I look down Route 7 and see the entrance for the station. It can’t be more than thirty feet. The wind whips hard, rocking the car. I can see the rain coming on an army of clouds. A blanket closing over the sky. I can’t tell how far away they are. How much time I have.

Thoughts exploding. Heart pounding. What have I done?

Now comes the thought about the fire last night. We have four fireplaces in our house, all of them wood burning. I have been making fires and stoking fires since we moved there twelve years ago. I know what a log looks like when it’s just been placed on top of the flames.

I have no umbrella, just a flimsy jacket. I put it on anyway. I reach for my purse and tuck it inside. It’s only thirty feet.

I open the door, get out, close it behind me. And I run, clutching the purse. I run into the wind which is more powerful than I imagined.

I run and think about that log which had just been put there—last night—on the fire. John wasn’t asleep. John was pretending to be asleep so he wouldn’t have to see me, even just long enough to say good night.

It’s not the first time.

Flashes of the fight with Nicole break free as my body pushes through the wind. We fight every day now.

Open your eyes!

The fight had been so fast and furious, I had not processed every word. But I do now.

They are open. I see you clear as day, Nicole.

Not to me. To your own husband!

I can’t see what’s right in front of me. He never comes home for dinner. He pretends to be asleep when I come into our bedroom.

My husband doesn’t love me anymore. My husband loves someone else.

This thought feels old, like a jagged stone I’ve been carrying in my coat pocket, trying to rub it smooth. But no matter how much I dig my fingers in, the edges never soften.

And then, the words I had not heard before, but had felt many times. Still, hearing them from my own daughter twisted the knife.

I hate you!

Tears fall as I run.

Annie. Wispy blond hair resting on delicate shoulders. Big, round eyes and long lashes. I can still feel her in my arms. Her life just beginning. Annie.

Annie!

And now I know why the thoughts have all come. They have been leading me to this one, last thought. This naked admission.

I am not a good mother because I did not drive four hours to watch my son play football so that he would feel loved. I drove four hours so that I could feel loved.

The log in that fireplace. My daughter’s words. I hate you.