Monday morning, I went to work before sunrise.
The diner smelled like coffee and fresh bread.
Peg was already there.
She was arranging cups behind the counter.
She looked at me when I walked in.
"Morning, honey."
"Morning."
She poured me a little coffee.
I took it to the kitchen.
For a while, everything felt normal.
Orders came in.
The grill heated up.
I prepared the breakfast potatoes.
Then the front door opened.
I heard a familiar voice.
"Is Angela here?"
I stopped cutting onions.
Earline.
Peg looked toward the entrance.
"She's working."
"I need to talk to her."
Peg didn't move.
"Then you'll have to wait until she's free."
I wiped my hands.
I didn't want Peg handling another argument because of me.
I walked toward the front.
Earline was standing near the counter.
Her hair was neat.
Her coat was buttoned.
She held her purse against her side.
She looked at me as if I had done something terrible.
"Angela."
"Earline."
"We need to settle this."
I glanced toward the kitchen.
"I'm working."
"This won't take long."
I folded my arms.
"What do you need?"
She lowered her voice.
"I want you to put the card back."
I stared at her.
"Which card?"
"The one I used."
"That account is closed."
"You can open another one."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because she said it so casually.
As if opening credit accounts for her was something I owed her.
"I don't intend to."
Her face tightened.
"You're being spiteful."
I thought about all those Fridays.
The salon.
The charges.
The statements arriving at my house.
I remembered how she used to tell me about her hair while I was checking the grocery budget.
"I paid for your appointments for eleven years."
She looked away.
"Nobody forced you."
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Nobody forced you.
She was right in one way.
I had agreed.
I had allowed it.
But she had never once asked whether I could afford it.
She had never offered to pay me back.
And now she was standing in my workplace demanding that I continue.
I took a breath.
"You're right. I agreed to it. But I'm not agreeing anymore."
She looked toward Peg.
"Is this how you let your employees talk to customers?"
Peg came around the counter.
"She's not working for you, Earline."
Earline looked surprised.
Peg continued.
"She's working for me. And she's doing her job."
I wanted to hug her.
I didn't.
I simply stepped back toward the kitchen.
Earline followed me with her eyes.
"This isn't finished."
I turned around.
"It is for me."
Then I walked away.
I spent the next hour cooking.
My hands moved automatically.
Eggs.
Toast.
Bacon.
Coffee.
The ordinary work of an ordinary morning.
But my mind kept returning to one thing.
She had said nobody forced me.
And I couldn't completely disagree.
I had made choices.
I had stayed silent.
I had paid.
I had let the arrangement continue long after it stopped being temporary.
That was my responsibility.
But stopping it was my responsibility too.
During my break, I checked my phone.
There was a message from Faron.
He said his mother was upset.
He said I had no reason to involve Peg.
Then he said I was making him look bad.
I read it twice.
I didn't respond.
That evening, I found an old photograph in the kitchen drawer.
Faron and I were standing beside his truck.
We were younger.
He had one arm around my shoulders.
I was holding a paper plate with a piece of coconut cream pie.
I remembered the radio playing.
I remembered how he used to wait for me after work.
I sat with that picture for a long time.
I didn't hate the woman in it.
She had loved somebody.
She had trusted him.
She had thought they were building a life together.
But I couldn't keep living as if that photograph gave him permission to take from me forever.
I placed it back in the drawer.
Then I opened the cabinet.
The two old coffee mugs were still there.
I took one out.
I washed it.
I put it back.
It was a small thing.
But I was beginning to understand that a house could still hold memories without requiring me to keep paying for the people who had left it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: I Finally Added Up Every Payment Again, and This Time I Didn’t Tear the Number Into Pieces
I Thought Being a Good Wife Meant Never Making My Husband Feel the Weight of His Own Mistakes
Part 7 of 20
