Frank Bennett should arrive home around two o’clock in the morning. His truck rolls into the loading dock in about an hour. I gleaned all I could about his comings and goings from my brother-in-law who hauls for the same company. That’s how I calculated the timing for our rendezvous.

Gazing out my bedroom window, a full moon illuminates the night showcasing the snow on the lawn below. This must have been what inspired Clement Moore to write in his famous fable about a night before Christmas. It appears midday to me too; magical, reflecting the feelings inside me.

I pull away from the window and lie down on the bed fully clothed. The clock warns of the time. Paul’s promotion last year requiring him to travel has been perfect timing. He would never allow what I’m about to do. I haven’t been much of a wife since haunting childhood memories erupted in my brain like Mount Vesuvius. For a time I experienced a free fall into a deep abyss. But vengeance is a great equalizer and has catapulted me back out into the world.

It’s time to go. I take Paul’s handgun and place it in my purse. My black Suburban awaits in the driveway like a chariot. I squeeze the key in the ignition turning it slowly and back out the driveway of our two-story townhome. My trusty vehicle rolls silently through vacant streets to its destination crunching on white-covered roads stealth-like while blinking yellow streetlights nod in approval.

Arriving at Frank Bennett’s house, I park on the opposite side of the street and wait for the first sign of headlights. I settle in and feel the control. Two o’clock comes and goes. Clumps of snow fall off the bark of a nearby tree. And then, I see lights. Behind the lights I see a truck. The truck pulls into the driveway as my personal flapdragon.

A man emerges slowly from his pick-up, his crew-cut now a bald head. As he maneuvers along a path to his front porch, I open my car door and step out onto the curb exposing myself to a street light. Fixing my eyes on him, I slam the car door and walk across the street and up to his house. He wavers, cradling a large thermos bottle, glaring back at me squinting in the moonlight.

“Frank Bennett?” I yell from a safe distance, my hand in my purse.

Startled, he yells back, “Who wants to know? What do you want?”

I forgive you, Frank Bennett. I silently pray. I forgive you. A millstone magically appears around his neck. Believing God’s promises, the little girl smiles and he’s cast into the sea. Without saying a word, smiling, I turn to go. Who I am and what I want—accomplished. For in the moonlight and falling snow, I took back my power, in a magical fable of my own.