The Woman I Helped at the Grocery Store Gave Me a Strange Warning About My Husband

I stood by the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in my hands and looked at the yard. Once, on a cold December night, a stranger’s footprints had remained there, and those footprints changed my whole life.

The trial went quickly. Vernon got two years probation plus an obligation to pay me compensation in the amount of $5,000.

The lawyer explained that it was difficult to get more as there were no actual damages. The deal did not go through and the house stayed with me.

Vernon paid the money immediately in court. He looked at the floor, not raising his eyes.

He offered no apology. The divorce was finalized a month later.

Vernon moved in with his brother. He took his things while I was not home.

I specifically went to a friend’s to avoid seeing him. When I returned, the house was empty.

Half the closet gaped with empty shelves. On the wall was a light spot where his photograph had hung.

I took down the other photos and put them in a box. I put it away in the attic and did not throw them out.

It was a third of a life together, after all, but I did not want to look at them anymore. The first weeks after the divorce were strange.

The silence in the house was deafening. No one slammed the door, no one demanded dinner, and no one grumbled.

I walked through the rooms and didn’t know whether to rejoice or cry. The neighbors were supportive.

Mrs. Higgins came by every day with pies and news. The Petersons invited me for tea.

Officer Pernell stopped by a couple of times and asked:

“Is everything all right?”

“You are strong Mrs. Vance,”

he said once over tea.

“Not every woman at your age would decide to start life over, but you are managing.”

“What choice do I have?”

I chuckled.

“Sit and pity myself? Many do just that, but you hold on. That is worth a lot.”

I started thinking about work. Pension was still a ways off, and what was I to live on?

The compensation and savings would not last long. I did not want to sell the house; it was all that remained.

I looked through ads. At my age, options were few: sales clerk, cleaner, night watchman.

The requirements were scary: under 45, work experience, computer skills. Where would a housewife with thirty years of tenure go?

In early April I got lucky. The local library was looking for an assistant librarian, part-time.

The salary was small but it was close to home. I went for an interview with the director, Nenah, a pleasant woman of about sixty.

“Experience with books? No, but I read a lot. I love books,”

I spoke sincerely. Reading had been my escape all those years.

“That is enough,”

Nah smiled.

“I need a person who loves books, not just punches the clock. Come in Monday.”

The library turned out to be a quiet, cozy place. It was an old building with high ceilings and creaky parquet floors.

The rows of shelves smelled of paper and comfort. I quickly got the hang of it, helped readers, shelved books, and taped up covers.

The work was not hard but pleasant. Gradually I met the regulars: grandmothers looking for romance novels, school kids with classics, and young moms with fairy tales.

There was an elderly retired military man with history books. One of the regular readers, Vivian, about seventy, lingered at the counter one day.

“Ara honey, aren’t you the one Maria Higgins was telling about?”

“Mrs. Higgins? Yes, we are neighbors.”

“She told your story about the husband who wanted to sell the house. How awful!”

I pursed my lips. Gossip had spread through the neighborhood.

“That was in winter. It has passed now.”

“But good for you for not putting up with it,”

Vivian put a hand on my shoulder.

“I put up with mine for 30 years. Drank, ran around, raised a hand to me.”

I stayed silent.

“Raised the kids. He died of cirrhosis 10 years ago, and only after his death did I understand how one can live freely without fear.”

“You still have plenty of life left,”

she continued.

“58 is young. My friend got married at 62, happy as a school girl. Do not give up.”

Vivian started coming by more often and introduced me to other ladies: Lucille, Tammy, and Zora. They were all about the same age, widows or divorced.

They gathered together and went to the theater or to exhibitions.

“Join us,”

Lucille offered.

“On Saturday there is a retro music concert at the community center. Relive our youth.”

I agreed. I hadn’t been anywhere in a long time.

With Vernon, cultural life ended ten years ago. He considered it a waste of time.

The concert turned out to be pleasant with songs of my youth from the seventies and eighties. I listened to familiar melodies and felt something thawing inside.

Nearby, my friends sang along, laughed, and shared memories. After the concert, we went to a cafe and talked heart-to-heart.

Everyone had their own difficult story. Lucille’s husband left for a younger woman; Tammy’s husband died at forty-five.

Zora never married and dedicated her life to work.

“You know what I realized?”

Tammy said.

“Happiness is not in men; it is in us. If you have a hobby, friends, and a goal, you are happy. And if all happiness is in a husband, he leaves and that is it. Life is over.”

“Right,”

Zora nodded.

“I have been alone all my life. I live, work, and go to theaters. A full life.”

I listened and thought that they were right. All my life I built around Vernon, his schedule, desires, and moods.

I forgot about myself. Now I needed to remember who I was, what I loved, and what I wanted.

At home, I took out an old album. There I was at twenty, a student at Teachers College.

I dreamed of becoming a teacher. I got married, children didn’t happen, and I didn’t go to work.

I sat at home for thirty years. But there were dreams.

I wanted to draw, travel, and learn French. I put it all off for later, but now nothing was stopping me.

I took a notebook and wrote:

“What do I want?”

One: learn to draw. Two: go to the city museum. Three: learn French. Four: fix up the garden. Five: find a hobby.

The list was short but it was a start. I smiled for the first time in months, sincerely.

The next day I signed up for drawing classes at the community center. Classes were on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just on my days off.

The instructor, Alice, greeted me warmly.

“Never too late to start,”

she said.

“The main thing is desire.”

The first lessons were hard. My hand wouldn’t obey and the lines were crooked, but I didn’t give up.

I came home and practiced. By the end of April, I drew my first still life: apples in a vase.

I hung it in the kitchen and felt pride every time. In May, I decided on a trip.

I took the weekend and bought a bus ticket to the state capital. I walked through museums, took photos, and felt free and happy.

Returning, I felt a surge of strength. Life goes on.

It started anew, without deception and without coldness. One evening in early June, I was sitting on the porch with tea.

It smelled of blooming lilacs. I had planted three bushes in the spring.

Mrs. Higgins walked up to the gate.

“Ara, can I come in?”

“Of course, come in.”

The neighbor sat nearby.

“Wanted to ask. Remember that old lady who spoke about the snow?”

I shuddered. How could I forget?

“I remember. Why?”

“I tried to find her. Did she help you?”

I asked.

“At the store nobody knows her. Candace says she was there one time and never saw her again. Strange, I thought.”

“I thought about her too. Maybe it was a guardian angel.”

Mrs. Higgins lowered her voice.

“How did she know about the snow?”

“I do not know. Maybe intuition or life experience. Or maybe fate.”

The neighbor sighed.

“You paid for her groceries. Did a good deed, so she paid you back. Fair.”

I was silent, looking at the sunset. Maybe so.

Good begets good. I helped the old woman; she helped me.

“You know, Maria,”

I said quietly,

“I am grateful to her. If not for her, I would have lived on not knowing the truth.”

“It hurt and it was insulting, but I broke free from the lies and from the cold. And now I live for real for the first time in many years.”

Mrs. Higgins hugged me.

“You did good, Elara. You didn’t break. Many would have gone into depression, but you got up and kept going. Proud of you.”

We sat until it got dark, then the neighbor left and I remained. I looked at the stars, listened to the silence, and thought about how life is unpredictable.

You never know what will be tomorrow, but that is not scary. I remembered the old woman’s words:

“Do not touch the snow.”

Such a simple phrase, and how it changed everything. I mentally thanked that unknown woman.

Thank you for the truth. Thank you for the salvation.

Thank you for the chance to start over. In the morning I woke up with new plans: sign up for French, plant a flower bed, and live on.

Life continued: new, my own, and real. And I was ready for it.

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