Page 48 of Letting Go

Chapter 18

The next few weeks fly by in this weird blur of paperwork and cathartic rage-cleaning and unexpected silence. I keep waiting for some last-ditch tantrum from Michael, some desperate, flailing gesture of ego. But nope. Instead, I get a blandly polite email from his lawyer.

He’s not contesting the terms.

Just like that. Done.

Little miracles.

He gets to keep his shiny black car, the accounts, the 401(k) he used to check obsessively like it was a horoscope. I didn’t even ask for alimony. All I demanded, the only thing, was the house. The million-dollar house with the overpriced backsplash and echoey hallways that I now plan to sell the moment the ink dries. After I burn the master bedroom mattress and maybe the couch for good measure. Because I’m not about to leave those behind for the next poor soul.

The house is cursed anyway. Might as well light a match.

HR from Marx Corp reached out midweek. Turns out, me leaving wasn’t as final as Leonard and Chris thought it would be. Apparently, after I got quit, a few very vocal clients lost their minds, and their business, with the company. People called. Left reviews. Sent angry emails. There was a whole mini-revolt in the comments section of one LinkedIn post, which I read three times with popcorn.

I’m not delusional. This isn’t some grassroots campaign to canonize me. But they sent out a very PR-friendly press release about how Leonard and Chris were “no longer with the company” due to fostering a toxic work culture.

And wouldn’t you know it; the new president is a woman. The same woman who should’ve had the job six months ago. The same one Leonard called “too emotional for the C-suite” during a company retreat after two and a half glasses of cab.

Anyway, Caden, surprisingly, is living up to his word. Cleaning house. Seemingly, it’ll “look good” for the company if I come back.

They offered to postpone my start date for the next six months. Said I could return whenever my “family situation is resolved.” Which is corporate-speak for: We know your husband fucked your sister and we still want you on our holiday card.

I said I’d think about it. Which I won’t. Not yet. But it felt good to have the choice.

My parents have been calling. That’s been a fun twist. Sometimes they want money. Sometimes they want to save face. Sometimes they yell about God and forgiveness and how people like us don’t quit.

People likeus.

As if they haven’t already disowned me three times over not funding their Bahamas trip or some other thing they need.

I’m not picking up. Not this time. Keira definitely hasn’t told them the latest and I have no interest in doing so.

Instead, I’ve been going to yoga with Hannah, who is glowing and puking and radiant in that smug first-trimester way. I signed up for a cooking class too. Mostly because the instructor is hot and keeps calling everything “sensual” and I think I need to remember what it feels like to want something that doesn’t make me cry in the shower.

And today, today is for joy.

Because today, I’m going to the shelter.

To get my puppy.

Apuppy.My puppy. Mine.

A small, ridiculous creature who will ruin my floors and chew everything I love and love me unconditionally. I haven’t even met them yet, and I already know they’re the best decision I’ve made in a year.

I slip on my sunglasses, grab the keys, and practically skip to the door.

Something in me feels new. Lighter. Still bruised, sure. But healing. Healing with sharp edges and a better Spotify playlist.

And maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something good.

When I get there, it’s all clipboards and smiling volunteers and that weird smell of kibble and cleaning bleach. I sign what feels like seventy pages of paperwork, half of which I don’t even read. It’s very unlike me. I just nod like someone who has her shit together, even though inside I’m bursting to say, ‘Just let me see my baby.’

They give me a speech about follow-up visits. Home inspections. Surprise drop-ins. If the puppy’s “welfare” is in question, the adoption won’t be finalized. The woman says this part gently, but with a kind of pointed, warning smile like she’s already guessing whether I’m the type who might keep a dog in the garage and forget to feed it. I want to tell her to calm down, that I’ve seen the TikToks too. The ones where people chain up their dogs in the blazing sun and walk away like they weren’t once posting Boomerangs of them with heart-eye emojis.

Honestly, the visits should happenafterpeople get bored. Like, three years in, when the puppy phase is over and the couch is chewed and the honeymoon love has turned into mild resentment.

But I don’t say any of that.

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