I bought yellow curtains. I learned which hawker stall made the best chicken rice. I joined a weekend walking group. I laughed with teachers over terrible coffee. I stopped checking Seattle weather. I stopped wondering whether Mason regretted anything.
One year after the anniversary party, I stood onstage at the school’s spring ceremony watching hundreds of children sing beneath paper lanterns.
Afterward, the same little girl who gave me the dragon drawing ran over and hugged my waist.
“Principal Eleanor,” she said, “you look happy.”
That almost made me cry.
Not because happiness was dramatic.
Because it was quiet.
Because it arrived without begging, without proving, without shrinking myself into a shape someone else could tolerate.
That night, I walked home along the river. City lights trembled across the water. My phone buzzed once.
An email.
From Mason.
The subject line read: I’m sorry.
I never opened it.
Maybe the apology was sincere. Maybe not. Maybe he finally understood the cost of contempt. Maybe he simply missed the woman who absorbed consequences for him.
It no longer mattered.
I deleted the email before crossing the bridge.
Then I stopped halfway across, leaned against the railing, and looked out at the city I chose for myself.
One year earlier, my husband told me to go to hell because I objected to his ex-girlfriend touching what was supposed to belong to me.
So instead, I went somewhere else.
I went to Singapore.
I went to freedom.
I went back to myself.
