Leaving and Becoming

The boxes were loaded. The closet was empty. And yet Eden stood in the driveway staring at the front door like it still had something to say.

The sun was just starting to set—casting a warm, honey-colored light over everything she wasn’t taking with her.

She’d left the ring in the junk drawer.

The marriage license in the filing cabinet.

And the last ten years in the rearview.

What she kept fit into the back of her SUV: clothes that actually fit her, not the image she was forced to maintain. Books that fed her. A few keepsakes for the kids. Her grandmother’s necklace. And a new journal with the first page still blank.

Eden paced once around the vehicle, arms crossed, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. The kids were still with her parents. Safe. Innocent. Unaware of the fire their mother had walked through to keep their world intact.

She checked her phone.

Still nothing from him.

No apology. No last-minute plea. Just silence—cowardly and expected.

But there was a message. Not from him.

From Sarah.

“He told everyone you’re just having a breakdown. That it’s the stress and the devil getting to you. I’m praying for you, Eden. Please come to Sunday service. Let God heal this.”

Eden stared at the message.

The nerve of someone who once hugged her through gritted teeth now pretending to mourn her choices.

She didn’t respond.

She deleted it.

Then she slid her sunglasses on, shut the trunk, and climbed behind the wheel.

The ignition turned, and music picked up right where she left it—this time, something instrumental, slow and unfamiliar. She didn’t change it. The silence between lyrics felt like room to breathe.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was running.

She felt like she was arriving—even if she didn’t know where she’d land.

⸻

The drive to Nashville was mostly quiet. She passed the time by imagining what her new apartment might look like. What her kids would say when they saw her standing taller. What her ex would do when he realized she wasn’t bluffing—wasn’t coming back.

By the time the skyline came into view, her chest tightened.

Not with fear.

With clarity.

She’d made it.

Not all the way. Not to peace. But to the next step. And that was enough for now.

Her GPS guided her to the temporary rental Callum’s assistant had arranged. It was in a part of the city that buzzed without blaring. Not loud, not flashy—just alive.

A keycode entry. Tall windows. Minimal furniture. Everything clean and untouched, like a stage waiting for its scene.

She dropped her bag in the doorway and stood for a moment, taking in the space.

It didn’t smell like lemon cleaner and lies.

It didn’t echo with memories she didn’t want.

It didn’t feel like his.

It was hers.

And for now, that was everything.

She wandered into the bedroom, dropped her purse on the edge of the bed, and spotted the box she’d labeled “Someday.”

It had barely made the cut when she packed. Inside were a few old journals, some wrinkled recipes, and a sketchpad filled with ideas she hadn’t dared to look at in years. She peeled it open, fingers brushing over a page labeled in her own handwriting: Harbor View Café & Pâtisserie.

There were rough drawings of a long espresso bar, a pastry case, tables lined with vintage chairs, and names scribbled for drinks that never existed—The Sea Salt Prayer, Lavender Grace, The Back Pew Brew.

Eden let herself laugh softly. She’d written those during midnight hours, long after Dusty had gone to bed. Back when her dreams felt more like sins than seeds.

Back when wanting something for herself meant being selfish.

She traced one of the old doodles with her finger.

It wasn’t silly.

It was survival on paper.

⸻

She showered, let the water run until the mirror fogged. The steam felt like absolution. She wrapped herself in one of the oversized towels and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

No makeup. Damp hair. Tired eyes.

But God, there was something different in them.

She looked like a woman who had nothing left to prove.

The phone buzzed again.

She glanced at the screen and paused.

Callum Calhoun.

Not a number. Not a guess.

Just his name.

She let it ring once. Twice. Then swiped to open the message.

Tomorrow. 7:30. Dinner. My driver will pick you up. Wear whatever makes you feel powerful. – C.

Eden reread it twice. Not because she needed to.

Because it felt like something worth savoring.

There was no question mark. No begging.

Just a man with a plan—and the audacity to invite her into it without trying to contain her.

She typed her reply slowly, deliberately.

Power looks different on me now. Hope you’re ready. – E.

She set the phone down.

And for the first time in a long time, Eden Cross smiled like a woman who wasn’t waiting to be chosen.