Page 9 of October
I looked at Lola's face—innocent, trusting, untouched by the disappointments of this world—and I made a decision. Not just for me. But for them. For all of them. I needed to stand up. If not now, then when? If I kept waiting, they'd grow up thinking this was what love looked like. Quiet resentment, uneven efforts, affection that came in breadcrumbs.
I started planning. I reached out to Beth, his sister. She immediately sent me a text:
"Hey. Here's that lawyer I mentioned. We went to school together. You can trust him. Name's Jordan Sayre. He's expecting you at 3."
My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling. My heart beat like I was about to jump out of a plane—scared, breathless, but weirdly... ready.
I typed back slowly, every letter a confirmation.
"Thank you. I'm going."
Later, after I picked up the kids from school—Jimmy still quiet, Alice humming a tune, Lola asleep in her seat—we pulled into Thomas's parents' long, graveled driveway. It was bigger than necessary, like everything else they owned. Elegant. Imposing. Designed to impress. But as I stepped out of the car and looked up at the house that had once made me feel safe, I realized I didn't want any of it if it meant staying invisible.
His mother met us on the front steps with a soft smile and arms wide open. "Come in, darlings. Come in, come in." The kids got inside. I handed off Lola and watched her melt into Grandma's chest like she belonged there. That part was easy. The rest... not so much.
His father was in his usual chair, the kind with buttons so deep it looked like it might swallow him whole. He didn't even look up from his paper. Just muttered, "Don't let them ruin anything in the house. I had the floors done."
"Of course, dear," his wife replied dutifully, her voice sugarcoated with grace. Reverent, almost. Like years of sharp silences and backhanded remarks hadn't dulled her spirit. Like being dismissed in public and criticized in private hadn't changed the way she adored him.
Once, I watched him insult her soup at a dinner party. Called it bland and "as forgettable as the company," while guests tried not to squirm. She just smiled, offered seconds. Another time, I overheard him tell a colleague, "My wife didn't build this life. I did. She just occupies it," and his wife? She laughed like he'd just paid her a compliment.
But the worst was the way he'd turn on charm for other women, servers, neighbors, random strangers, while giving her nothingbut a pat on the back and a thank-you like she was staff. Rumors swirled. Affairs, probably. No one ever confirmed them, but no one was surprised either. He never raised his voice. Never hit her. No, he just... erased her. Slowly. Lovingly. Like it was a kindness. Still, she spoke of him like he was a man worth admiring. Like she'd chosen him every day, even when he hadn't chosen her back. I used to pity her. Now, I saw myself in her. I swore, as I stood there in her kitchen, that I wouldn't become the same gentle ghost. I turned and left.
The law office was brighter than I expected. Lemon-scented and sunlit, not cold and metallic like I feared. Jordan Sayre looked nothing like a courtroom shark—just a man in a plaid shirt and neat beard who smiled as I walked in.
"You must be October," he said, standing to greet me. "Beth said you were coming. I'm really glad you did."
He didn't offer the stiff chair across from the desk. He motioned to the couch instead. "Sit where it's soft. You look like you've had a day."
I almost laughed. Almost.
"I don't even know where to start," I said, voice raw.
"You don't have to," he said. "That's my job. Just tell me what's going on, and we'll figure it out from there."
So I told him. About Thomas. The distance. The cash envelope for my birthday. The nights he stayed late. Laura, his coworker. The quiet, awful feeling that I wasn't a person to him anymore—just an obligation. A placeholder.
Jordan listened the whole time. No notes. No interruptions. Just that same steady gaze. When I finally went quiet, he nodded. "Okay. First of all, I'm sorry. What you're describing... it's real and it's common. But that doesn't make it okay." Then he added, "Beth in fact told me you're strong. Just that sometimes... you forget."
I didn't respond. Because he wasn't wrong. I had forgotten. Somewhere between lullabies and long silences, between carefully folded laundry and carefully folded versions of myself—I had lost track of what I was capable of.
"So let's get you a plan," he continued, opening a notepad like it was a doorway, "and the first rule? No emotional reactions. Not yet. Your husband is powerful. Whether you like it or not, he has influence. He can make this process brutal. So we stay methodical. Quiet. Strategic."
I nodded once, even though my stomach turned.
"One step at a time," he said.
He wrote as he spoke, his pen moving steadily. I leaned forward, my eyes scanning every word like it held the key to my freedom.
"First, you need your own bank account," he said. "Just in your name. Open it quietly. Start moving small amounts of money—anything you can manage. Grocery cash, leftover change. This isn't about pride. It's about preparation."
I swallowed hard and nodded again.
"Second," he continued, "start saving. Even if it's coins from the sofa cushions. Even if it's five bucks stashed in your coat pocket.Anything helps. You're building something here—security. Even better, if you can get a job, do it"
Okay. I could do that. I had to.
"Third," he said, looking up at me, "therapy. For you, first. Eventually, the kids. Even if this marriage can be repaired—which, sometimes, it can—you need someone in your corner. If it can't be, you'll need the tools to walk away whole."
