The divorce hearing was held on a Tuesday.
I wore the blouse I saved for special occasions.
It wasn't expensive.
It was simply the nicest one I owned.
Faron arrived in his usual fishing shirt.
He looked comfortable.
Almost cheerful.
Earline came with him.
She wasn't part of the marriage, but she had decided to attend anyway.
Her hair had been freshly done.
I recognized the style immediately.
The salon appointment had been the previous Friday.
I had paid for it.
Again.
We sat through the hearing without much conversation.
The paperwork was reviewed.
The judge asked a few questions.
My lawyer explained the agreement.
I answered when I was asked.
Faron answered when it was his turn.
Nobody raised their voice.
Nobody cried.
It was all very ordinary.
After eleven years, our marriage ended with a few signatures and a judge's approval.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt strangely empty.
Outside the courthouse, the three of us walked down the steps.
The weather was cool.
Earline pulled her coat closer around herself.
Then she looked at Faron and laughed.
"Well, you don't have to worry about my Friday appointments."
I stopped walking.
She continued.
"Angela will keep taking care of those."
Faron smiled.
He didn't look embarrassed.
He didn't even pretend that the comment had surprised him.
"Ange has always been generous," he said. "She doesn't know how to refuse people."
I stood there with my purse hanging from my shoulder.
For a moment, I couldn't find anything to say.
They were talking about my money.
My work.
My time.
The years I had spent paying their bills.
And they were doing it as if the divorce had changed absolutely nothing.
Earline laughed again.
Faron looked at me.
I could see that he expected me to smile.
He expected me to make some little joke and let the moment pass.
So I smiled.
"That's fine," I said.
Earline seemed pleased.
Faron gave a small nod.
I don't know what they thought I meant.
Perhaps they believed I was agreeing to keep paying.
Perhaps they believed the divorce had made no difference because I had spent so many years allowing them to use my accounts.
Then I turned toward Faron.
"I'd like the cards back."
His smile disappeared.
"What cards?"
"The ones with your name and your mother's name."
He stared at me.
I kept my voice calm.
"The bank cards. I want them returned."
He shifted his weight.
For the first time that afternoon, he looked uncomfortable.
"You're making a big deal out of nothing."
"They're my accounts."
"We've used them for years."
"That doesn't make them yours."
Earline looked between us.
She seemed irritated that the conversation had changed.
Faron stepped closer.
His voice became quieter.
"You want to start trouble over a couple of cards?"
I didn't answer.
He looked toward the courthouse entrance and then back at me.
"Maybe I should tell Peg what you've been doing at the diner."
My stomach tightened.
Peg owned the diner where I worked.
She had employed me for twenty-two years.
I had never stolen from her.
Never taken money from the register.
Never slipped anything into my purse.
Faron knew that.
He also knew how much my job mattered to me.
"What are you talking about?"
He gave me a thin smile.
"I could tell her you've been taking money from the register."
For a second, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
He was threatening to accuse me of stealing because I wanted my own credit cards returned.
Earline didn't say anything.
She simply stood beside him.
I looked at both of them.
I wanted to shout.
I wanted to tell Faron exactly what I thought of him.
But I knew this town.
People talked.
A rumor could travel through Kittanning faster than the truth could catch up.
And I couldn't afford to lose my job.
So I walked away.
I drove straight to the diner.
The lunch crowd was nearly finished.
I parked behind the building and sat for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel.
Then I went inside.
Peg was at the stove, working on a batch of hash browns.
She glanced over when I entered.
"You're back early."
I told her I needed to talk.
She turned down the heat.
I explained what had happened outside the courthouse.
I told her about the credit cards.
The years of payments.
Earline's salon appointments.
Faron's fishing expenses.
Then I repeated his threat.
Peg listened without interrupting.
She didn't ask whether I had misunderstood him.
She didn't ask what I had done to make him angry.
When I finished, she turned back toward the stove.
"Angela, if that man comes in here spreading stories about you, he can start by paying for whatever he orders."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Peg shook her head.
"Twenty-two years you've worked here. I know exactly what kind of employee you are."
I felt something loosen in my chest.
Not everything.
Just enough to breathe.
"Thank you," I said.
She waved a hand.
"Now go wash up. Those potatoes aren't going to cook themselves."
I changed into my work apron.
Above the grill sat my mother's old recipe box.
The wooden corners were worn.
The little cards inside had softened with age.
Some were stained from years of flour, butter, and cooking oil.
My mother's pierogi recipe was in there.
I touched the box as I passed it.
I had done that for years.
Whenever I needed a little courage, I reached for it.
That afternoon, I needed more than a little.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Spent Twenty Minutes Making Calls That Should Have Been Made Eleven Years Earlier, Then Sat Alone With the Silence
I Thought Being a Good Wife Meant Never Making My Husband Feel the Weight of His Own Mistakes
Part 2 of 20
