Afterward, an older woman waited near the stage.
She took my hand.
“My daughter is getting married next month.”
I smiled nervously.
“I hope my story doesn’t scare her.”
“No.”
The woman shook her head.
“I’m going to tell her one part.”
“Which part?”
“That your mother didn’t ask why you left before telling you to come home.”
My throat tightened.
The woman continued.
“I want my daughter to know that if she ever needs to leave, my door will open before my questions begin.”
I hugged her.
And on the drive home, I finally understood something.
For months, I had thought the dirty rag would always be the symbol of my marriage.
It wasn’t.
The door was.
The front door I opened when Mason said I couldn’t leave.
My parents’ door that remained open when I called.
Tessa’s door that locked safely behind me.
