They were gone. Of course, they would come back. They were safe, and it was just till Sunday. It wasn’t death—it only felt like that. Her friends said, Now you can rest! You can think! You can work out! Theoretically, she could have done these things. She could have been thinking and going to the gym and resting, but when the girls left with their father Debra sat on the couch and cried. Which was fine. Crying was good. Divorce was hard! All she had to do was call, and her sister Becca would come right over, but Debra didn’t want sympathy, so no one saw her tears except the dog.
Max was a Samoyed, and pure of heart. If anyone was injured, he came running. When Lily fell head first from her bike, Max had rushed to lick her better. But where was Debra hurt? She couldn’t explain, so she buried her face in his white fur.
Eventually, Debra got up and preheated the oven to four-twenty-five. She poured a bag of frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet. A sprinkle of salt, a dollop of ketchup, and that was dinner, which she ate right on the couch. It wasn’t good for her, but she was listening to her body, and her body said, Who cares?
She called her parents down in Florida, and her mom said, “Hi, honey. How are you doing?”
“I’m O.K.,” Debra said, balancing her plate on the arm of the couch.
“Ed?” her mom said. “Debra’s on the phone.”
Debra’s dad picked up and said, “What’s new?”
“Our paperwork is finished.”
“It’s finalized?” Her mom was disbelieving. It had been so long.
“Done.”
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 27, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 27, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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