One Light, Two Turns, and a Muffin

This story is by Elise Luce and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Cars raced through the yellow light before it switched to red. I stopped, glimpsed green to my right, and turned left. Horns blared; tires screeched, but I kept driving.

A block later, blue lights flashed in my rearview. My stomach sank as I pulled over. The unmarked police car closed in behind me. An officer in plain clothes stepped out, approached my window, and displayed her badge.

“Lady, wake up and smell the coffee! You ran the light. You could’ve killed someone. License and registration.”

“I’m sorry,” I said out of habit, handing them over with a trembling hand.

“Heck, you could’ve killed yourself!” Her eyes flicked to the two empty car seats. “Do you want your kids growing up without their mother?”

I gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Thinking back, I’d cut left, distracted by thoughts of driving off the nearest bridge. How close had I come?

“Look, Lady, my shift’s over, and I don’t want to spend the morning filing paperwork. From one mother to another—pay attention! Consider this your warning.”

Once she drove off, I relaxed—for a second. Late! I texted my boss and checked the mirror. Great. A sticky handprint on my cheek and banana mashed in my hair.

Twenty minutes later, my boss’s concerned stare followed me down the hallway. I glanced down and froze—one black shoe, one navy. Perfect.

I shoved my shoes under my desk and hit “Do Not Disturb.” My inbox overflowed, but I just stared at the screen, numb.

Nobody sent me the memo. Turned out, “having it all” really meant doing it all—cook, housekeeper, caregiver, breadwinner. No time to breathe. I lived like an actor, playing more roles than Meryl Streep, but without the applause, just following the script.

My husband? He was a stand-in, stepping up only when asked—and even then, he’d call me for instructions. We married in our twenties—romance, logistics, momentum. Tick tock. The vows blurred, in sickness, for worse, until death, blah blah blah, and I’d been paying for it ever since. We should’ve ended things years ago, but once the kids came, that ship sailed. And money? Gone as soon as we made it, mostly on his hobbies.

At 36, I felt more like 50—worn out and aging fast. At this pace, I’d be lucky to see my kids graduate. What kind of example was I setting? Running on fumes, always coming up short.

But divorce meant disaster, and fears of starting over paralyzed me. The kids would ping-pong between homes, and I’d get the blame. I’d wear that burden like a scarlet “D,” forever branded by the disgrace of a broken home and a failed marriage.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood at my boss’s door, hand hovering near the knob, sweat trickling down my face. Could I really walk out after all these years?

I had to—for my children, my marriage, my future self.

“I quit.”

My boss’s pen froze. “You… what?”

“I quit,” I repeated. “I’m done.”

He stared, bewildered. Then begged me to reconsider.

“I’m sorry,” I turned and walked out.

Quitting felt crazy, but also like freedom. I hadn’t been this free in years. Outside, the sky seemed brighter, my steps lighter.

But as the adrenaline wore off, reality struck. Bills, insurance, groceries. Panic twisted my stomach, and by the time I got home, I was hunched over, throwing up in my front hedges.

Once inside, I brushed my teeth, changed clothes, and sat. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. My mind reeled—we needed cash now! So, I called customer service to withdraw my 401(k). Shirley answered.

“So, why are you cashing this out today?” she asked, cheerful as ever.

“I quit my job to focus on my family.”

“Oh, well, congratulations!” she chirped.

“Congratulations?”

“Yes! It’s wonderful how you’re prioritizing your kids.”

“Sure,” I said, forcing a laugh as I hung up. Had it really come to this? Begging for my own money while getting Shirley-shamed for being a working mom?

The next day, I applied for part-time jobs with flexible hours, and within a month, I was a barista at a coffee shop. It wasn’t glamorous, but it came with healthcare. Managing million-dollar projects felt like a lifetime ago. Now, I apologized for cold cappuccinos.

I liked the work, but whenever a familiar face showed up, my dignity took a hit. Just last week, a former VIP client came in. He glanced up at the menu, then down, and his eyes landed on me. I ducked behind the counter.

“You work here now?” Eyebrows raised, a grin playing on his lips.

Smiling, “Yep, multi-talented.”

“Well, I always thought you had… hidden skills,” he said with a wink.

“Thanks. Now that I’m a milk foam expert, I just might start a consulting firm.”

He chuckled, leaning in. “Well, if you ever need a partner, you know how to reach me.”

Instead, I reached out to a neighbor—the kind you wave at but don’t really know. She needed a bookkeeper. The job paid enough, gave me flexibility, and I worked from home.

I served coffee in the mornings, shuttled kids in the afternoons, and crunched numbers after bedtime stories. The kids went to daycare less often, the house stayed cleaner, and microwaved mommy meals became occasional treats rather than daily staples. It was a constant loop, but setting my own schedule made the chaos worthwhile. For the first time in years, I could breathe.

But even with my new routine, my husband and I lived as strangers sharing a house. Six months after I quit, I was cleaning the kitchen—alone again—late at night. As usual, he sat on the couch, scrolling through Instagram. I’d tried everything to reignite a spark between us, but it was like starting a fire with wet matches. I’d strike one, watch it fizzle, and try again—always the same result.

“Can you grab the remote?” he asked, not looking up.

I froze, thinking of all the times I’d waited for him to step up—like the week I had the flu, and every night he still asked, “What’s for dinner?” For years, I convinced myself this was married life. I’d hoped, tried, and seduced—always the one making things work, like the little engine that should—because that’s what “good” wives and mothers were supposed to do.

But then, something snapped. I wasn’t just holding down the fort; I was holding up the whole damn castle. A dull ache spread through my chest. It struck me all at once: this relationship drained me—it erased every bit of my hope. The thought stung like a snake bite.

“Do we have any plans this weekend, or can I just chillax? I want to hit the gym,” he said.

The nerve! I hadn’t had time to shower, much less exercise, yet he never missed a workout. He wasn’t always like this—he used to make dinner, take the kids out for the afternoon. Now, he didn’t see me or my pain, and I was done pretending. I didn’t need a stand-in for my story; I wanted a real partner, a co-star. And if I couldn’t have that, I’d create my own happily ever after.

Years of frustration began bubbling up, but instead of anger, laughter spilled out—loud and uncontrollable, tipping into hysteria.

He looked up from his phone. “What’s so funny?”

“This isn’t working,” I said, still laughing.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Twelve years is enough. I’m done—I want out.”

That night, he left for a motel while I stayed in our haunted house. Ten days later, he signed a lease and moved out. Empty rooms echoed his absence as I cried myself to sleep. Within weeks, my sister cut me off, and I lost two friends. Sleepless nights followed, torn between relief and regret, as I wondered if I’d survive the storm. I did.

Money was tight, and even when some of my worst fears came true, I found the strength to move forward. My kids were thriving, growing up in two happier homes, and I began learning how to take care of myself—grateful for a fresh start.

The divorce papers arrived last week. When I opened the envelope, I realized that finding freedom wasn’t about quitting a time-sucking job or leaving an unhappy marriage. It was about creating a new life where I could flourish, and my children could, too.

Funny thing though—the officer who gave me that warning came into the coffee shop. She didn’t recognize me, but in appreciation, I handed her a complimentary muffin.

“You changed my life,” I said, tears welling up. “From one mother to another, I’m paying attention now. Thank goodness for second chances.”

Squinting, she brushed back her hair and pulled out an earbud.

“Lady, I just ordered a coffee.”