A Sacrifice

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Silence richocheted off the walls of the messy apartment. The woman at the window watched her husband drive away with their son. He was taking him to the park so that the woman could be alone to pack her belongings.

The woman looked at the mess in the living room. She couldn't do much about the secondhand furniture, but she would pick up the mess.

"First, I'll tidy up a bit," she thought. Cleaning helped her to think.

As she cleaned, she reflected upon what brought her to this point: the weeks of hiding the affair, the final discovery, the admittance of guilt, the pained looks, the devastating sense of loss. It was far too late for reconciliation. Between the two of them, the woman and her husband, they decided it would be best if she moved out. The word "divorce" was not mentioned, but implied.

She sighed, putting toys in the toybox, picking up scraps of paper, putting the magazines away. Some days, the walls of this small apartment clung to her like the stench of a stockyard, but today, they were familiar and comforting. The sun shining outside the window seemed sinister and foreboding, casting shadows on the wall.

The cleanup took only a few minutes. She wandered down the short hallway, pausing to look at a few family photos they had hung up. Here was one taken just last summer, of the woman and her husband in the park with their son. She remembered the incident well. They were smiling and laughing, and a passerby offered to take their picture. She smiled slightly at the memory, and continued down the hallway to the bedroom.

The closet door was wide open. Clothes were strewn on the floor and on a chair. The woman dragged her suitcase out of the closet and put it on the bed. She picked up various items of clothing, folded them neatly, and put them in the suitcase.

She took only what she felt was necessary. She wasn't sure where she would be staying, so she didn't want to bring a lot of things. Finally, she sat down on the bed. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she recalled moving into this apartment. This was supposed to be the last apartment they lived in before they bought a house.

How had it all gone so terribly wrong?

The woman took a ragged breath, got up, and carried the suitcase to the front door. She glanced at the clock. More time had passed than she thought. Her husband and son would be back soon. She went to the bathroom and washed her face. The mirror reflected someone she didn't know.

She heard the key turn in the lock. Their son wouldn't understand why mommy had to leave. She wanted to deny the truth to herself, but she had known the possible outcomes and played the game anyway.

She had strained to break free from her bonds, and now that she had, she saw she had gained nothing.

She exited the bathroom and went into the living room. Her husband was alone.

"I took the kid to be with my mom for awhile."

She nodded, appraising this man with whom she'd shared so much.

"I see you've got your stuff together..." he trailed off, not sure of what to say. She saw the glint of tears in his eyes.

"Yes," she said, abruptly, moving toward the door, staring straight ahead.

Her hand was on the doorknob when he touched her on the shoulder. She turned toward him and they looked at each other.

Their whole life flashed before her eyes: the dinner dates, the wedding and honeymoon, the birth of their son, the many places they'd lived. Did she really want to sacrifice their family?

No.

She could not.

Instead, she chose at the last moment to sacrifice her soul. Her spirit screamed as the bonds were firmly reattached.

From somewhere deep in her mind, she heard herself say, "I don't want to leave. I want to stay here and work things out. I'm sorry for everything."

Her husband caressed her face, and they gently kissed.

"I'll call Mom, and tell her to keep the kid overnight." He smiled, and she smiled in return.

Eventually, the clothes were put away, the kid came home, and everything went back to normal. The indiscretion was forgotten, if not forgiven.

The woman felt nothing--no love, no remorse, no bitterness. Her spirit withered on the cross of Passion, and she silently lamented its torment.