Three days had passed since I left the mansion. Three days of staring at the cracked ceiling of my motel room, surviving on snacks and tap water. My stomach growled constantly, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Food felt meaningless when your entire world had collapsed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, counting the bills in my wallet for the hundredth time. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That was all I had left of my old life. Alex controlled all our bank accounts, and I'd been too naive and too dependent to ever think I would need my own money.
How stupid I had been.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I turned it back on yesterday, hoping foolishly that maybe Alex would call. That maybe he would realize what he had done, but it was just another text from Vanessa.
"Hope you're enjoying your little vacation. Don't worry about coming back—I've moved into the master bedroom. Alex says it feels more like home now."
My hands shook as I read the words. She wasn't just taking my husband. She was erasing me completely, moving into the room where I'd spent countless nights crying myself to sleep while Alex stayed in the guest wing.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, but the screen didn't crack. Just like me, damaged but still whole enough to keep suffering.
A knock at the door made me jump. My heart raced stupidly, thinking maybe it would be Alex. Maybe he'd come looking for me, but when I opened it, a woman in her thirties stood there with kind eyes and short hair.
"Honey, I'm Mrs. Martinez, the manager here," she said gently. "I wanted to check on you. The cleaning lady said you haven't let anyone in to clean your room, and you haven't been eating."
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how I must look. I hadn't showered in two days, my hair was dirty, and I was still wearing the same dress from the night I left.
"I'm fine," I lied.
Mrs. Martinez studied my face with the look of someone who had seen too many broken people pass through her doors. "No, you're not. When's the last time you had a real meal?"
I couldn't remember. Everything tasted like cardboard anyway.
"Come on," she said, stepping into my room without invitation. "My husband's making lunch downstairs. You're going to eat with us."
"I can't," I said, feeling stupid.
"Yes, you can and you will." Her voice was firm but warm. "I've been running this place for twenty years, and I know heartbreak when I see it. Food won't fix what's wrong, but it'll give you strength to figure out what comes next."
I wanted to refuse, to curl up on my bed and disappear, but something in her voice reminded me of my mother, and before I knew it, I was following her downstairs to a small apartment behind the front desk.
The smell hit me as soon as she opened the door—garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread. My stomach clenched with desperate hunger.
"Miguel!" Mrs. Martinez called out. "We have company."
A short, stocky man with a warm smile emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Ah, the sad girl from room seventeen. I was wondering when you'd come down."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bother you guys."
"No problem," Miguel said, gesturing to a small table set for three. Sit, sit. I made too much food anyway."
They didn't ask questions while we ate, which I was grateful for. The homemade soup was the first thing that had tasted like anything in days, and I found myself eating two bowls before I realized what I was doing.
"Better?" She asked, refilling my water glass.
I nodded, feeling human for the first time since I'd left Alex. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know why you're being so kind to me."
"Because everyone deserves kindness," Miguel said simply. "Especially when they're hurting."
The simple words broke something loose inside me, and before I could stop myself, tears were streaming down my face. Not the angry, painful tears I'd cried in my room, but something softer and sadder.
Mrs. Martinez moved her chair closer and rubbed my back like my mother used to do when I was small. "Want to tell us what happened?"
So I did. I told them about Alex, about our loveless marriage, and about Vanessa. I told them how I'd tried so hard to make him love me that I'd forgotten how to love myself. The words poured out like water from a broken dam, and they listened without judgment.
"Men can be fools," she said when I finished. "But you're young. You have your whole life ahead of you."
"I don't know how to start over," I whispered. "I don't even know who I am without him."
"Then it's time to find out," she said. "What did you love before you got married? What made you happy?"
I had to think hard. It had been so long since I'd considered my own wants, my own dreams. "I used to paint," I said slowly. "And I had a job at an art gallery downtown. I loved it."
"See? That's a start," she smiled. "Tomorrow, we'll help you look for work. Miguel knows people all over the city."
"I can't afford to stay here much longer," I admitted, ashamed.
"Don't worry about that right now," she said. "We'll figure something out."
That night, I slept better than I had in years. Not because the bed was comfortable—it wasn't—but because for the first time in three years, someone had seen me as more than a shadow.
The next morning, Mrs. Martinez knocked on my door with a bundle of clothes in her arms. "These belonged to my daughter before she moved to California. They should fit you."
I held up a simple blue dress that actually looked like something I would have chosen for myself, not the expensive but cold outfits Alex preferred me to wear.
"Ma, this is too much for a stranger like me."
"Don't say that," she said in that no-nonsense tone I was learning to love. "Now get dressed. We have places to go."
An hour later, I stood in front of the Riverside Art Gallery, the same place where I'd worked four years ago. My hands shook as I pushed open the familiar glass door, the bell chiming overhead.
"Emily? Emily Carter?"
I turned to see Sarah, my old supervisor, staring at me with wide eyes. She looked older, with new lines around her eyes, but her smile was just as warm as I remembered.
"Sarah," I breathed. "Hi."
"Oh my God, I heard you got married! How are you? What brings you here?"
The simple question threatened to undo me again. How was I? Broken and lost. Starting over with nothing but the clothes on my back and a few dollars to my name.
"I'm going through some changes," I said carefully. "Actually, I was wondering if you might have any openings. I know it's been a while, but
"Are you kidding?" Sarah's face lit up. "I've been looking for someone with experience for months. Most of the people who apply don't know action art. When can you start?"
I blinked, hardly believing what I was hearing. "Really?"
"Really. The pay isn't great, but it's honest work, and you were always good with the customers. Plus, we're planning a new exhibition next month. I could use someone with your eye for detail."
For the first time in days, I felt something that might have been hope stirring in my chest. It was small and fragile, but it was there.
"I could start tomorrow," I said.
"Perfect. We moved things around a bit after you left."
As we talked about schedules and responsibilities, I felt pieces of my old self clicking back into place. The Emily who had loved art, who had opinions about color and composition, and who had dreams that didn't revolve around making a man love her.
Walking back to the motel, I felt lighter than I had in years. It wasn't much, a minimum wage job at a small gallery, but it was mine. My choice, my life, my fresh start.
My phone buzzed in my purse. For a moment, my old habits kicked in and my heart jumped, thinking it might be Alex. But it was just a spam call.
And for the first time, I was glad it wasn't him.
I was finally ready to stop waiting for Alexander Reed to notice me.
I was ready to notice myself instead.
Back at the motel, I found Miguel watering the small flower bed by the front entrance. He looked up when he saw me, and his face broke into a smile at whatever he saw in my expression.
"Good news?"
"I got a job," I said, and saying the words out loud made them feel real. "I start tomorrow."
"I knew it," he said, setting down his watering can. "I could see the fire coming back into your eyes. Your husband is a fool, Emily Carter, but his loss is going to be your gain."
That night, I stood in front of the cracked mirror in my room and really looked at myself for the first time in years. Not the way Alex saw me—never enough, never right—but the way I saw myself.
I saw a woman who had lost herself but was finding her way back. A woman who had been knocked down but wasn't staying down. A woman who deserved more than scraps of affection and cold shoulders.
I saw Emily Carter, and for the first time in three years, I liked what I saw.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges and new struggles, but tonight, I had hope.
And that was enough.