The night my husband, Spencer, said, “We’re done,” I didn’t cry. The next morning, I woke at the usual hour. The pitcher on the counter was empty, so I took the bucket out to the spigot in the yard to draw water. The winter water was bone-numbingly cold. When I came back, I lit the electric kettle and reheated last night’s leftovers. The door to his study was still closed—he always slept until the late morning sun hit the window. I wiped the breakfast table until the surface was free of even a hint of grease and set out the simple jarred preserves. Then, I took the spare key I usually kept hanging by the door and placed it gently on the floor beside his slightly worn leather wingtips. I never went back. 1 If I have one skill in this world, it’s endurance. Marrying Spencer Ashworth was the biggest news on our street. I was a worker at The Redwood Canning Facility, perpetually smelling of processed tomatoes and steam. He was a newly hired junior associate at the prestigious Harrington Foundation for the Arts—clean, refined, and his shirt collar was always perfectly starched. Everyone said I’d caught a falling star. My parents agreed, constantly reminding me to cater to his needs, to keep up appearances, and not to lose this dignity he had bestowed upon me. And so, I served. He liked sweets, so I learned to bake delicate, fussy pastries. He complained the house was noisy, so I moved my sewing machine into the hallway. He preferred silence, so I learned to hold my tongue. We’d been married for three years, and he’d never once touched the laundry or dealt with the bills. His mother, a retired elementary school principal, never failed to lecture me during dinner. “Our Spencer is destined for great things. Alice, you must be supportive. You cannot be a weight dragging down his future.” I’d nod and place the choicest, most tender pieces of pot roast in her bowl. Be supportive. I had been supportive for three long years. It wasn’t until the water had gone completely cold that I realized if I stayed submerged any longer, I would freeze to death. Spencer changed after the Foundation’s annual gala. He started coming home later and later. The familiar scent of old paper and ink on his clothes was replaced by a strange, cloyingly sweet designer cologne. At first, I told myself it was just from the party guests. That was until the day I went to drop off a crucial document he’d forgotten. Outside the entrance to the Foundation’s main building, I saw him. He was bent over, holding open the door of a brand-new, charcoal-gray Audi for a woman. She had a stylish, dark, shoulder-length bob, was wearing oversized sunglasses, and had an air of casual wealth about her. It was Vanessa Harrington, the Councilman’s daughter, recently returned from a stint in Europe. The smile on Spencer’s face was one I had never seen directed at me. It was eager, deferential, and radiant. I stood by the gate for a long time, the forgotten papers fluttering in my hand in the sharp breeze. I didn’t go in. I was afraid the smell of tomato paste and steam on my clothes would somehow stain his perfect new picture. I held the documents tight and walked home. That night, when he finally came back, he yelled at me for the first time. “Where are the financials? Don’t you know how urgent that was? You couldn’t even handle one simple thing! What good are you?” I just looked at him, saying nothing. He gave me a look of pure disgust: “You reek of the kitchen. Stay away from me.” He slept in the study that night. 2 From that day on, the study door never opened for me again. Humans, I guess, are a pathetic lot. The more he ignored me, the cleaner I kept the house. I scrubbed the floors three times over. I washed his white dress shirts, meticulously ironing them until they were stiff and immaculate. I thought that if I was good enough, perfect enough, he would eventually come back. Until Mrs. Ashworth came over again. This time, she didn’t bring the usual store-bought pound cake she liked. Her hands were empty. She sat down at my small kitchen table with a face set in stone. “Alice, marrying Spencer was a sacrifice for you.” My heart dropped. That was not her usual line. “Spencer, well, he’s an ambitious boy,” she sighed. “Councilman Harrington sees his potential. He wants to mentor him, and he intends to offer his daughter… Vanessa… to him.” The cup of water I was pouring wobbled in my hand, and the hot liquid spilled onto my wrist, leaving a stinging red welt. “Mom, what are you saying? Spencer… he’s married.” “Married people get divorced!” she suddenly shrieked. “Alice, you need to think about Spencer’s career! What is the Harrington family? They’re royalty! If Spencer connects with them, he’ll be a king. And you?” She looked me up and down: “You’re from a canning facility. You can’t help him. You can only hold him back!” “Our Spencer cannot be ruined because of you.” I looked at this cruel, aging woman. She had eaten my dinners, worn clothes I had washed, and slept in a bed in a home I had cleaned. Now, she was asking me to vacate my life so her son could become a “king.” I said nothing, but placed the water glass heavily on the table. “Mom, your water is cold. I’ll get you fresh.” I turned and walked into the kitchen. That day, I cooked a full, four-course meal—everything Mrs. Ashworth loved. She ate until she was satisfied, and as she left, she reverted to her usual patronizing tone. “Alice, you’re a good girl. You’ll see the sense in this. Don’t worry, the Ashworths will take care of you. Just… name your price.” I smiled and walked her to the door. “Mom, be careful. The sidewalk is slick.” 3 The moment I shut the door, I threw up. I retched violently, as if trying to expel three years of suppressed rage, self-pity, and bitterness along with the bile. Spencer confronted me three days later. He was wearing a brand-new, expensive navy suit, and his hair was slicked back, gleaming. He didn’t look at me. He stared at the framed family photo hanging on the wall—the one taken at my parents’ house after we had just moved in. “Alice, we… we need to end this.” “You’ve heard about Vanessa. She… she can open doors for me.” “It’s not that I look down on you,” he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling and obscuring his face. “It’s that we want different things. I’m looking for the stars and the sea. You… you can only see the four walls of this kitchen.” “Don’t worry,” he pulled a white envelope from his pocket. “Here is five hundred dollars. Consider it compensation. You can stay in the house for now, and then… then you can move out once I’m settled.” Five hundred dollars. Three years of my youth, my dignity, my entire life, valued at five hundred dollars. I laughed. “Spencer Ashworth, have you forgotten? This house was my parents’ inheritance. You are the one who needs to move out.” He froze. He had probably forgotten how he had stood on my doorstep all those years ago, a shy young man with a cheap duffel bag, saying, “Alice, I promise I’ll always take care of you.” His face instantly flushed beet red. “Alice! Don’t be difficult! You think you’re still some pristine maiden? You leave me, and who’s going to want a divorced woman like you?” “I’m telling you, don’t try to cause a scene! If you go to the factory, or worse, the Foundation, I… I have ways of making sure you can’t get a job anywhere in this city!” He slammed the envelope on the table and stormed out, the door shaking the entire house. I looked at the five hundred dollars, slowly sank to the floor, and cried. Not for him, but for the death of those three lost years. The next day, I went to The Redwood Canning Facility. In the packing room, my coworkers were looking at me strangely. Patrice, my closest friend, pulled me aside. “Alice, is it true? About Spencer…” I nodded. Patrice sighed: “I knew it! Yesterday, someone from the City Planning office came by. They were asking about you, dropping hints that you were… quote, ‘emotionally unstable’ and ‘a poor fit for a man of Mr. Ashworth’s caliber.’” “They told the floor manager they were concerned you might hurt the plant’s reputation!” A cold numbness spread through me. Spencer, you are truly ruthless. You didn’t just want my spot; you wanted to destroy my reputation and ensure I had no escape route. I took a deep breath and walked to the manager’s office. “Mr. Davis, I need to quit.” He looked startled: “Alice, you’re one of our best. Why?” “Family matters. I need to go back to my cousin’s farm for a while.” He tried to argue, but I cut him off: “Please, just sign it. I don’t want to cause any trouble for the facility.” He looked at me for a long time, then sighed and stamped the paper. Holding the thin piece of termination paper, I walked out of The Redwood Canning Facility. 4 After working there for five years, I didn’t look back. I didn’t go back to the house. I went to my cousin Georgia’s place. She ran a small, struggling organic farm on the edge of town. She was cash-poor, but big-hearted. After I told her everything, she was furious, slapping her hand repeatedly on her thigh. “That weasel! Alice, you can’t let him get away with this! Come on, I’ll go with you to that fancy Foundation, and we’ll tear his face up!” I pulled her back: “It won’t work, Georgia. He’s the Councilman’s pet project now. We’ll lose.” “But… but you can’t let him push you around! That house is yours! Why should he stay?” “Georgia, I’m done wasting my time on him.” I took out my life savings—a bank book with the $1,500 I’d secretly squirreled away over the years. “Georgia, I want to go South.” She stared at me: “The Coastal Crescent? That far away! You’ll be alone, you don’t know anyone…” “If I stay here, I won’t survive.” If I stayed, I would be the woman people whispered about. Spencer and Vanessa would be two mountains crushing me, blocking out the sun. Seeing my resolve, Georgia stopped arguing. She pressed two hundred dollars and a basket of fresh eggs into my hands. “Take this. When you get settled, send me a postcard.” My eyes stung, but I took the money. I didn’t sleep that night. I made a list. The next day, I put on my oldest clothes, a baseball cap, and went back to my house. Spencer wasn’t there. I packed only my essentials with furious speed: a few changes of clothes, the silver locket my mother left me. Then, I went next door to Mrs. Gina’s house (I localized the name to Mrs. Bell). Mrs. Bell was my kind, nosy, long-time neighbor. I gave her my remaining pantry staples—canned goods, a bag of dried beans, and the jars of homemade pickles I’d prepared. “Mrs. Bell, I’m going to stay with my cousin for a while. These things will just spoil. Please use them.” Mrs. Bell, unsuspecting, happily took them. “Alice, you’re too good for that Spencer. Never home, always expecting you to wait on him.” I smiled vaguely, not responding. Before leaving, I casually mentioned: “Mrs. Bell, all the furniture in my living room was my parents’ inheritance. I’m worried about Spencer’s family coming over and helping themselves to things. Would you… would you keep an eye out? If anything happens, maybe call a few of the boys on the block and help me move it into your garage for safekeeping?” Mrs. Bell thumped her chest: “Don’t you worry, honey! No one touches your things in this neighborhood!” I thanked her, grabbed my small duffel bag, and walked away without a backward glance. Spencer, you wanted your “stars and the sea”? Well, I just smashed your kitchen.
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