And he had been wrong.
Wrong about the hair.
Wrong about the “something.”
Wrong about all of it.
Later that night, Marcus pushed his chair away from the table.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” “Do you want to talk about Dad?”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want to do?”
I glanced around the kitchen.
My kitchen.
The meal I had prepared.
My son sitting across from me.
My appointment book safely tucked inside Patrice’s briefcase.
Monday morning waiting beyond the weekend.
“I want to sleep.”
He nodded.
“And tomorrow?”
“I want to go to work.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I have a client at nine.”
He laughed softly.
“Mom.”
“I like my work, Marcus.”
“I know.”
“I have always liked my work.”
He waited.
“I should never have let anyone make me feel like it was small.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“It isn’t small.”
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
I smiled.
“People trust me with the back of their heads.”
Marcus smiled too.
“That’s true.”
“That’s not a small thing.”
“No, Mom.”
“It really isn’t.”
I went to bed.
In the darkness, I thought about my salon chair.
My notary stamp.
The appointment book.
Ashley sitting inside Dale’s company Lexus, touching up her lipstick before accidentally walking into the truth.
Dale’s expression when he looked up and realized who was standing behind the counter.
I thought about the fog.
And then I thought about what was left once it finally cleared.
Me.
Just me.
Standing behind my own counter.
With my stamp.
My book.
My work.
My son.
My attorney.
And every part of myself I had always possessed, even through the years when I allowed someone to convince me those parts were insignificant.
That was the whole truth.
And for the first time in a very long time, it was enough.
