“Think about what?” My voice cracked. “Daniel, the baby is due in a few weeks.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
But he still couldn’t look at me.
For illustrative purposes only
I waited for him to explain, to say something that would make any of it make sense. Instead, he zipped the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Daniel, please,” I whispered. “Don’t do this right now.”
For a moment, he hesitated.
His shoulders stiffened like he might turn back. But then he opened the door and walked out.
The house fell silent.
The kind of silence that presses against your chest and makes every breath feel too loud.
I sat there on the couch for what felt like forever, my feet swollen, my back aching, my thoughts spiraling through every possible explanation. Had he stopped loving me? Was there someone else? Had I done something wrong?
But the house gave me nothing.
Only empty rooms and the steady ticking of the kitchen clock.
The next two weeks became the loneliest days of my life.
I called him over and over. Every call went straight to voicemail.
I texted:
Please talk to me.
Are you okay?
We need to figure this out.
Nothing.
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