Chapter 6: Shards and Snowstorms

At first, David came every day, bringing rare and interesting things from all over to amuse me.

He’d show up with chocolates from New York, antique brooches, first-edition books—anything he thought might thaw the ice between us. The gifts piled up, unopened, a silent testament to his guilt.

But I threw them all out, without exception.

I tossed trinkets into the trash, donated jewelry to the church rummage sale. None of it mattered. I wanted him to feel the emptiness he’d left me with.

He tried to approach me, but I would always coldly avoid him, refusing to meet his eyes, burying myself in my books.

I hid behind thick novels, letting Dickens and Faulkner drown out reality. It was easier than looking at him—easier than forgiving.

Once, he came to me drunk and forced himself on me.

He reeked of whiskey, his words slurred, his hands rough. I felt myself shrink away, disgusted and powerless.

That time, I smashed his head open with a heavy glass candleholder.

Glass shards sparkled on the rug, blood dotting the white carpet. For once, the silence in the house felt like victory.

After that, David never came again, and the guest house was finally quiet.

The silence was a blessing. No more footsteps in the hall, no more forced conversations. Just me, the kids, and the humming of the old radiator.

I heard he brought Lillian into the main house, the two of them enjoying each other’s company every day.

They’d host dinner parties, laughter floating through the house. I heard it all from the guest wing—each giggle another cut.

Later, David stripped me of my household management rights, citing misconduct. I was happy to be free of the burden.

He said it was for my own good, a way to help me recover. I knew better—it was punishment, plain and simple. Still, I didn’t fight him.

I simply stayed in the guest house, living with my son and daughter—and that’s how it went, for a lifetime.

We built our own routines. Board games at the kitchen table, late-night movies on a battered old TV, pancakes on Saturday mornings. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

Until the day Caleb came down with a high fever. David was not at home, and the staff searched the entire house but couldn’t find a doctor.

Panic spread like wildfire. The landline kept ringing—no answer. The roads were iced over, Lake-effect snow piling against the porch, the whole world locked in by winter.

They tried to fetch a physician from outside, but couldn’t find a car.

Even the Jeep was out of gas, the snow piling up outside. We were cut off from the world, helpless.

Caleb burned with fever, weakly calling out:

"Mom, Mom, it hurts."

His face was flushed, eyes glassy. My heart broke with every whimper, every shiver wracking his small frame.

Desperate, I knelt outside Lillian’s door, earnestly begging her to help Caleb.

My knees left bruises on the tile as I pleaded, voice raw. I could hear laughter behind the door, music playing—a world I couldn’t enter.

Lillian never came out—not once. I knelt in the freezing sleet, my knees numb against the tile, begging her to help.

Aunt Carol, before she died, would shake her head and say, “Honey, in this world, a woman’s only as safe as the man she marries.”

Aunt Carol was my birth mother in this world, but I could only call her "Aunt Carol," never "Mom."

Family trees were complicated things in our part of the country. The truth was always twisted, names swapped for propriety’s sake.

Back then, I didn’t understand what her words meant—just nodded vaguely.

I thought she was just being bitter, another relic of a tougher generation.

I was still somewhat unconvinced. After all, I was a modern woman, raised for over twenty years to be independent. How could I rely on a man?

I’d put myself through college, paid my own rent, even fixed a leaky faucet once. I’d believed that was enough.

Until I held Caleb in my arms, with nowhere to go in the sleet, and finally understood her words.

There was no help coming. I was alone, and the realization cut deeper than the cold.

In this era, a woman’s survival depended on a man.

It was the lesson my mother learned, and the one I’d fought so hard to deny. But here, it was as true as gravity.

Because David distanced himself from me, I couldn’t even protect my own child.

The power he’d wielded so carelessly was now my undoing. I’d never felt so powerless.

Fortunately, Caleb survived.

A neighbor’s old nurse, Mrs. Simmons, braved the storm and saved my boy. I sent her a thank-you note every Christmas after that, even when the memory still made me ache.