I apologized to the teacher again and hung up.
It hurt to say those words to my own son, the
child I’d carried for nine months. I couldn’t
remember when Henry had started becoming so
much like his father.
My marriage to Holden had been arranged.
From the time I was fourteen, after my
grandfather and father emerged from a meeting
with the Hudsons, smiling, I was raised to be a
Hudson wife. My classmates envied my
privileged life. I never corrected them. I had
everything but freedom.
I didn’t do well on my entrance exams. My
mother woke me up in the middle of the night,
furious, slapped me across the face for
embarrassing her. In high school, I rebelled,
く
dated a boy. My father delivered the matching
slap, reminding me that if I didn’t marry a
Hudson, I’d marry someone twenty years my senior.
I’d first met Holden when I was fifteen, a pre- arranged meeting. He wasn’t like he was now. He smiled, showed emotion. I barely
remembered him. A white shirt against a blue sky. Expressive eyes.
Then came the stories of him fighting with his
family over Vivian. I admired him, envied his
defiance. He had the right to refuse.
But soon after, Holden’s mother visited, a
polite, apologetic smile on her face. She took
my mother’s hand and said, “Don’t worry, dear.
The Holden situation is…resolved.” I’d listened
from the doorway, my heart sinking. Just as I’d
expected.
Then came the orchestrated meetings with
<
Holden. He was resistant at first, cold towards
- me. Then, he began to accept it, occasionally speaking to me. I watched him transform from a prickly teenager into a quiet, reserved man, all
emotion carefully masked. And the gardenia scent faded with time.
When I was twenty, and Holden twenty–four, we were driving to a gala in Charlotte when a landslide trapped us in our car. We were buried for a day and a night. My last memory before being rescued was Holden shielding me, his arm pierced and bloody from the crushed metal. He
proposed when I woke up. In front of both our families. “Amelia,” he’d asked, “Will you marry
me?”
I’d looked at his bandaged arm, remembered
him calling my name in the darkness, urging me
to stay awake. “Don’t sleep, Amelia. If you sleep
now, you’ll really lose your freedom.” I’d placed
my hand in his, ignoring the stillness in his eyes,
the sense that he was performing a duty.
く
We got married. Four years later, we had Henry,
a child welcomed by both families. Holden’s
mother believed in elite education, just like
Holden had received. So Henry poured his milk
away, echoing his father, apologizing with an
innocent face, doing what he thought was right.
I didn’t know what they were thinking.
A week later, Holden called again. From a
different number. I’d blocked him. This wasn’t
like him, this persistence.
He was silent for a few seconds. I was about to
hang up when he spoke. “Amelia,” he said,
“Your parents said you haven’t gone home. Are
you…are you in Charleston?”
He’d tracked me. I knew he could. But a
strange anger surged through me. For nine
years, he’d been distant, detached, a stranger
in my own home. Now, in two weeks, he’d
called me more times than he had in the past
<
year. I used to send him texts: Will you be home for dinner? Are you in a meeting? Is your
stomach still bothering you? Should I bring you some soup? He’d reply with a single,
noncommittal: Yeah. And the rest was a string
of unanswered messages.
Now, he acted like nothing had changed. His
voice was rough. “Amelia, I have a work dinner
tonight. My stomach is acting up. Where do you
keep the antacids? And Henry caught a cold at
preschool. He has a fever of 100.4, and he’s
really fussy. What did you usually do to make
him feel better?”
I snapped. I tried to keep my voice even, not
wanting to sound hysterical. “Holden,” I said,
each word precise, “we’re divorced. I’m not
your wife. I’m not your housekeeper. Whether
your stomach hurts or you can’t find your
medicine is not my concern. And you have
plenty of people who can buy you antacids if
you ask. Your son is sick. Telling me won’t help.
<
I’m not a doctor, and I’ve never heard of a
father asking his ex–wife what to do in this
situation. I don’t know what you’re doing.
Maybe it’s pride. Maybe you’re just used to me
taking care of you. But Holden, I don’t want to
be cruel, but we’re over. Stop contacting me.
Do you understand?”
I hung up, pulled out the SIM card from my
phone, and tossed it in the trash.
These days, everything is tied to your cell
phone. I didn’t expect Holden and Henry to
keep calling, though. It wasn’t about lingering
feelings, I knew that. They were just used to me
taking care of them. I got a new number, some
cash, and joined a geological expedition to the
Southwest. I’d seen it online. Holden had said
he was too busy. His friends had scoffed,
“That’s so…cheap. Amelia, a Hudson slumming
it on a budget tour? Embarrassing.” I’d just
smiled. Back then, it had felt like a pipe dream.
