Chapter 10
I woke up before either of them. That was the only way I could think straight in that house.
The kitchen was quiet at 6:40 a.m. The refrigerator hummed behind its chain. The brass padlock caught the light from under the cabinets and threw it back at me. I didn't make coffee. I didn't open anything. I went back to the bedroom and shut the door.
My name is Jenna. That morning I stopped waiting for written terms that were never going to come.
I sat at the small desk in our bedroom where Tyler kept his chargers and old receipts. I pulled out a plain white sheet of printer paper and a blue pen. My hand shook at first, then steadied. I dated it at the top. May 6th. I wrote it like I'd seen tenants do when I worked at the leasing office after college — clear, flat, no emotion.
It said I had given verbal notice on May 3rd that I would leave if food remained locked. It said the stainless French-door refrigerator in the kitchen at our shared address remained wrapped with a rusted chain and brass padlock as of that morning. It said I required consistent, unlocked access to food I purchased, or I would vacate within fourteen days. It said I was keeping a copy.
I read it twice. I signed it. Then I made a copy on the printer Tyler kept for work. The machine whined and pulled the paper through too slow. I watched the ink come out lighter on the second sheet and traced my signature again so it matched. I folded the original in thirds. I slipped the copy into the back of my journal, under a grocery receipt from last week.
The house was still quiet. Diane's door stayed closed.
I took my phone into the kitchen. The marble island was cold against my hip. I stood in front of the refrigerator and took three photos the way you're supposed to for records — one wide showing the whole front with the chain across both handles, one close on the padlock where the chain looped through, one angled so the kitchen cabinets and the light could be seen behind it. No filter. Flash off. The time stamp would hold.
The chain hadn't moved. Same rust flaking onto the handles. Same slight scratch in the steel where the metal had rubbed. I didn't touch it.
Back in the bedroom, I opened the closet and pulled my duffel down. I didn't pack clothes. I pulled the things I couldn't afford to lose if this got worse. My driver's license, my social security card, the folder with our marriage certificate and my car title. The bank card for the account that held my paychecks. I checked the balance on my phone — enough for a deposit if I needed it. I put the folder and the cards into a zippered pouch and then into the duffel's inner pocket. I zipped it shut and slid the whole bag behind my winter coats where it wasn't visible from the door.
I was zipping it when the hallway floor creaked.
Tyler stood in the doorway in his gray sleep shirt, hair flat on one side. He looked at the paper folded on the desk before he looked at me.
"What's that?" he said.
I didn't hide it. I picked it up and handed it to him. "My notice. Dated. So we're clear."
He unfolded it. He read it standing there, jaw working the way it did when he didn't want to answer. He glanced at the photos open on my phone screen, then back at the letter.
"You took pictures again?" he said.
"Yes."
"This morning?"
"Yes."
He held the paper like it weighed more than it should. "Jenna, this makes it real."
"It already was real," I said. "You said Mom maybe went too far. Nothing changed."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the letter still in his hand. For the first time he didn't look toward Diane's room when he spoke.
"I thought if we gave it a couple days she'd take it off," he said. His voice was low. "She said it was about the grocery bill. About you buying too much."
"I pay for my groceries," I said. "You saw the receipts."
He nodded once, quick. He folded the letter back exactly on its creases.
"Are you actually leaving?" he asked.
"If the lock stays, yes," I said. "I kept a copy."
That landed. He stared at the copy peeking out from my journal. He understood then that I wasn't asking him to convince me, I was telling him I'd documented it.
Diane's bedroom door opened down the hall. Her slippers scuffed the floor. Tyler tensed and slipped the original letter onto the desk like he didn't want her to see it yet.
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, blonde hair pulled back, same paisley blouse. She looked at me, at the phone in my hand, at Tyler sitting on the bed.
"What's going on in here?" she said.
"Nothing," Tyler said too fast.
I picked up my phone and the copy from my journal and held them. "I wrote down my notice and photographed the refrigerator again," I said. "For my records."
Diane's eyes narrowed. "You don't need to photograph my kitchen."
"It's our kitchen while I live here," I said. "And the chain is still on."
She crossed her arms. "You were told the rules."
"There are no written rules," I said. "So I wrote mine."
Tyler stood. He stepped between us without touching either of us. "Mom, can we talk later?" he said. "Just us."
Diane looked at the letter on the desk, then at me. She didn't pick it up.
Tyler followed her out, pulling the bedroom door halfway closed behind him. I heard them murmuring in the hall, Diane's voice sharp, his low and trying to keep it even.
May you like
I sat back at the desk. I put the copy back in the journal and the journal in the duffel, behind the coats again. The original stayed on the desk where Tyler had left it. It was dated, signed, photographed. My IDs and bank card were packed separate from everything else we shared. I hadn't packed a single shirt. I hadn't called anyone else.
The padlock was still on. But now the paper existed to prove I'd said it would not stay that way.
