The grocery bags in my arms cut into my wrists, and the handle of the dry-cleaning bag kept slipping from my fingers. I balanced the frozen meat in one hand, the pack of imported facial masks Donna insisted on in the other, and the crisp coats I had just picked up from the shop swayed behind me like lifeless passengers. The taxi didn’t even wait for a tip.
When I stepped through the front gate, the sun was already lowering. I pushed open the door quietly, out of habit. No one ever noticed when I came and went—but it still felt better to move in silence.
Inside, Donna was perched on the living room couch, her feet up on a velvet stool, sunglasses on despite the shade, while a nail technician carefully buffed her toenails. Her voice rang like a song I didn’t want to hear.
"Well, finally!" she said loudly, not even turning her head. "The maid returns."
I ignored her. I walked straight to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter, my fingers still tingling from the weight. I began organizing things—labeling containers, wrapping meat. It helped me think.
Then came her voice again, that mocking sweetness that always made my stomach tighten.
"Hey, what’s for dinner, dear maid—I mean, my dear best friend?"
I didn’t respond.
"Come on," she said, louder. "Are you ignoring me now?"
Still, I stayed quiet. I didn’t even look her way. I chopped onions slowly.
"You know," she added, rising from the couch, "we all know how Jackson gets. The moment I say one word about you, he’s mad all over again. Don’t push me."
I clenched the knife tighter. Her footsteps tapped closer.
"What do you even want, Donna?" I sighed. "Isn’t it enough that you have them all?"
All I had were bruises in places no one saw, years of silence, and a home that hadn’t felt like mine since the day she moved in with her perfume and lipstick-stained glasses.
"No," she said softly. "Not enough. Because I want you gone."
The air left the room.
I looked at her like she was someone I didn’t know. Not the friend I once grew up with. Not the woman I once shared secrets and lip gloss with at sixteen. Just a stranger who had worn my life like a coat and now wanted to burn it too.
“I thought you were my best friend,” I whispered. “But you betrayed me.”
And I walked away. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t cry. I just climbed the stairs, one step at a time, holding onto the railing like I was pulling myself out of a grave. I entered my room, locked the door, and laid on the bed fully clothed.
I stared at the ceiling for hours.
The light faded slowly. I didn't move.
Until Jackson entered.
He didn’t knock. He stepped in and slammed the door behind him.
"Did you say something to Donna?"
I turned my head slowly. "What?"
“She doesn’t want to go to Finland anymore. She says you made her feel ashamed. That she didn’t deserve it. Did you say something to her?”
“Of course not,” I said, sitting up. “She was being dramatic. Donna provoked me. I didn’t even say a word to her.”
Jackson scoffed. “Dramatic? You’re the one who’s dramatic. You’re jealous—”
“Jealous?” My voice was still soft, but it had a heat I hadn’t heard in myself in years. “Jealous? Jackson, I am your wife. And yet you’ve been choosing her over me. Over and over again. You left me behind a thousand times in this house like a ghost, and now you expect me to cheer while you take her to see the aurora borealis?”
His face twisted with rage. Then came the blow.
It wasn’t the first time, but it was the last one I’d remember. His hand hit my cheek so hard I tasted blood. My head snapped to the side, the room spun, but I didn’t fall.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” he shouted. “God, you’re such a bitch.”
I closed my eyes.
“If I could turn back time,” he hissed, “I would never have married you, Trina. Never.”
The room blurred. Not from tears. Just from sheer weight.
He wasn’t done.
“I had no choice! Donna didn’t want to be tied down then. So I settled for you. But I regretted it every damn day. You’re nothing. Not sexy. Not good in bed. Not successful. You’ll always be a shadow of Donna, no matter what you do.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t yell back.
I just listened. Maybe for the first time, I really heard him.
He had never loved me. He had chosen me out of desperation. Out of timing. Not out of love. Not out of loyalty. And now, twenty years later, he resented me for it.
He took one last breath and leaned close. “If you hurt Donna again,” he growled, “you will vanish from this house. You hear me?”
Then he slammed the door behind him.
Silence returned. I touched my cheek. My skin throbbed, my ears rang—but I didn’t cry.
Not this time. Instead, I stood. I walked to the mirror and looked at myself—not at the bruise, but at the woman behind it. My eyes were tired, yes. But they weren’t afraid anymore.
I whispered, “I’ll leave before you can vanish me.”
That evening, I stayed in my room. I didn’t come down for dinner. I didn’t care if the dishes weren’t washed or the coats were unpacked.
I lit a candle beside my window and watched it flicker until the wind carried it out.
Then my phone buzzed. One message.
"Ms. Trinidad Dela Torre, this is to inform you that your divorce has been finalized and officially recorded. You are now legally free."
I whispered, this time with a voice more solid than it had ever been: “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone. Every one of you. I’ll make sure of it.”
