Still, my revenge is bland as stale matzah, neither sweet nor sour. Yes, I’d left him naked and wilting in the bed he’d wanted me to share, but it hadn’t been easy. Instead of the cold calculation I’d promised myself, I’m stuck with the taste of him still lingering on my tongue. Some doors, I think as I force myself up and out of bed, will never, ever close … and some never open in the first place.

I shower quickly, scrubbing away last night’s flavors. A small headache throbs between my eyes, the barest of hangovers. I need coffee. Food. I yawn until my jaw creaks as I go over my plans for the day. There’s an estate sale today, far on the other side of town, and the photos showed an array of designer shoes and bags that will probably be gone by the time I get there, but whatever’s left will be fifty percent off, and surely I’ll find something to bring home with me. Several somethings.

In the hall, I pause in front of Eli’s door and listen for any signs that he’s awake. Nothing. I press my palm flat to the door below the scuff marks in the paint from where he tore off the colorful wooden letters that had once spelled out his name. This room had been my brother Jonathan’s when he was a kid. Ken and I share the room my parents had used. My childhood bedroom is at the far end of the hallway, door always closed to hide the closet full of clothes and shoes I never have occasion to wear, and the bins under the bed, and the dresser full of still more things I convinced myself I couldn’t live without.

I rarely go in that room, but I have dreamed about moving back into it. Sleeping alone in the narrow twin bed with the creaking frame, cuddled beneath a mountain of afghans knitted by my grandmothers. My childhood was not perfect—I don’t really think anyone’s is, not if you’re honest with yourself about it. But it was good. My parents were fun and loving and they took care of me and my brother. I was the bad kid, the one who turned my mom’s hair gray, made them worry. I definitely was not the golden daughter I’m sure they’d wished for. I miss them both terribly, but at least with them both gone, I don’t have to worry about continuing to disappoint them.

I dream about sleeping alone in a single bed too often for it to be anything other than some kind of desire that’s less sub, more conscious. It won’t happen, though. How could it? I haven’t had a job since before Eli was born. Ken wanted a homemaker. A hausfrau. He wanted to be taken care of in a certain kind of way, and I needed to be taken care of in another. I’ve spent the last eighteen years giving him what he wants.

What about what I need?