There’s already a figure by the water when I arrive well after sunset, but I don’t want them to acknowledge me, to make awkward chit-chat or worse, so I keep my distance and let the cicadas fill the silence.
I just want space, just want to be alone for one damn minute of the day, and can’t even have that.
The gravel crackles and I turn, hoping they’re leaving, but they’re taking a step forward, toward the water. Part of me knows I should reach out, put a hand on their shoulder, tell them it doesn’t have to end this way, but their posture reminds me of my husband, how he never does anything for himself, always needs to be told what to do next. How I have to care for him as much as I do our four under four, acting as not just mother but assistant and therapist for them all, which I should love, which I do love, at moments, in my way, but this stranger is not my responsibility.
They don’t seem to expect anything, anyway. They take another step, another, the crisp crunch of rocks and pebbles muffled now as the water swallows their footsteps.
Before I know it, the river is lapping at my ankles, colder than I expected on such a warm summer night, and I follow them into the river. As the water fills my mouth, I think it’s nice, for once, to do something you didn’t plan, that will surprise everyone, that will make them wonder if they ever knew you at all.
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