this.
Maybe not for months.
Maybe not even for days.
But long enough to take what he thought he would need.
I stood in our bedroom staring at his half-empty closet while three newborn babies slept in carriers behind me.
My knees gave out.
I sat on the floor.
Nora crouched beside me.
“He’ll call,” I whispered.
I don’t know whether I was telling her or myself.
“He has to.”
He didn’t.
I called him seventy-three times during the next four days.
I sent messages.
Adam, please tell me you’re safe.
Please come home.
We can talk.
I’m scared.
The babies need you.
I need you.
Then, eventually:
If you don’t want me anymore, at least tell me why.
Nothing.
His phone was disconnected before the end of the week.
And that was how my marriage ended.
Not with a fight.
Not with divorce papers.
Not even with a goodbye.
