Maybe this was it. Maybe this was, finally, the life she was going to stay put in.
The life she would choose. The one she would not return to the shelves. I could be happy here.
A little later, in the shower, she scanned her body for new marks. There were no tattoos but there was a scar.
Not a self-inflicted scar but a surgical-looking one – a long, delicate horizontal line below her navel.
She had seen a caesarean scar before, and now she stroked her thumb along it,
thinking that even if she stayed in this life she would have always turned up late for it.
Ash came back home from dropping Molly off. She hastily dressed so he wouldn’t see her naked.
They had breakfast together. They sat at their kitchen table and scrolled the day’s news
and ate sourdough toast and were very much like a living endorsement for marriage.
And then Ash went to the hospital and she stayed home to research Thoreau all day.
She read her work-in-progress, which already had an impressive word-count of 42,729,
and sat eating toast before picking Molly up from school. Molly wanted to go to the park “like normal” to feed the ducks,
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