes you need a shock to remind yourself that you’re still alive.

Back home,the house feels bigger somehow. Emptier. Even with the AC running, there’s a stuffiness that has nothing to do with the August heat. I try to read but can’t focus on the words. Try to watch TV, but every show seems to be about relationships. Finally, I curl up on the couch with a light blanket, flipping through Netflix without really seeing it. Some romantic comedy starts playing–I should probably change it, but I don’t have the energy.

My eyes grow heavy as the movie plays on. On screen, a couple fights and makes up, the kind of simple conflict that can be resolved in two hours or less. Real life isn’t that neat. Real life is messy and complicated and sometimes there is no making up.

The last thing I remember thinking before sleep takes me is that Mom would know what to do. Mom always knew what to do.

Chapter Fourteen

The morning lightfiltering through my bedroom window is too bright, too harsh. I roll over with a groan, my stomach churning. Third morning in a row I’ve woken up like this. Must be the stress of everything finally catching up with me.

I drag myself out of bed, passing the blank walls where our photos used to hang. The nail holes stare back at me like tiny wounds, reminders of everything we’ve lost. We had so many plans for this house. That corner in the living room where we were going to put a crib someday. The backyard where Jeremy talked about building a swing set.

The box he dropped off yesterday still sits unopened on the kitchen counter. I make my way around it, like it’s a black hole threatening to pull me in. The coffee maker–a wedding gift from his parents–sits quiet and unused. I haven’t been able to stomach coffee lately. Even the smell of it sends my stomach rolling.

Instead, I sink into the couch with a glass of water, letting my mind drift to when things started changing. Was it the new job? The long hours spent apart? Or did we just stop trying somewhere along the way?

I remember the night he got the call about the interview at the power company. We were lying in bed, talking about our future like we used to do every night.

His eyes lit up when he told me about the salary, the benefits.

“If you get this job,” I’d told him, curled against his chest, “we could start saving for a family.”

He’d smiled then, that bright, hopeful smile I fell in love with in high school. “Our own little soccer team,” he’d joked, pulling me close. We stayed up late that night, picking out names, planning nursery themes, dreaming of Saturday mornings with tiny feet pattering down the hallway.

But then he got the job, and suddenly our conversations about the future became conversations about overtime and missed dinners and lack of quality time. The dreams of a family faded into schedules and separate lives. When did we stop dreaming together? When did “someday” become “never”?

My fingers trace patterns on the couch arm, remembering how we used to sit here every evening. He’d tell me about his day at work, I’d show him my latest paintings. Sometimes we’d just sit in comfortable silence, his hand playing with my hair. Now the silence in this house feels like a physical weight.

The worst part is, I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment things changed. It wasn’t one big fight or betrayal. We just… drifted. Like boats that slowly slip their moorings, barely noticeable until you look up one day and realize you’re lost at sea.

Maybe if he hadn’t taken the job, we’d still be together. Still be that young couple who spent weekends picking out paint colors and arguing over where to hang pictures. Still be the people who couldn’t fall asleep without saying “I love you” three times, like a magic spell to ward off bad dreams.

The crackers taste stale, but I force myself to eat a few. We used to talk about having twins ourselves–they run in his family.He’d even picked out names: Emma and Olivia for girls, Lucas and Noah for boys. Now those names float in my mind like ghosts of a future we’ll never have.

Suddenly, the crackers turn to ash in my mouth. I barely make it to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Everything spins as I kneel on the cold tile, tears mixing with sweat on my face. This feels different than stress or grief. This feels like…

I reach for the hand towel, but it’s not on the rack. I grab some toilet paper and clean my mouth. The bathroom closet feels miles away, but I manage to stumble to it, pulling open the door.

That’s when I see them. The box of my brand new pads, pushed to the back corner, untouched for… how long?

My hands shake as I count backward. One month since the divorce. Two weeks before that when… but no, even before then…

Oh god.

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