"I'm sorry. We did everything we could."
My world shattered in that instant.
I don't remember how I handled the paperwork, how I arranged for my mother's body to be taken to the mortuary.
My mind went blank—like a machine stripped of every working part, going through the motions on autopilot.
The hospital on New Year's Eve was so empty I could hear my own heartbeat.
No. That wasn't right. I didn't have a heartbeat anymore.
I returned to my mother's room to collect her belongings. On the nightstand sat two hand-knitted sweaters she'd made—one for me, one slightly larger, meant for Barnaby.
She always said he worked too hard, that he needed to take better care of himself. Northern winters were brutal, she'd remind me. Make sure he bundles up.
My phone buzzed again. Barnaby.
"Alma, don't test my patience. You have one night to cool off. Tomorrow, you come home. Or face the consequences."
I stared at those words for a long time.
Then, with a calm I'd never felt before, I typed my reply.
"Let's get a divorce."
The message sent. I blocked his number. Then his email. Then every other way he had of reaching me.
He didn't know my mother hadn't made it through the new year.
And I didn't need him anymore.
Over the next three days, I held my mother's funeral alone. I didn't notify anyone. It was just me and her—the way it had been throughout my childhood.
I buried her ashes beside my father's. The cemetery was quiet, small. Sunlight filtered through the sparse branches overhead, carrying a whisper of warmth.
I knelt before her headstone, my fingers tracing the gentle smile in her photograph.
"Mom, I'm sorry. I wasn't enough."
"I trusted the wrong person, and it cost you everything."
"But I promise you this—starting today, your daughter will never cry for anyone again. I'm going to live well. For both of us. I'm going to live with my head held high."
A ringtone shattered the silence. Unknown number.
I answered. Barnaby's voice exploded through the speaker: "Alma! You blocked me? You think threatening divorce scares me? I'm telling you right now—I don't agree to this!"
I said nothing. Just listened.
He must have mistaken my silence for surrender. His tone softened, dripping with condescension. "Fine. I know you're upset. I'll book a flight and come get you. Stop acting like a child."
"Barnaby." My voice finally emerged—flat as still water. "Don't bother."
"What did you say?"
"I said, don't bother." Each word fell like a stone. "When I'm back, we'll discuss this through lawyers. Until then, stop calling me. I'm with my mother."
I hung up. Powered off my phone.
Silence. Finally.
I leaned against the headstone and closed my eyes, letting the rare winter sun warm my face.
Five years of marriage. What a ridiculous dream.
For him, I'd given up my chance to study abroad. Abandoned my painting—the thing I loved most. Became the perfect housewife, attending to his every need.
I thought if I just gave enough, one day I'd thaw that frozen heart of his.
Now I understood. A heart that doesn't belong to you won't beat for you—even if you cradle it in your palms.
Time to wake up.
A week later, I returned to the city I'd once called home.
I didn't go back to the apartment I'd shared with Barnaby. Instead, I used money borrowed from a friend to rent a tiny studio on the other side of town.
The moment I powered on my phone, it nearly vibrated off the table. Missed calls and messages flooded in—almost all from Barnaby. The earlier ones were commands and threats. Then came the interrogation, the agitation. And finally, bleeding through the cracks, something that almost resembled panic.
