Misunderstanding

I sit in the car long after leaving the office, my hands resting loosely on the steering wheel while the world outside keeps moving like nothing has changed.

People walk in and out of the building carrying files and coffee cups, talking into phones, laughing at things that don’t matter. A man from accounting crosses the parking lot and spots me through the windshield. He lifts his hand with a bright smile, I stare at him for a second before raising mine back automatically.

He keeps walking just as I look away.

I sit silently waiting for the tears. For that crushing feeling people always talk about, the one that steals your breath and folds you into yourself. But my chest stays strangely still. My hands don’t shake. My vision doesn’t blur.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Crying over Mark won’t change what I saw anyway.

My gaze drifts toward the rearview mirror, catching the passenger seat behind me. A small gift box sits there, tilted slightly to one side from the drive.

It's a necklace I bought three days ago after passing by a jewelry store on my lunch break. My mother had paused in front of the display once, weeks ago, admiring something almost identical before brushing it off and saying she was too old for things like that.

Thinking about her hurts more than thinking about him. Mark is selfish. I know that now. But her—

I lean back against the seat, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything.

Why would she do that to me?

The question circles quietly in my head while pieces from the past few months begin fitting together in ways they never had before.

Every conversation with her somehow led back to Mark. At the time, it felt normal. She was my mother. Mothers asked questions.

How busy was he lately?

Did he still work late every Thursday?

Was he stressed?

Did he eat properly when he stayed at the office so long?

There had always been interest in her voice when she spoke about him, but I mistook it for concern. Approval, maybe. She used to say I was lucky to find a man like him. Successful, charming, and ambitious.

I remember one afternoon especially clearly now.

We were shopping together when she asked what cologne he wore because she wanted to buy something similar for a coworker retiring that month. I had laughed and sprayed some on her wrist when we passed a store.

She smelled exactly like that perfume today.

My grip tightens slightly around the steering wheel.

Another memory follows quickly after.

Two months ago, she called me late at night asking if Mark was with me. I told her no, he was still at work. She had gone quiet for a second before saying she only asked because she wanted to surprise us with dinner sometime that week.

At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. Now I remember how relieved she sounded afterward.

A sharp ringing from my phone cuts through the silence of the car, dragging me back into the present. I don’t move immediately. The sound keeps going from inside my purse until I finally pull it out. Mark's name fills the screen. I let it ring until the the call drops.

For a second, everything goes quiet again. Then the phone lights up once more almost immediately. Him again. This time he hangs up before the call finishes on its own.

Messages begin appearing one after another across the screen.

You walked out before we could talk.

You completely misunderstood the situation.

Your mother has been going through a difficult time.

I didn’t want you finding out this way.

You’re acting emotionally right now.

At least let me explain before making irrational decisions.

I stare at the messages as they keep coming. Not once does he apologize. Not once does he say what he did was wrong.

The phone vibrates again in my hand.

I open the glove compartment and slide it inside before shutting it firmly.

I start the car. The drive to the apartment passes in a blur of traffic lights and crowded streets. By the time I pull into the parking garage, the sun has already begun dipping lower across the buildings.

I grab my phone, drop it in the bag and head upstairs. This apartment was supposed to be a surprise. I had gone to his office to give him the key. Now it feels strange holding it in my hand. The lock clicks softly when I open the door as silence welcomes me.

I step inside and close the door behind me before walking toward the large ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the forest below. Trees stretch endlessly in the distance. They are so thick and dark against the fading light.

I used to want an apartment overlooking a busy highway. Something alive and loud. I wanted lights from passing cars filtering through the windows at night. But Mark said highways were noisy and distracting. This view had somehow felt peaceful to him so I went along with it even though it always felt heavy for me.

I fold my arms loosely and look around for the first time since stepping inside. The apartment doesn’t feel like mine. Everything in here carries Mark somewhere inside it. The forest view. The grey walls. The black furniture. I originally picked warm colors for the living room. Soft cream walls, lighter furniture, gold accents in the kitchen but he claimed they were too bright and childish. So I changed everything. Even the couch placement is where he wanted it, facing the windows instead of the television because he liked balance in a room.

The door bell rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. Who could possibly know that I'm here? The knocks are loud and relentless, obviously from someone who already knows I'm inside. Could it be Mark. I walk to the door and pull it open.

“I'm not—" 

The words die in my throat.

It's mother.