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Weekly Contest #305
At the intersection, I could go right and head home—the way I always did after errands or a late solo lunch. But turning left would take me directly to the highway, and down 90 miles of familiar road. The one I used to travel when heading back to my old apartment in the city. My old life. My old self. And once down those 90 miles, my tires would want to pull off at a familiar exit. They'd remember the turns, the stoplights, the back entrance to a street I looked up just yesterday on Google Maps. That street ended at a small, craftsman-style ...
You know what? I quit. I am angry—no, seething. My hands grip the Rogue’s steering wheel with enough force to leave imprints. My left thumb pulses red. I just got off the phone with my husband, and I swear if I hear one more “Think of it this way—” from him, I might drive this thing straight into a cornfield and disappear. “She forgot to ask work about leaving early,” he’d said. Of course she did. She never remembers. The “she” in question is my stepdaughters’ mother—Jasmine. A full-grown adult who works part-time at the feed sto...
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