I THOUGHT I’D WON.
The motel sat just off the highway, tucked behind a gas station and a fast-food place that had gone out of business years ago.
Thin curtains hung in the windows, not quite meeting in the middle.
The smell of old smoke clung to everything — the walls, the carpet, the bedspread.
I stood in the doorway with my bag and tried not to cry.
THE MOTEL SAT JUST OFF THE HIGHWAY.
That first night, I lay awake listening to traffic rumble past on the highway and wondered when, exactly, my marriage had turned into this.
When had I become someone who could be shipped off to a dump like this to make room for someone else? When had I stopped mattering?
“Maybe I should’ve stayed in the garage.”
By morning, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started planning my next move.
I LAY AWAKE LISTENING TO TRAFFIC RUMBLE PAST ON THE HIGHWAY.
