I watched Emily fidget with the lit matches in the old woman’s hand, lighting them and snuffing them out over and over. She did it while muttering everything Emily already knew deep down. From that dull, unrelenting ache, from the hopelessness and the endless urge to howl like a wolf, she finally decided to go to the witch.
Emily thought she had just endured the tragedy of her whole life. Her husband, Tom, had walked out, leaving her with two kids. He did return after about four months, and for a while everything seemed to fall back into place. It only seemed that way. Their relationship cracked wide open. Emily and Tom drifted further apart.
At first Emily wept because she wanted the old days back the caring texts, the How are you? and Goodnight messages. Then her soul began to crave revenge. She wanted the other woman to suffer as she had, and for Tom to have terrible luck even to be run over by a bus, she thought. Eventually she stopped caring about anything: where Tom was, who he was with, when he might come back. She even caught herself losing interest in the children.
Then a heavy, grey gloom settled over her, choking her breath and thoughts. A deep melancholy pressed down whenever she was down on herself. She tried to push it away, to get out, and it helped for a spell, but the darkness always returned, stronger each time. One illness after another followed. A cyst formed under a tooth, forcing a costly extraction and an implant that set her back a small fortune. Her eyesight suddenly blurred. While walking in the park on perfectly level pavement she fell, breaking her arm in three places. In that moment Emily decided something had to change; she didnt want to drive herself to an early grave.
Nothings cursed you, the witch said, handing Emily a box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Dont even think about it. Its not the witch, its your husband. He sees only himself. Everything happening now is of your own making youre burying yourself deeper. Hes stuck on that one woman in his head, a coward wholl never go anywhere. And theres no place for him now.
What am I supposed to do? Emily asked.
Live. Live your own life the way you want, for yourself.
Emily stood, her head feeling as heavy as iron. Live easy to say, she muttered.
Take these. Light a candle when you feel sick, and keep drinking water. The witchs voice was calm.
Thank you, Emily replied.
Outside, a lump tightened at her throat. The same line looped in her mind: its not the witch, its your husband. After twelve years together, after everything theyd been through.
That evening Emily sat with a notebook. Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? She wrote until the pen could no longer form question marks. Shed always wanted the same things as the kids a trip to the sea, a water park, a playroom, or at least a park near the house. Shed wanted the things Tom wanted: a flat, a car, a visit to her mum in the neighbouring county, a balcony remodel, midnight movies, a camping weekend. But what did she herself want? What did she enjoy beyond her husbands and the childrens interests? She realised shed dissolved into the family over the past years, her own aims vanished.
After half an hour she listed a few goals:
– Run in the mornings, find the time and energy.
– Change jobs, become a manager, earn a decent salary, develop professionally.
– Lose seven pounds.
– Buy herself a nice coat.
– Own a house.
– Build calm, healthy relationships with the kids.
– Find a hobby that brings pleasure.
She exhaled a sigh, closed the notebook. Figuring out her own desires wasnt simple, but she had to start somewhere. She glanced over at Tom, who was halfheartedly scrolling on his laptop on the sofa.
Your husband the thought echoed in her head.
Emily slammed the car door shut. Today she was heading back to the witch again; there were many issues to discuss. How to set herself up in a new role so her department ran smoothly without being constantly overloaded with impossible tasks. Her neck had been hurting for ages; the manualtherapy course hadnt helped. Should she push the older son into competitive sports, or let him just draw? And Tom he seemed both present and absent in their lives.
Cant recognise you any more, the witch said, eyes twinkling.
Why? Emily asked, surprised that nothing dramatic had shifted. Shed switched jobs, but that felt like just another tick on a list, not a life overhaul.
What questions have brought you here today? the witch prompted.
My back hurts, my neck, work, my son, and Tom, Emily answered.
The witch smiled. You came to me with your whole life. Your illness, your marriage theyll both start to fade. Soon it wont matter where Tom is, who hes with, whether he chats with an old flame. One day youll forget the question Do I still matter to him? and the worry about keeping the family together. Therell be a different path, a place to go, people to be with. But that wont happen in a day.
The matches flickered again.
Let him draw, the witch advised.
And work? Emily asked.
Set clear tasks, and youll get clear answers. They cant read your mind.
The more interesting your life becomes, the more hell cling to the shadow of it. Hes only a shadow while theres sunlight. No sun, no shadow. The brighter the sun, the sharper the shadow. Got it?
Emily nodded.
Thanks, she said.
Not quite done yet. Put a tennis ball between a wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll sort your vertebrae, the witch instructed.
Thanks again, Emily muttered, halfsmiling at the absurdity. A tennis ball? The manual therapist had cost a small fortune and did nothing; perhaps this cheap ball would help. What else was there but to live her own life?
Days turned into weeks, seasons cycled winter, spring, summer, and the golden autumn again. At the start of the new school year Emily enrolled her son, Danny, in an art class. He began drawing, and Emily felt a sharp sting of embarrassment for never having noticed his talent. Dannys work started appearing in local childrens exhibitions. He abandoned tablets and phones, devoting his free time to brushes and paint.
In her office Emily bought a whiteboard and markers, writing tasks and deadlines each morning. Those goals soon stopped being merely written; they became reality. There were complaints and grumbles behind her back, but the work moved forward, and that was what mattered.
Emily started running staff training sessions. First as a hobby, then as an expert lecturer. The workshops brought in earnings comparable to a solid salary.
One week a bouquet of red roses arrived, no note attached. She assumed it was Toms surprise, though she never guessed his hand.
Nice, isnt it? she whispered to the empty room.
She waited an hour for a reply that never came, then simply wrote, Thank you. She loved chrysanthemums, their bitter sharp scent now they were in season, but Tom never remembered that. In his routine, all women liked roses.
Outside, a brilliant autumn sun shone, lighting up the scarlet and amber maple leaves that twirled down the lane beside her office. Emily breathed in the fresh air through the wide-open window, shaking off the thought that she couldnt do things on her own. She had finally reclaimed her freedom.
And, as it turned out, that tennis ball really did help.
