That part of me was an idiot.
We turned onto our street. Our quiet street with the maple trees that were starting to drop their red and orange leaves. Our house with the blue door.
And there, on the front lawn, piled by the mailbox like it was garbage day, were my clothes.
Stuffed into black trash bags. Five of them. One had split open at the side, and a sleeve of my favorite gray sweater was hanging out onto the wet grass.
Beside the trash bags was the diaper bag. The nice one. The one Diane had bought me at the baby shower, with the little embroidered E on the front.
My dad stopped the car.
Nobody said anything.
I got out of the car. My body was still sore and bleeding and broken from giving birth, and every step hurt, but I walked up that driveway anyway. I stood in front of my own front door, the blue door I’d picked out, the color called Harbor Mist, and I knocked.
