The Moon Shines Bright as Home

A powerful grip suddenly seized my wrist.

Carl’s eyes blazed. “Patricia—stop. Explain yourself.”

I wrenched my hand free and met his gaze, cold. “What’s left to explain? That you don’t know how to handle a cold war—you only ever back down for Amy? Or that you treat that cheap shirt she gave you like a treasure, but toss the scarf I knitted for you into the back of your car without a second thought?”

His pupils contracted. I’d caught him off guard.

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“I didn’t need to spy,” I said with a bitter laugh. “I just happened to see. Stop treating everyone else like fools, Carl. You’re tired. And I’m tired, too.”

Then I walked out. Out of the cage that had suffocated me for four years, and I didn’t look back.

Only in the car did I notice my hands were trembling.

Not from fear—from exhilaration.

The thrill of finally breaking free.

Carl didn’t contact me over the next few days.

Probably his usual silent treatment, waiting for me to crack and come crawling back.

I welcomed the peace. Started planning my life again—reaching out to old professors, contacting a headhunter, updating my resume.

Even after four years out of the workforce, my skills were still sharp. Interview invitations began to land.

Nicole had news, too.

Carl’s lawyer had reached out. Not to discuss the settlement, but to announce with arrogant disdain that Mr. Carl had no intention of divorcing and hoped I would stop “making unreasonable demands.”

“Still the same Carl,” Nicole fumed over the phone. “Who does he think he is—royalty? Don’t worry, Patricia. If he won’t agree, we’ll file. We’ll gather evidence of his affair, piece by piece.”

“I know.” I wasn’t surprised.

Carl’s pride would never let him be the one who got left.

Sure enough, two days later, as I was leaving an office building after an interview, I spotted his familiar Bentley.

He leaned against the car, holding an enormous bouquet of blue roses.

Seeing me, he stubbed out his cigarette and walked over.

“Get in. We need to talk.” Softer than before, but that commanding edge remained.

I didn’t move. “We can talk here.”

He frowned, annoyed by my defiance, and shoved the flowers toward me. “I was wrong last time. I shouldn’t have lost my temper over a shirt.”

It was the closest thing to an apology I’d heard in four years.

Once, it might have moved me to tears.

Now, it just felt pathetic.

“So?” I asked.

He thrust the bouquet into my arms. “So come home. I’ll pretend I never saw that agreement. Don’t bring it up again.”

He thought it was a grand gesture of mercy.

Holding the flowers, I walked to a nearby trash can and tossed them in without a pause.

“Carl,” I said, watching his face darken, “I’ve made myself clear. What we need to discuss isn’t who was right or wrong. It’s when we’re filing for divorce.”

His patience snapped. He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight it felt like he meant to crush the bone.

“Patricia, don’t push your luck! I’m giving you a way out—take it.”

“Your way out is too high. I’d break my neck.” I wrenched free, cold. “Save it, Carl. If that’s all you came to say, we’re done.”

I turned to leave, but he wrapped his arms around me from behind, holding me tight against him.

“Patricia, stop this…” His voice held a trace of something almost like panic. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything. Just come back.”

His warm breath brushed my neck. It made my skin crawl.

I was about to drive my elbow into his ribs when a cool, composed voice cut in behind us.

“Manhandling a woman in public, Carl? That’s hardly your style.”