Chapter 8 - A WEEKEND ALONE ON OAK ISLAND
The following weekend, I packed my Subaru again—not with tools and deadbolts, but with a cooler of groceries, a stack of mystery novels I had been meaning to read for two years, and a bottle of crisp white wine.
I drove down to Oak Island on Friday afternoon, watching the landscape shift from suburban sprawl to salt marshes, winding creeks, and the low, flat expanse of the barrier island.
When I pulled up to the weathered blue-gray cottage, the afternoon sun was turning the dunes to gold.
I unlocked the front door—my new brass key turning smoothly in the lock—and stepped inside.
The air inside was cool and still. The yellow tile in the kitchen had the same chipped corner near the fridge. The floorboards creaked in the exact same spot beneath the hallway rug.
It was quiet.
Not the heavy, oppressive silence of loneliness, but the rich, resonant quiet of solitude chosen on one’s own terms.
I put my groceries away in the refrigerator—the fridge that Vanessa had ordered me to stock for her, now filled only with what I wanted: eggs, sharp cheddar, a carton of strawberries, and a bottle of sparkling water.
I unpacked my books, set them on the wooden coffee table, and walked out onto the screened porch.
The ocean was murmuring in the distance, a low, rhythmic bass note that had lulled David and me to sleep through decades of summers. I sat down in the wooden rocking chair, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath of the salt air.
My phone remained quiet on the side table. No demands. No passive-aggressive texts. No instructions to stock anything for anyone.
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For the first time in my life, I wasn't holding the family together by absorbing everyone else’s demands.
I was just holding myself.
