Chapter 10 - The Day I Went Back to Treatment
My first chemotherapy appointment after leaving Scott terrified me.
Not because of chemo.
Because he had driven me to every previous appointment.
He knew the parking garage.
The pharmacy window.
The chair I preferred.
The nurse who gave me warm blankets.
Abuse had attached itself to practical memory.
Molly offered to drive.
I said yes.
Grace asked to come.
I said no.
Then explained.
"I want you at school."
She frowned.
"Dad said you needed family with you."
"Sometimes I do. Today I want Molly."
Grace nodded.
Choice again.
At the infusion center, I checked myself in.
My own name.
My own phone number.
My own emergency contact.
The receptionist barely noticed.
I almost cried.
Halfway through treatment, a staff member approached.
"Natalie, there's someone in the lobby asking to see you."
My body went cold.
"Who?"
"Your husband."
I stared at the IV pole.
Molly was already standing.
I shook my head.
"No."
The staff member nodded and left.
That was all.
No confrontation.
No security scene in my room.
Scott did not enter.
He left after being told I declined contact.
Simple boundaries felt unreal because I had spent years expecting every no to create a trial.
Later he messaged through the parenting app:
I was trying to support you.
I did not answer.
Then:
You are turning normal concern into something ugly.
I still did not answer.
Then:
Grace will eventually understand what you're doing.
That one made my hands shake.
Rachel told me to preserve it and stop reading for the night.
I did.
At home Grace showed me a science project.
I asked three questions.
Got two facts wrong.
She corrected me.
Neither of us treated it as evidence of cognitive decline.
Then she said:
"Dad emailed me."
I looked up.
"What did he say?"
"That he misses me."
"How do you feel?"
"Bad."
"Because you miss him?"
"Because I don't want to answer."
I nodded.
"Both can be true."
She looked relieved.
Then asked whether I thought he was a bad person.
I hated that question.
Not because it was unfair.
Because children ask for categories when adults give them contradictions.
"I think he did harmful things."
"That's not what I asked."
Grace had become ruthless about accuracy.
I thought longer.
"I don't know what category he belongs in. I know what behavior I won't live with."
She nodded.
"That's annoying."
"Most true answers are."
That night, I slept seven hours.
When I woke, the dressing was clean.
For the first time since surgery, I noticed the obvious.
Every night away from Scott, the wound stayed closed.
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