I don’t know which problem to address first—I’m drowning in them. Jack left me standing alone in the middle of my new apartment. I’m referring to it as an apartment and not a dilapidated lean-to because I believe in the power of delusion. If I look at this day and this quaint country cottage as an adventure, then it becomes fun and exciting (!) instead of bleak and depressing.

The place is tiny, about the size of my freshman dorm room…except my dorm was outfitted with Pottery Barn decor and a spunky roommate named Janine. This apartment is outfitted with permanently airborne dust and the unmistakable smell of mildew. My only companion is a tiny spider staring down at me from his web. I now know the true meaning of the word inhospitable is a place that might put you in the hospital. There’s a rusty rake leaning against one wall, and a merry band of loose nails scattered about on the threadbare floor.

I feel sense and reason trying to creep back into my brain’s control room, but I shut them out in favor of blind optimism. Sure, the structure should probably be condemned, but it’s nothing I can’t spruce up with a little imagination and a lot of elbow grease.

I decide to start small and turn my attention to the twin bed resting against one of the walls. With a nice place to fall asleep tonight, my entire perspective on life might brighten. Look, I tell myself, it already has a blanket and a pillow. Jeez, is this a shack or the Ritz? I sure can’t tell!

I pick up the blanket and the pillow twitches. I furrow my brow and cock my head to the side, because my entire life thus far has led me to believe that inanimate pillows should not be capable of independent movement. Feeling as if I’m on the brink of a major scientific breakthrough, I slowly reach out and tug on the corner of the pillowcase until I see what’s underneath it.

FUR. BEADY EYES. LONG, HAIRLESS TAILS.

I jump four feet into the air and shriek as a small field mouse followed by the largest rat I’ve ever seen both scurry out from underneath the pillow and through a jagged crack at the base of the wall.

BE OPTIMISTIC, BE OPTIMISTIC, I chant as my heart rate slowly returns to a survivable level.

I suppose it’s sorta beautiful, I think. A mouse and a rat, driven by illicit passion and forbidden romance, risked it all to build a life together in this shack—ahem, apartment. If they can do it, so can I.

I’m smiling in a deranged reverie, thinking sweetly about rodent Romeo and Juliet, when I notice the impressive amount of droppings on the floor.

Just like that, my sunny disposition is doused by despair and an overwhelming desire to give up. Except, there is no giving up. With Helen gone, I have nowhere to go. My mom lives in a retirement community in Boca Raton. No one under the age of 60 is allowed to reside there, ostensibly because limber hips and full-frequency hearing would ignite jealousy amongst the osteoporotic masses. Besides, if I called her, she’d just try to convince me to reconcile with Andrew. Same goes for my dad. They’re blinded by his wealth and reputation, and I haven’t tried hard to convince them of his darker side. Truthfully, we’re not very close, and they have a habit of hearing and believing whatever is most convenient for them.

With my parents and Helen off the table, I’m all out of options. Even more sad, I didn’t really have friends back in California. When you slide right into a life of comfort and luxury when most of your college friends are still crushed under the debt of student loans, you quickly find yourself alienated. Sure, I had women I went to lunch with and met for yoga a few times a week, but they were Andrew’s friends more than mine, wives of his colleagues, and they—like my parents—firmly believe the sun shines out of his ass.

I’m truly on my own.

Everything in my possession sits in my purse on the floor of this dwelling.

I have nine wrinkled dollars.

I have a new boss who already thinks the worst of me.

I have a job that will put my face near men’s toilets every day.

I have a sad little apartment—okay, NO, a sad little shanty shack with mice and spiders and a blanket with an odious yellow stain. At first I was going to overlook it, but it’s like trying to overlook the damn sun.

Before I realize it, I’m marching back across the yard, toward the farmhouse. I’m sure Jack is already long gone, off taming wild mustangs or cutting cattle rustlers off at the pass, but I will sit outside his office and wait for him to return. I will demand that he see reason. Surely he’s playfully hazing me and doesn’t actually expect me to stay in that shack.

I yank open the back door of the house and immediately go on guard, tiptoeing with my shoulders up near my ears. He could be around any corner, sitting in any of the rooms I pass on my way upstairs, but the house is quiet and empty. My stealth is wasted.

On my second journey through, I discover that the farmhouse is extremely nice, new construction. There are hardwood floors, a pleasant pale gray color on the walls, and a lot of family photos and knickknacks. Somehow, it doesn’t feel cluttered. It’s warm and inviting—or at least it would be if there wasn’t a soulless monster lurking somewhere inside.

I hear his voice behind his office door and am grateful I won’t have to march all over the property hunting him down.

I shrug, roll out my neck, and prepare myself. Quickly, I run through my argument so I have all my points in order. I’ll tell him the shack is an employee health hazard and point out that his house is huge—there have got to be at least six bedrooms. I passed a game room, living room, and breakfast nook, and I will happily sleep on the ground in any one of them. I’m not picky.

I know I have a winning defense, but I still can’t work up the courage to knock on his door. My heart is beating so fast, no rhythm, just quick pulses. I’ve turned into a hummingbird. Is this what desperation feels like? It’s wild, like a drug.

I try to remember why I’m here, why I left Andrew in the first place. For the last five years, I was the perfect wife. I studied the news and stayed abreast of current events. I was polite and witty and funny, and when necessary, I was demure and thoughtful. I ate well-portioned meals and worked out every day, lathered myself in night creams and face masks and consequently have the skin and the ass of an eighteen-year-old, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

My mental pep talk works—I’m out for blood. I pound on his office door with the side of my fist then let myself in. Poor Jack. He doesn’t know what hit him. If he’d caught me last week, I would have been gentle and meek. I would have used a sweet tone, an “on-the-phone” voice when I spoke with him, just like Andrew preferred. Now, he gets the unfiltered version, the angry, wild hellion I’ve caged in for too long. I wouldn’t be surprised to find streaks of black war paint under my eyes.

“By all means, barge in whenever you please.”

His words drip with sarcasm. It’s clear he’s angry about the interruption as he glares at me from behind his desk. That look and his annoyed tone shift my perspective, and I remember I don’t feel bad he’s getting the unfiltered version. No, he started this mess by being rude to me: calling me a princess, dragging me away from the all-hands meeting, and then tossing me into that glorified lean-to that gives other respectable shacks a bad name. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat—no doubt the result of Helen’s handiwork—and instead of giving me the benefit of the doubt, he’s done nothing but doubt my benefits. He’s been nothing but brusque and unwelcoming, so no, NO POOR JACK.

He’s still wearing that backward baseball hat, and he looks like the cool jock from high school all grown up. I try not to be intimidated. I give him what I can only hope is a serious, no-nonsense glare. My hands go to my hips. My elbows bow out. It’s a power pose, it’s Wonder Woman, and I’m nailing it.

“I’d like to propose an alternate living arrangement.” His brown eyes try to sear through me. Still, I continue. “I passed a bunch of decent rooms on my way up here. There’s a bedroom down the hall—”

“None of the rooms in this house are available to you. I’m not running a bed and breakfast.”

Obviously. If he were, it would be called Bad Manners Manor, and the one-star Yelp reviews would read, Surly owner scares would-be guests away.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to rent a better place after your first paycheck—if you make it that long.”

“Fine. When exactly is payday?”

He leans back in his chair and rubs the scruff along his jaw. “Payroll went out last Friday, so you’ll get your first paycheck two weeks from now, just like everyone else.”

Two weeks? I won’t last that long. I have one pair of underwear.

“I could really use an advance.”

I say this very calmly, like I’ve seen in movies, and I think he will respond in turn. He doesn’t.

“That’s too bad.”

“Signing bonus?”

He really laughs at that, cracks up like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever encountered. His laughter makes me feel a little sick, and my hands form little fists by my sides. If we were closer, I think I’d swing and try to give him a black eye, just to see how it’d feel. He’s at least twice my size, but I’m scrappy. He’d never see it coming.

“Why do you need the money? A new purse?”

The accusation wraps around my heart like talons and it pops like a balloon, deflating any courage I had left. God, he thinks so little of me. He thinks I’d subject myself to this humiliation for something as frivolous as a new purse?

I should tell him the truth, that I want the money so I can go into town and buy some essentials: a new pillow and a clean blanket. I need a pair of tennis shoes because my loafers have rubbed my feet raw. I have no clothes, nothing to change into. I am utterly destitute, and completely at his mercy. I came to Texas hoping to find some comfort from my sister and instead I found him—the rudest, most inconsiderate man west of the Mississippi.

I open my mouth, prepared to pour everything out, to make him feel terrible for the things he’s said to me, but I quickly realize I can’t. As soon as I speak, I’ll sob. I’m one of those people who inexplicably cries when angry. It’s annoying. Any time I want to shout at someone, it comes out as a teary mess. Anger and sadness comingle in my brain, no hope of harnessing one without the other. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry; therefore, I have no choice.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, slamming the door behind me. It’s a strange thing to do considering we were in the middle of a conversation. I’ve just given him more reason to think I’m insane, but at least I still have my pride. Do people with a single pair of underwear have pride?

I limp away on my blistered feet, repeating a short mantra over and over in my head: Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Amazingly, my brain listens. I don’t shed a single tear as I make my way downstairs, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room that leads to the back door. I’m so laser-focused on making it out that I miss the bags piled up beside the doorframe until I trip over one of them. I’ve apparently met my quota of embarrassing moments for the day, because the universe saves me from face-planting completely. I catch myself and check over my shoulder to make sure there was no audience for my little stumble—the coast is clear. I turn back for the door, prepared to whip it open and make my escape, but then I look down.

The trash bags aren’t filled with garbage—they’re filled with clothes, clothes that are undoubtedly waiting to be loaded up and taken to Goodwill for donation. I know this because there’s a little sticky note on one of them that says, DONATION! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT!

I have half a mind to fall to my knees and weep. Instead, I turn one ear to the stairs, confirm that Jack hasn’t followed me down, and then get to work rooting through the bags. I justify the fact that I’m stealing because the clothes are about to be donated to the less fortunate, and guess what? I’m currently the least fortunate I’ve ever been. These clothes are mine.

I find a few pair of worn but clean black socks folded into pairs. Maybe a few weeks ago, I would have balked at the idea of wearing a stranger’s old socks. Today, right now, they are more valuable than gold. I even slip a pair on right then so they’ll act as a buffer between my loafers and my blistered feet. I look like a mall walker headed to Nifty After Fifty.

Once I’m satisfied I have enough socks, I rummage through a collection of folded t-shirts and skim a few off the top. I unfold one to discover it’s an XL and will undoubtedly drown me, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll manage. I dump the shirts on the ground beside me and keep rifling through the contents of the bags right up until a voice speaks behind me and I jump out of my skin.

“As I understand it, the point of having a housekeeper is so they’ll clean up messes, not make new ones.”

I whip around, surprised to find the older woman from before, the one who answered the door when I first arrived at the ranch. She’s standing in the doorway of the laundry room with her arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re right. I swear I’ll put everything back.”

I start shoving clothes in bags, but she shakes her head, holds up a finger, and then disappears back into the kitchen. She’s gone for a moment before she reappears with a new black trash bag in hand. She whips it open then bends low beside me, starting to shovel clothes inside.

“Is that enough? You only have a few t-shirts here,” she points out.

“Oh yes, it should be just fine. I can wash them.”

“And you found some of the socks I put in there, that’s good. What size shoe are you?”

I’m dumbfounded by this turn of events, but I have enough sense to reply quickly, “Seven and a half.”

“Right, well, I’m a nine, so they’ll be a little big, but I put a pair of tennis shoes in that bag over there.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I damn well know that, now shove over. You’re sitting on one of the shirts.”

I lean over so she can tug the t-shirt out from under me and then she stuffs it in the bag with all the others.

“Whose clothes are these?”

She scowls at me. “Silence is a virtue. Get virtuous.”

If they’re Jack’s—and I suspect they are—will I toss them aside? No. In fact, he’ll have to chop off my feet if he wants these socks back.

I’m surprised she’s taken the time to collect the clothes for me, and I have enough good sense to accept her charity. Unless…

“Does he know you took this stuff out of his closet?”

Her mouth flattens in a thin line. “They say there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but does that mean you have to try so hard to think of one? It’s damn annoying.”

I can’t tell whether she loves me or hates me, so I play it safe and just keep my lips zipped after that, watching as she continues going through the bags, taking things I wouldn’t have had the courage to grab before. There’s fresh white linen and towels. She gives me everything. My trash bag is bulging.

“I know this isn’t enough. I don’t have any shorts for you—you’re too damn skinny to wear mine—but those jeans you’re wearing should work until we can make it into town.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

I’m surprised by how overwhelmed I feel.

“No. Stop. If you cry right now, I’m taking all this to the burn pile. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s blubbering. Now listen, my grandson is a tough cookie, an arrogant devil through and through. I tried to talk him into letting you stay in the house, but he’s got his mind made up, something about teaching you a lesson. If you ask me, there’s more likely a lesson in there for him, but this is his house and I won’t disrespect him by sneaking you in here.”

“Your grandson?” I ask, cutting in.

“Was that another question?” She pauses her work and glances over to me. From this proximity, there’s no pretense between us. I can see every shade of blue in her hard eyes, every wrinkle etched in her tan skin. I have no doubt she can see the absolute despair reflected back at her. She can probably also smell the peanuts on my breath. “Oh, hell. All right. We haven’t been properly introduced.” Her hand darts out for mine. “Edith McKnight, the devil’s grandma.”

I take her hand and shake it, surprised by how strong her grip is.

“Meredith Wilchester—er, Avery. Meredith Avery,” I say, catching myself and dusting off my maiden name, the one I’ll be reverting back to from this day forward.

“Pleased to meet you, Meredith. I wish it were on better terms, but we’ll make the best of this situation. Now here, take this. It’s too heavy for me or I’d help you.”

She hands me the bag and pushes to her feet. She brushes her hands on the back of her jeans then turns to walk away, just like that, as if she didn’t just turn my entire day around.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I call after her. “Why are you helping me?”

Without bothering to turn around, she rambles off a string of countryisms. “My grandson is a good man, but he often thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow. He could strut sittin’ down. I mean, I love him, but sometimes it’s like hugging a rose bush.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m helpin’ you because I know he can’t yet, but when you get to be my age, you learn that a wounded bird eventually needs a peaceful nest.”

It’s like she’s speaking a foreign language.