To picture the quintessential New England suburb is to picture Autumn Lake, Maggie thought as Jerome pulled off the highway and, on a series of narrowing streets, eventually came to the town's edge. Idyllic, stately homes, painted either in white, or soft tones, hemmed them in.
Maggie was inherently mistrustful of towns like these, knowing all too well how people... like her have been shunned since time immemorial by these supposedly enlightened folk. Those who turn their noses up and think, well, yes, everyone deserves equal rights. Just... not here.
And yet, she couldn't deny the appeal, of these perfect little homes in their perfect little rows. People sought order, knowledge that they had a place in the world. She imagined here it would be easy to be a puzzle piece, to find your fit, and live simply.
Still, it pained her to see this was where Jerome settled. This Stepford paradise wasn't what she envisioned for the brilliant boy she raised. The sweet, empathetic child that she had never really known, and ultimately wounded so deeply.
As they pulled up into his drive way, a long, winding pebble lined strip, a white fence on either side with flower petals like purple and white teacups poking through the lattices, she wondered:
what part did her betrayal, her inability to accept and love Jer unconditionally, play in causing him to seek this easy comfort?
Even now, as he parked, he studiously ignored her scrutiny. And she knew: his facade of indifference hid a deep well of pain.
Even now, as he parked, he studiously ignored her scrutiny. And she knew: his facade of indifference hid a deep well of pain.
A screaming, agonizing nerve that she had burned all those years ago.
