I always hear nostalgia talked about fondly. I guess itâs because we always see the past through rose-colored glasses. A certain lemon-scented cleaner that takes you back to your motherâs kitchen, or the crisp smell of autumn leaves returning you to the edge of your first bonfire, watching the pearly skin of your marshmallow bubble and blacken on the stick.
But this nostalgia, it feels bitter as it washes over me.
I stand again in the ruins of our life, being chased out of own home, even for as little time as we could call it ours. I donât have a suitcase of my own, so I steal one from Renâs closet, let it thump vindictively down every step in the goddamn house.
I put Harperâs clothes in first and then use what little bit of room thatâs left for mine. Things that will work for a job interview. Perfume. The jewelry that Olivia bought me, though I donât think any of it is very expensive. Iâd feel disgusting putting it on, but I wonât mind parting with it at a pawn shop.
I canât believe Ren was given a choice to bury the hatchet, and he turned it down. He didnât even tell me . He didnât care at all what I thought about it. I told Ren he could do whatever he wanted with my life. I did not extend that same offer for Harperâs.
Harper watches me.
âAre we going somewhere?â she asks.
I wonder how much of a hypocrite I would be if I lied to her right now. I bite my tongue and force myself to tell her the truth. âWeâre going to a new place, Harp.â
Her expression falters.
ââ¦where?â she asks, in a small voice.
âI donât know. Is Applesauce all ready for a trip?â I ask. But she doesnât play along. She just stares at me, her panic building in micro-expressions breaking across her face.
Her face turns pink.
âAre we going to come back?â she asks.
âI donât know. Maybeââ
Probably not.
She gives a big, heaving sob. I get her in my arms, but she wants nothing to do with it. âI donât want to go!â she screams at me, throwing herself on her bed. âI want to stay here!â
âHarperââ
She screams and kicks and cries, bouncing away from my every attempt to get to her and settle her down.
âI donât want to go!â
The crying devolves into a full-blown meltdown, until I am on my knees, bargaining and begging and trying very hard to calm her.
Finally, she gets enough air in her lungs to ask,
âIs Daddy going?â
She might as well have punched me through the chest and taken my heart in her tiny little fist, squeezing it as hard as she can.
I shake my head.
âNot yetââ
And goddammit, if she doesnât stopâ
My face mirrors hers. Harper and I have always shared a resemblance, but now we are mirrors of each other, pink face and wet cheeks. The sob claws out of my throat, ragged and broken, as I sit on the floor of my daughterâs bedroom and finally just cry.
I donât want to leave him either.
Harper has never cared before. As long as we had Applesauce in tow, or some of her favorite books, whatever she was obsessed with at the time, she didnât mind going from apartment to apartment, home to home. It was always just our next little adventure.
Now, she weeps like sheâs grieving. A six-year-old shouldnât understand grief.
When it becomes clear that no comforting or coddling is going to work, I go through the motions like I always do. I gather up her things, forcing myself to leave a screaming, kicking toddler on the bed, her fingers dug into the sheets so tightly, I think theyâre probably going to have to come with us.
Marco stands waiting by the front door, his expression grim. The moment he sees me, he comes to get my suitcase from me. It frees me up to go back and get Harper, who writhes against me, kicking and smacking like she never has before, screaming âNo! No!â over and over.
She slips free and goes running, making a break from the bedroom and climbing up the stairs as fast as her little legs will carry her. I chase after her.
She barrels straight into the closed door of Renâs office, smacking straight into the wood with a pitched, breathy sob. She runs her hand across her forehead, briefly stunned out of her own tantrum. âHarper, baby, pleaseâmaybe we can come back, but we just need to go for now.â
She snarls again and beats her fist against the door, screaming for him. The door opens. Ren stands on the other side, looking down at her.
Harper launches herself against his leg, clinging to him, desperately trying to tell him what an awful, horrible mother Iâm being trying to save her life.
âHarper,â he snaps, his voice like a whip. He doesnât coddle her. Doesnât scoop her up and soothe her like he always does. He points sternly and says, âListen to your mother and go.â
She keeps babbling and crying and begging, when Ren snaps, much louder, âI said go!â
The boom of his voice makes me, a grown woman, jump. It makes Harper stumble back, bumping into my legs and sitting down on my shoes.
And finally Harper is really and truly convinced. She doesnât hop up and yell at him, or wag her little finger. She just slumps into the floor and cries like she used to, before she could walk. Big tears of sorrow now mixed with tears of fear.
When I lean down to pick her up, this time, she puts her arms around my neck. I look at Ren, but heâs already turned away from the door. It slams before I get a good look at his face.
Marco has our things already in the back of the car, waiting for us.
âWe can take you to the subway, a bus stop, or an airport. From there, we arenât allowed to follow,â he tells me. The gun he usually keeps concealed is now holstered to his waist.
It feels surreal, being turned out into the night. Marco gives me a sleek suitcase. I ask whatâs in it, but he admits that he doesnât know. That he was told to hand it over to me by Ren. He tells me not to look inside until we are somewhere safe.
Harper and I wander off into the night, catching a bus crawling slow through the city streets. She cries and huffs and shakes, head to toe, still wanting to throw her fit, just barely holding herself together. I snuggle up with her and whisper promises into her hair, like I always did. Itâs really no wonder they donât work on her anymore.