I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chapter 11

I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chapter 11

The divorce proceedings went smoothly and quietly.

There was no arguing, no drama, no tearful embrace outside the Family Court.

When the clerk handed over the two divorce decrees, we both reached for them.

He took one first, and I took the other.

We walked out of the Family Court building side by side.

The sun was bright. He stopped on the steps, and I kept walking.

After a few steps, he called my name from behind.

“Tisha.”

I stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Be happy… from now on.”

I nodded and kept walking.

At the intersection, I looked back.

He was still standing on the steps, clutching the little green book, backlit by the sun.

I couldn’t see his expression. But I knew he wouldn’t chase after me.

He never chased anyone.

—

The first weekend after the divorce, Cora and I went to IKEA.

I bought a floor lamp, a new rug, and a small table and chairs for drawing.

Cora picked out a pink storage box, insisting on carrying it herself and not letting me help.

“Mommy, this is mine. I’ll carry it myself!”

I watched her hold her head high, clutching the pink box bigger than her head, weaving through the crowd.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

We moved into our new place. A 620-square-foot one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment, facing south, with great light.

The rent was 3,200 a month, paid three months in advance with one month’s deposit. Alison had helped me find it.

On moving day, I only brought three suitcases.

One suitcase had Cora’s and my clothes, another had my design drafts and tools, and a third had Cora’s picture books and toys.

Ten years of marriage, condensed into three suitcases.

It was almost funny to think about.

But I didn’t feel sad.

The sadness was those ten years, not these three suitcases.

—

Jared did come to see Cora every week after that.

Always on Saturday afternoons, right on time.

He’d take Cora riding her bike downstairs in the complex, or feed the fish in the nearby park.

Cora was always happy to see him, running and yelling “Daddy!”

He’d squat down to catch her, lift her up and spin her around.

That clumsy, earnest look was nothing like the man he used to be.

Like someone who’d finally learned to give.

Just learned too late.

When he brought Cora back, he’d stand at the door for a moment.

A few times, he hesitated, his lips moving, but in the end just said “I’ll be going then.”

I’d say “Okay, drive safe.”

Then close the door.

The polite, distant, just-right distance was what we had now.

We were not too close, not too far, with no pain and no itch.

Once, Cora came back from his place with an envelope.

“Daddy said to give this to Mommy.”

I opened it. Inside was a bank card and a note.

The note only had one line.

[I’ve calculated the 30,000 down payment and all the money you covered over the years. There’s 460,000 in the card. Take it. The PIN is Cora’s birthday.]

I stared at the line. His handwriting was the same as ten years ago, neat and precise, every stroke precise.

460,000. He’d calculated it.

He’d actually gone through every cent I’d spent over the years.

Groceries, utilities, Cora’s after-school activities, his clothes, gifts for Karen every holiday.

He’d remembered it all.

He wasn’t unaware. He just didn’t care before.

I put the bank card in a drawer.

I didn’t send it back or say “I don’t need it” out of pride.

This was what I deserved.

This money was bought with ten years of early mornings, ten years of waiting, ten years of tears.

I took it without guilt.

—

Another six months passed.

My studio had a steady seven or eight clients, enough for Cora and me to live comfortably.

Alison said I should rent a proper office.

“Look, you’ve landed a full VI design for a mall, and you’re still working out of your home office. It’s not right.”

I thought about it.

The next week, I looked at three places and finally chose a small office in a commercial building.

The apartment was 215 square feet and cost 2,800 a month, but it was enough for a long table and a bookshelf.

On the day I signed the lease, the agent asked for the company name.

“Tisha Design.”

The agent handed me the contract to sign.

I wrote my name.

Tisha Leto.

Completely different from how I felt signing the divorce papers three months earlier.

That time was a full stop.

This time was a comma.

—

Cora started elementary school and adjusted faster than I expected.

She made two new friends, Liam and Emma.

Every day after school, she chattered about school—who fought with whom, who had the nicest pencil case, who the teacher praised that day.

When she laughed, her mouth curved, showing her two new front teeth.

The day I picked her up from school, she ran over and hugged my leg.

“Mommy! I drew a picture today, and the teacher said to put it up in the hallway!”

“What did you draw?”

“Our home!”

She held up the drawing for me to see.

There was a big sun, a small house, and two people standing in front of it.

One big, one small.

The big one wore round glasses and held a paintbrush.

The small one had two braids and held a pink box.

No third person.

I squatted down.

“Cora, that’s beautiful.”

“Mommy, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. It’s the wind.”

“Liar, there’s no wind today.”

I wiped the corner of my eye and picked her up.

It was true, there was no wind.

The sky was blue, the sun was warm, and golden ginkgo leaves covered the ground on both sides of the road.

I carried Cora as we walked on the fallen leaves, the sound crunching under my feet.

Before, I’d pick up pretty ginkgo leaves and press them in books as bookmarks.

Today I didn’t.

Not because I didn’t like it anymore.

But my arms were already full enough.

Cora wrapped her arms around my neck, her cheek pressed to my shoulder.

“Mommy.”

“Mm?”

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay. Home.”

—

The 620-square-foot one-bedroom apartment faced south and had great light.

Cora’s pink storage box sat under the windowsill, my design drafts pinned to the wall, and the new floor lamp glowed warm yellow in the corner.

Small, but warm.

It was my own home.

When we got home, I put Cora down, and she kicked off her shoes and ran inside.

I bent down to put her little shoes away, and when I stood up, the sunset streamed through the window, covering the floor in orange.

I thought of the day I first moved into Jared’s house, ten years ago, the same kind of evening.

Back then, I was full of hope, thinking life would only get better and better.

Ten years later, I finally understood that no matter how long you chase some people, they’ll never look back.

But the moment you turn around, they suddenly stop.

But what does it matter.

I don’t need him to look back anymore.

I’ll just keep walking forward on my own.