Evelyn stared at the flickering matchsticks in the womans palm. The witchlike figure lit them, snuffed them out, and repeated everything Evelyn had heard whispered to herself for years. From the dull, unrelenting ache, the hopelessness, the constant urge to howl like a wolf, she finally mustered the courage to see the witch.
She felt she had just survived the biggest tragedy of her life. Her husband, Tom, had walked out, taking the two kids with him. He did return about four months later, and for a while it seemed things were back on track. In truth, a massive crack had already appeared. Evelyn and Tom drifted farther apart with every passing day.
At first Evelyn wept, longing for the days when Tom would text Hows your day? and Sleep well. Then a cold desire for revenge crept in. She imagined Tom suffering as badly as she had, even picturing a bus knocking him over. Eventually she stopped caringabout herself, about Tom, about where he was or when he might come back. She even caught herself not caring about the children anymore.
Then a heavy, grey cloud of pain settled over her, choking her thoughts. Despair after despair. She tried to push it away, to catch a breath, but it returned with renewed force. One illness after another piled up. A cyst appeared under a tooth, forcing extraction and a pricey implant that cost a small fortune in pounds. Her eyesight suddenly blurred. While strolling through a park on a perfectly flat pavement, she tripped, breaking her arm in three places. In that moment Evelyn decided enough was enough; she didnt want to drive herself to the afterlife ahead of schedule.
Nothings cursed you, the witch said, handing over a box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Dont blame the stars. Its your husband whos selfish, only looking at himself. Everything youre going through is of your own making. Hes stuck in his own head, thinking only of himself, and hell never leave. Hes a coward, and theres no room for him now.
What am I supposed to do? Evelyn asked.
Live. Live your own life, the way you want it, for yourself.
Evelyn got up, her head feeling like a lump of iron. Live easy for you to say.
Here, take this. Light a candle when you feel sick, and drink the water, the witch instructed.
Thanks, Evelyn said, stepping out into the street. A lump rose in her throat as the same refrain echoed in her mind: its not the witch, its Tom. After twelve years together, after everything theyd endured.
That evening she sat down with a notebook. Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? Her pen stopped at the question marks. Shed always wanted the same things as the kids: a day at the seaside, a trip to the waterpark, a visit to the local playroom, or at least a swing set in the garden. Toms wishes had been a flatpacked sofa, a new car, a weekend at his mums in the neighbouring county, a balcony remodel, latenight movies, or camping in the woods.
What did she want, truly, for herself? What lived beyond Toms and the childrens interests? She realised shed dissolved into family life over the years, her own goals vanished. After half an hour of staring at the page, she scribbled a few aims:
I want to jog in the morningsfind the time and the energy.
I want a new jobbe a manager and earn a decent salary, grow professionally.
I want to lose seven kilos.
I want a nice coat.
I want my own house.
I want calm, healthy relationships with my kids.
I want a hobby that brings me joy.
She exhaled, closed the notebook, and glanced over at Tom, slumped on the sofa, halfheartedly scrolling on his laptop. Your husband, right? the voice of the witch echoed in her head.
She slammed the car door shut. Today she was heading back to the witch for more advicehow to set herself up at the new job so her team wouldnt be drowning in impossible tasks, how to finally cure her stubborn neck pain (manual therapy had done nothing), whether to enroll her older son in a sports club or let him paint. And, of course, what to make of Tom, who seemed both present and absent.
People change, but you havent really changed, Tom muttered when she mentioned the meeting.
What do you mean? Evelyn asked, bewildered.
Just its the same old you.
So, what did you bring to the witch today?
My back hurts, my neck, work, my son, Tom, she answered. The witch smiled.
Youve come with your whole life. Your husbands grip will loosen little by little. Soon you wont care whether hes with an ex or a new flame. One day youll forget the question Do I matter to him? and focus on where youre going, who youre meeting. That wont happen overnight, but it will happen.
The matchsticks flickered again.
Let the kids draw, the witch said.
And work?
Set clear tasks, then youll get clear answers. No one reads your mind.
Your husband will cling tighter the more you bloom. Hes just a shadow; it only appears when theres light. No light, no shadow. The brighter the light, the sharper the shadow. Got it?
Evelyn nodded.
Thanks.
Dont forget the tennis ball, the witch added. Put it between the wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll straighten you out.
Thanks, Evelyn muttered, halflaughing at the absurdity. A tennis ball, not expensive therapy, would be her cure. What else was there but to live her own life?
Seasons slipped bywinter, spring, summer, then a golden autumn. At the start of the school year Evelyn enrolled her son, Jack, in an art class. He took to painting like a fish to water, and Evelyn felt a pang of shame for never noticing his talent. Jacks pieces soon appeared in local and county childrens exhibitions. He abandoned video games, devoting every spare minute to brush and palette.
Evelyn bought a whiteboard and markers for her home office, writing tasks and deadlines every morning. Over time the meetings became routine, and the occasional grumbling from Tom faded into the background. She launched training workshopsfirst as a hobby, then as a certified instructor. The sessions began to pay a salary comparable to her managerial role.
One week a bouquet of red roses arrived, no card, no name. Likely a surprise from Tom, she thought. She thanked him with a polite Thanks, though she never did find out who sent them. Evelyn preferred chrysanthemums, their sharp, bitter scent, perfectly in season now. Tom, true to his habit, always assumed women liked roses.
The office window framed a brilliant autumn sun, its light spilling over maple leaves that swirled down the lane outside. Evelyn inhaled the fresh air deep into her lungs, shaking off the lingering thought that she couldnt achieve anything on her own. She had finally claimed her freedom.
And, as it turned out, the tennis ball worked wonders.
