On the northeast side of town, there is a house.
The house was once magical, filled with love and joy and plans for the future.
Inside its walls are many things that belong to me — my books, the china from my mother on my wedding day, the beautiful cage once home to two birds, now empty, just like me.
And a man.
A man who also belongs to me.
A man I no longer wish to keep.
A man who, no doubt, has not slept, though the sun is rising. Because the house where he waits is where I laid my head to rest every night for eight years. Until last night.
No one who knows me would believe Charlie Pierce, the quiet, bookish girl who never made waves is pulling out of the driveway of a man who isn’t her husband.
But they don’t know me at all.
I don’t even know me.
Not anymore.
They say there are two sides to every story, and I suppose in most cases, that’s true. But the one I live inside of? It has three.
On the northeast side of town, there is a house.
But there is no longer a home.
