Still, I did not sleep easily that night. I wondered whether Sarah was safe, whether she had food, whether somebody knew where she had parked. I also wondered whether those questions were a way of persuading myself to reenter the relationship. In the morning I sent a brief message through a mutual acquaintance I trusted, asking only that someone make sure she knew about local housing and employment resources, then I returned to my work.
I did not contact Sarah directly. I wanted her to have help if she needed it, but I knew the difference between helping someone find support and agreeing to become their sole support again. That difference had cost me years to understand. It did not become easy simply because I could finally put it into words.
Carol called on a Thursday morning while I was working from home. I did not recognize the number, and I answered because I thought it might be a client returning a call. Her voice was so familiar that I knew who she was before she introduced herself, but she spoke with a careful sweetness I had only heard when she wanted to ask for a favor. "Hello, sweetheart," she said. "It's Carol. Sarah's mother."
I sat back in my chair and looked at the spreadsheet on my screen. I had a meeting in twenty minutes and a dozen other things I was supposed to be thinking about. "Hello, Carol," I said. "Is everyone all right?"
She told me Sarah was not doing well. Her voice shook as she described the lost job, the trouble with the apartment, and how frightened she was that Sarah might make another bad decision. I listened, because I had known Carol for years and because she was a mother who was scared for her daughter. When she paused, I said I was sorry to hear it and hoped Sarah had people helping her find somewhere safe to stay.
"That's why I'm calling," Carol replied. "She needs you right now."
I closed my eyes. The sentence could have come from any of a hundred conversations in our old apartment, when Sarah's distress had been treated as an emergency requiring me to rearrange my life. I asked Carol what she wanted from me. She hesitated and said that perhaps I could meet Sarah, help her settle down, and give the relationship another chance once things were less emotional.
"Sarah told me we were over," I said. "She said she was going to meet another man. She laughed while she told me."
"I know what she said," Carol answered. "She didn't mean it. She's impulsive. You know how she gets when she's upset."
I looked toward the small painting drying on my windowsill. "I do know," I said. "That's part of why I left."
Carol sighed. She told me that four years ought to count for something, that people who truly love one another do not walk away when things become difficult, and that Sarah would never have let me sleep in my car. The accusation stung because I had spent years showing up whenever Sarah needed help, and I recognized how little any of that history mattered once I stopped. I asked Carol whether she had offered Sarah a room in her home.