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It’s been one month since Kevin left. I have marked every week by calling his new house from my burner phone and hanging up when she answers. I usually call at six a.m. when I know her lazy ass is still asleep. Six a.m. is for people who have jobs, and kids, and responsibilities. She doesn’t have to do anything, apparently, but work out and fuck my husband. I know it’s petty and stupid, but it’s also the only thing that makes me feel like I’m disturbing his new, happy life. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.

For the first week, my pain was raw. I only made it through because my mother took over my life. She made sure Anthony got to school every morning, and that I bathed at least every other day. She kept us fed, alive, and clean, and she didn’t tell a soul about Kevin leaving.

The morning after my life turned to shit, I woke up to find myself alone in bed. A note on the pillow next to my head told me that my mom had taken Anthony to church and then to a movie. There was food in the oven if I was hungry, and they would be back in time for him to wind down and get ready for school the next day.

It took Anthony almost that entire week to notice that his dad hadn’t been home. And when he asked me, as I lay in my bed like a convalescent, whether or not his father was going to be at his piano recital on Saturday, I simply answered, “No.”

He then asked, “Mommy, are you coming? You haven’t gotten out of bed in five days, will you get out of bed soon?”

I looked at him and his eyes were full of unabashed, earnest, hope. He is only six, but he knows when something is wrong. He was old enough to notice when his father and I weren’t happy. I had barely thought of him as I lay in bed replaying the last ten years of my life in painstaking detail.

So, I looked back at him and said the only thing I could. “Of course, I’ll be there.”

I kissed him on his sweet forehead and sent him off to play while I showered, washed and dried my hair, and put on clean clothes.

I made Anthony my reason for getting up and every day, I tried to add one more thing to it.

Taking Kevin’s departure one day at a time has made the last month tolerable. In that time, my pain has turned to rage. I kept waiting for him to serve me with divorce papers and when nothing came, I thought maybe he had changed his mind. Until my mother cheerfully informed me that in Maryland you can’t get divorced until you’ve lived apart for at least a year, if you want a no-contest divorce. Meaning both sides agreed that the marriage should end.

I’m not sure I agree, but I also feel such loathing for Kevin I don’t know if I could share the same air as him, much less the same house, again.

I haven’t seen him once. After two weeks of radio silence, he emailed me to inform me that he would like to work out a “schedule” to see Anthony. I agreed because my son loves his father and was missing him.

So, every other Saturday, he picks up Anthony from my house and takes him somewhere. I’ve tried, very hard, not to make Anthony feel like he's in the middle of this mess, but I want to know what they do on their visits.

So, when he gets back I ask, as casually as possible, for details. I don’t think he has met her yet. It seems they only go to the movies, get something to eat, and then come back home. Anthony loves his time with his father, and I’m glad he’s getting it.

Today, when I make my weekly wake up call, it only rings once before Kevin answers. It’s like he was waiting for it. Oops.

“Who is this?” he demands. His voice is clear and not at all like someone who was roused from sleep.

I am so startled that the phone slips from my fingers. It falls to the ground and as I pick it up with trembling hands, I can hear him shouting, “Milly if this is you, I’m going to fucking find out and I’m going to embarrass your pathetic ass by filing a restraining order.”I hang up, open the phone and pull the SIM card out.

How could he know it was me? He sounds so angry.

I'm pacing my bedroom, thinking how he could possibly prove it was me, when the house phone starts to ring. I dash to pick it up before Anthony or my mother wake up.

“Hello?” I try to make my voice sound like I just woke up.

“Milly!” Kevin’s rough, angry voice barks at me from the other end.

“What?” I ask doing my best to sound affronted, when my heart is galloping in my chest.

“If you want me to keep letting Anthony live in that house with you full-time, you better stop these games you’ve been playing.”

I almost retch at his threat. I'm too struck to speak.

“Did you hear me?” His voice isn't as loud, but his tone is sinister.

“Stop sending Rachael dead flowers. Stop leaving those stupid notes on my car, just stop.”

I feel like I’ve stepped into the twilight zone. Yes, I’ve been prank calling them, but I haven’t done any of those other things.

“Kevin, I don’t know what you are talking about. I—”

He cuts me off before I can finish. “Yeah, sure you don’t know.” He mocks, his voice full of venom. “But, I know. Stop it. Or I'm going to take him away from you. Do. You. Fucking. Understand. Me?”

Then he hangs up. I sit there, staring at my phone, shaking, my confusion blooming into full on panic as I replay the conversation I just had with him.

A knot of fear and anxiety settles in my stomach as I replay that absurd conversation. He must be making it up. Nothing else makes sense.

I haven’t sent her flowers; I haven’t left notes on his car. What in the world is going on? I put on my jeans and run down to Anthony’s room. I feel a wild sense of relief that he’s still lying in bed. He has twenty more minutes before he needs to get up for school.

I'm downstairs making breakfast for Anthony when I hear my mother come down the stairs. For the last month, she’s come down while I stayed in bed. So, when she walks into my kitchen, she's startled to see me standing at the center island, drinking a cup of coffee while making Anthony pancakes.

“Milly! What are you doing here?” Her question would be absurd, but I’ve been acting like a hermit for a whole month.

“I live here,” I return wryly.

“You know what I mean. Did something happen? Are you feeling better?” She fires these questions at me as she hurries into the kitchen.

“I do. Yes, and maybe. That should answer all of your questions,” I return dryly, struggling to hide my smile.

She looks at me, clearly puzzled, but sits down across from me at one of the stools which line the other side of my massive marble island.

“Tell me. What’s going on,” she says, her eyes grave.

So, I do. I confess about my prank calls and watch her eyes grow wide and crinkle as she howls with laughter.

That is not the reaction I anticipated. But, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from this woman, so I just continue.

Her laughter dies when I tell her about Kevin’s accusations and threats.

“I think he's making it up, Mom. I really do. I mean, I know I’m not doing those things so they can’t be happening. Right?” I look up at her expectantly.

I’m surprised to see that the look on her face is a mask of horror.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispers to herself.

“Mom?” I put the last pancake on the plate and rush around to her side. She looks like she might tip over, so I try to reassure her.

“Don’t worry. He can’t pin something on me that I haven’t done.”

She sighs and closes her eyes.

“But, you did do them, Millicent.” Her voice is still barely a whisper.

“What? No, I didn’t.” Aghast, I step back from her. What is she saying? “I wouldn’t forget doing things like that. I'm not crazy.”

“No, you are not. But Rabea is,” she says with a sigh as she stares at her hands, which are clasped and laying on the countertop.

Rabea is my mother’s best friend. She was widowed in her early forties. She and her late husband never had any children and she never remarried. She was a teacher, but has retired recently. She has filled her life with dance lessons, and cooking for a local homeless shelter. She and my mom met in the international food aisle of our local grocery store. They fought over the last jar of tahini paste. They ended up trading hummus recipes and phone numbers and have been best friends ever since. She's my mother’s only friend who knows the truth about my dad. They have a lot of fun together and I have been so grateful my mother has had her as a companion all these years. But, Rabea is mischievous and has a very strange sense of humor.

My stomach drops when I hear she has something to do with this.

“Okay, start talking,” I demand.

“Millicent, I’m sorry. I broke your confidence. I told Rabea about Kevin.” She doesn’t look up as she continues talking. I drop my forehead into my hand. This cannot be good.

“And she was as enraged as I was. And you know her. She said she was going to ‘haunt’ them.”

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.

“Milly, she never signed your name, she never let herself be seen. She was taking the weeds she pulled out from her yard and putting them on that idiot’s doorstep once a week. And then she would type these notes to Kevin.” She looks up at me then, gauging my reaction. I'm livid as I listen to this crazy story unfold.

“What do the notes say?” I demand.

“Oh, different things every time.” She glances down and clears her throat. “Mainly dick jokes she found online. She would type them up and put them on his windshield while his car was parked at work.”

I stare at her. Unable to believe what I'm hearing.

“Dick jokes?” I sputter.

“Yes. You know. Your dick’s so small you could screw a pasta strainer. Your dick’s so small you could get head from a crease in my lip. Your dick’s so ugly it looks like a pimple with a pulse.”

She's saying all of this with a straight face, in a matter of fact voice. I, on the other hand, could live the rest of my life and never recover from hearing my mother say the word “dick.”

“Mother! Stop,” I yell.

She goes on like she hasn’t heard me, smiling fondly now.

“Oh, and a week ago she sent him a doozy. Your dick is so small, satisfying women is your Mission Impossible.”

Her smiles brims at this last one.

I can’t help it, that ridiculous joke, added to the ludicrous scheme of Rabea’s, and to just how crazy it all is, I burst out laughing.

She joins me in the laughter and when we catch our breath, we stand there and look at each other.

“Milly, I'm sorry. I didn’t realize you were going to be an idiot and start this prank calling stuff. I figured he would never be able to make the connection.”

“I’m the idiot?” I chuckle.

She sobers instantly. She grasps my hands before she responds, “Yes, my love, you are. For marrying out of fear instead of love. For trying to make a home out of a house with no real foundation. You are well rid of him. I know you don’t see it now, but you are.”

“We had a good life,” I say weakly, defending my marriage more out of reflex than real passion.

“Why have good when you can have great? That heart shaped pendant Dad and I gave you, the one you stopped wearing when he left? That Adinkra, that Sankofa, is one of the most meaningful in our culture.

“Its message was our charge to you, Milly. That you always remember who you are and where you come from. I hope that with Kevin gone, you can start to do that again. I know you know better. I know it’s been a while, but I also know you’ve had better.”

My hand goes up to my throat, which is bare, and I remember the pendant. I couldn’t bear to look at it after my father left, so I took it off. But I still have it. The heart shaped symbol is sitting in my jewelry box along with another token that also became a source of pain. They were reminders of everything I’d lost.

I sigh. I don’t have a response to my mother’s advice. My mind is swirling with so many conflicting thoughts.

Maybe the end of my relationship with Kevin is a good thing. Do I have it in me to find out what life lived with less caution holds? I’m not sure. I sigh and close my eyes.

She pats my hand and hops off the stool.

“I’ll go get Anthony up.” She starts to leave the kitchen, but then stops to say, “He’s bluffing, Milly. I’ll get Rabea to stop the notes and flowers and you’re going to stop with those phone calls, and then he will leave you alone. He won’t take Anthony from you, he won’t even try.”

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