When I hung up the phone, something inside me shattered completely.
A strange calm settled over me.
I called Austin. “Let’s get a divorce.”
He thought I was still throwing a tantrum. “Barbara, that’s enough,” he answered, impatient.
I didn’t waste another word on him.
My mother had been my only weakness in this world—the final chain that kept me bound to him. Now, it was broken.
I was free.
I sold the Westwood Villa. The day the money came through, I paid off all my mother’s medical bills and bought her a burial plot.
On the headstone, I inscribed just six words: Beloved Mother Christine, Rest in Peace.
Kneeling before the grave, I bowed my head three times.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I failed you.”
“Mom, don’t worry. From now on, I live only for myself.”
The wind swept past, whispering through the white chrysanthemums beside the stone.
I pulled my suitcase behind me and left the city that had held my love, my pain, and my despair.
I told no one where I was going—not even Andrea.
I changed my number, severing every tie to the past.
In time, I found a quiet coastal town, rented a house with a view of the sea, and began again.
At first, Austin didn’t take my leaving seriously. Believing I was just throwing another fit, he was sure that once the money ran out, I’d come crawling back to him, tail between my legs.
He even put out word that I was unwell and had gone abroad to convalesce.
Only a month later, when he discovered the Westwood Villa had new owners, did he realize I was truly gone.
Then he began searching for me—frantically.
He mobilized all the connections and resources of the Austin family, combing the country, but found no trace of me.
Panic set in.
According to what Andrea later told me in secret, during that time, Austin became a different person altogether.
He stopped going to the company. Day after day, he shut himself away in the Westwood Villa that no longer belonged to him, staring at our old photos, drinking himself into a stupor.
