Page 38 of Letting Go

Even his wife calls him that. “The Judge.” Probably because he named his son after himself but didn’t bother with a Junior. Now we have two Michael Millers in this godforsaken family tree. One bought us this house, the other fucked my sister in it.

God, I hate this house.

I sink onto the edge of the guest bed, wine glass gripped like a lifeline

The mattress squeaks under my weight and Netflix pings from the TV, cheerful and oblivious. “New releases for you!” it chirps, like it’s not suggesting Iwatch my way through other people’s trainwrecks to avoid my own.

I can’t. I’m too angry for fake dating. Too bitter for mid-budget true crime. I want blood or silence. No in-between.

And it’s not like I have work to distract me yet. May I won’t for a while.

A whole lifetime of being alone with my brain and the echo ofhisvoice in my shower tiles. Amazing.

I pick up my phone, mostly to stop myself from throwing it at the wall. Swipe up. Inbox. Pinterest boards I don’t remember following. A sale on bamboo sheets. One too many “Did you forget something in your cart?” emails.

I forgoteverything, actually. Like how to trust anyone.

Then- one email catches my eye.

Subject: Your Offer Letter - Marx Corp

Oh. Right.

That thing where I’m supposed to start my shiny new job with a corner office and a CEO who actually reads contracts before signing them.

Leave it to me to get offered the best job of my life and immediately pick vengeance over it. I should be thrilled. I should be framing this contract, or at least printing it like an adult with a filing system. Butinstead, I’m spiralling into guest room purgatory with a wine gut and a broken heart.

The thing is, the job is for my savings account. My sensible, well-planned, “I could retire by forty if I stay boring” future.

But revenge?

Revenge is for the soul.

And right now, my soul is thirsty.

I scroll through the email. Benefits, salary, start date-Monday. Of course. I stare at the signature line. Ugh.

I should feel guilty but I don’t.

Maybe a little.

My expenses have been low lately. Apart from supporting my parents, I pay taxes, buy groceries. My car runs. That’s about it.

No lavish trips. No spontaneous shopping sprees. No dog.

That dream- the one where I finally get a dog, name her something absurd like Lady Wigglebottom, and feed her bits of croissant while we sit in the park, I’ve had that since I was a kid.

Mike was allergic. Of course he was. Allergic to joy, apparently.

But he’s not here anymore, is he?

Maybe it’s time.

First, though: I have to say no. To the job. To the structure. To the grown-up version of myself that might’ve crawled out of this gracefully.

I tap the CEO’s email, draft a reply with hands that are shaking a little.

Subject: Re: Offer Letter

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