I didn\u2019t cry. God, I didn\u2019t even blink. I just walked to the door, picked up the bag of store-bought cookies I had brought\u2014they hadn\u2019t even been opened\u2014and left.<\/p>\n
The snow was falling thick and slow when I stepped outside. It clung to my lashes, but it couldn\u2019t disguise the heat rising in my chest. Not from the cold, not from shame\u2014from clarity.<\/p>\n
I drove home in silence, hands shaking the whole way. I didn\u2019t turn on the radio. I didn\u2019t call anyone. I didn\u2019t even pray. I just replayed it over and over: her voice smug and sharp, my son spineless and still, the rest of them pretending I wasn\u2019t even there. But it wasn\u2019t the words that broke me. It was the way they all agreed without saying so.<\/p>\n
When I got back to my apartment, I didn\u2019t collapse into sobs. I didn\u2019t pace or drink or scream. I hung my coat, set the cookies on the kitchen counter, and sat at the small table by the window. I stared out at the night, at snowflakes swirling like they had nowhere to be\u2014like I didn\u2019t either.<\/p>\n
And that\u2019s when it hit me. I wasn\u2019t sad. Not really. I was done.<\/p>\n
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