name is Laurel Bellamy. I’m thirty-four years old.
I married Grant when I was twenty-four. He was charming then. He sold commercial real estate, and he could make anyone laugh. He told me I was the kindest person he’d ever met. For a few years, I believed we were happy.
Nolan was born when I was twenty-six. He came early, in a snowstorm, and Grant drove us to the hospital at sixty miles an hour with the hazard lights on. I remember thinking, This man will always take care of
us.
EzoicI was wrong about that.
Two years ago, Grant left.
He didn’t yell or slam doors. He just packed. He took the espresso machine he’d bought himself for his birthday. He took the big television from the bedroom. He took the good kitchen knives, the leather couch, and most of the furniture that was worth anything.
He moved into a three-story townhouse in West Knoxville with a rooftop deck.
At the door, he hugged Nolan and said, “Daddy’s going to see you all the time, buddy.”
EzoicHe saw him
