Victory would have been stopping the whole thing before anger convinced me that humiliation was justice.
What I felt instead was something quieter.
My property was mine again.
My mornings were mine again.
The woods were just woods.
The firewood was just firewood.
And when winter returned, I stood beside the shed splitting oak while snow collected on the fence posts.
No wheelbarrow appeared through the cedars.
No cream-colored robe crossed the line.
I set another piece of wood on the block and raised the axe.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting for Denise to tell me what belonged to her.
I already knew what belonged to me.
