I asked her to call. I thought I was asking for steadiness, for a voice that might help me hold the pieces together. I didn’t want to be alone with the silence pressing against me.
When the phone rang, I picked up expecting care. Instead, her words came sharp, without pause, without warmth:
“They were scared of you.”
That was the first thing she said. No grounding. No question of how I was. Just a verdict, dropped into my ear like a stone.
I tried to answer. “Scared? I was the one breaking. I was the one silent in the garage.”
But the line hummed louder than her breath. She let the silence stretch, then added:
“You don’t see how you come across. You make people afraid.”
I stayed on the line. I had asked for help, and what I got was judgment.
Later, I found [the actual thing — text thread, session note, whatever it was]. Her name and his, back and forth, before she ever called me. She had gone to him first.
She let me believe the verdict was hers. Her assessment. Her truth. It wasn’t. It was his, spoken through her mouth.
I carried it as hers. I carried it as truth. And it cut deeper because I had opened the door myself — I had asked for the call.
She chose him first. And I was left holding both their voices.
© Jaime Pearson 2024. All rights reserved.
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