My oldest daughter Margot appeared in the doorway, holding a basket of laundry. She is the kind of teenage girl who notices everything.
“Mom?” she asked softly. Her eyes shifted to her father. “Dad, are you going somewhere?”
I answered before he could.
“Go check if George washed his hands, sweetheart.”
“Mom…”
“Margot, please.”
She hesitated, then walked away with the basket. I could hear her footsteps slow on the stairs.
Evan picked up the suitcase. He did not say goodbye to her. He did not say goodbye to any of the children.
I did not scream. I did not beg. I sat very still on the nursery floor, one hand resting on my belly, and I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
Then the front door closed.
The baby kicked again, gently this time.
“I know, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I know.”
The First Long Night
That night, I slept on the couch in the living room. The stairs felt impossibly tall, and my body simply could not climb them.
The children needed dinner. Marcus couldn’t find his school folder. Phoebe cried softly over a broken toy. Elliot spilled milk across the kitchen counter.
