No Way Back for Us

“The same style. You often prepared dresses for me five years ago too.”

“So?” I calmly met his gaze, my eyes unwavering.

“Don’t put on a brave face in front of me. All these years, I’ve only wanted you to be happy, not like this.”

Like what?

My reflection appeared in the car window.

I wore ordinary training clothes, combat boots and a satchel filled with groceries.

I looked like an ordinary military dependent struggling to make ends meet.

But compared to my former self, who always had to be impeccably dressed, this wasn’t so bad.

I smiled, not angry. “I think it’s fine.” 

The man’s expression faltered slightly. “Geneva, ​​you are indeed different from before.”

“Yes, many people say so.” 

After saying that, I turned and went upstairs, never looking back.

I pushed open the door to my fifth-floor apartment.

The furnishings inside were exactly the same as this time last year. Next to the old television sat a photo of my mother in military uniform, the incense in the burner long since burned out.

I skillfully relit three sticks of incense, tied on an apron and went into the kitchen.

Three dishes and a soup were quickly served. Opposite me sat untouched rice; I ate slowly.

"Mom, I ran into Gayle today."

"Don't get angry yet. He can't bully your daughter. Besides, I'm not as naive as I used to be." 

The only response was the howling wind outside the window.

Not feeling well, I put down my spoon and went into my bedroom, pulling out an old photo album.

"Look how impressive you were back then. Looking at photos all the time is so boring." 

Before I could even open the album, a photo fell to the floor.

Bending down to pick it up, the photo was of Gayle, Diana and me.

Three young faces smiling brightly in front of the camera.

I stood in the middle, arm in arm with the two of them, smiling the most—my right cheek still bearing the bruise from training.

That was the summer I was thirteen.

Debt collectors came to the Romero Family's house to cause trouble. The neighbors all kept their doors shut, even my parents didn't dare to intervene.

But I rushed in.

The stick that should have landed on Gayle hit me squarely in the face.

My cheekbone was fractured and I spent the entire summer recovering.

My mother, heartbroken, forbade me to have any further contact with the Romero Family.

Until Gayle’s mother, dragging her injured leg, knelt before our door, repeatedly thanking us.

She softened.

For the next ten years, Gayle always had a set of meal at our dinner table and he always received a share of new clothes for holidays.

When she wasn't busy, she helped Gayle’s mother run the small shop and when someone came looking for trouble, she could berate them so they dared not return.

They called each other sisters.

But no one expected that the stuttering younger sister would climb into her older sister's husband's bed.

When I returned home, everything was smashed to pieces.

My mother stood amidst the ruins, weeping bitterly, her face marked with clear finger marks, while my father shielded that woman behind him.

"Let's get a divorce. You can have everything, I only want Julie." 

Gayle, beside me, hurriedly tried to pull his mother away, but my mother slapped him twice.

I pushed her away, watching her fall to the ground, staring at me in disbelief.

Tears streamed down my face as I uttered the most hurtful words, "Mom, why did you hit Gayle?" 

My jumbled memories were frozen in this small photograph.

After divorcing Gayle, I burned everything related to him, but some had somehow escaped.

Just as I was about to throw the photo in the trash, there was a knock at the door.

There was a neighbor who brought fruits every year around this time, so I opened the door.

But I saw Diana, arm in arm with Gayle.

She smiled radiantly, "Geneva, long time no see! You haven't changed a bit over the years."