I waited.
He continued.
“The expenses.”
“The crying.”
“No sleep.”
“Three children at once.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
“Then why am I the one being left?”
He looked away.
That was my answer.
I whispered:
“Please don’t go.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
It was the last time I ever begged him for anything.
He said:
“I need this.”
Then he walked upstairs and finished packing.
Three days later, he kissed my forehead near the front door.
There were groceries in the refrigerator.
A neighbor had agreed to check on me.
Adrian had given me a list of delivery services as though that somehow turned abandonment into planning.
“I’ll call every day.”
I did not answer.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You are literally standing beside a suitcase.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
He picked up the bag.
“I’ll be back.”
Then he left.
The house became very quiet.
At first, I was furious.
Then frightened.
Then practical.
I arranged grocery delivery.
My mother visited whenever she could.
A neighbor collected packages.
I created a basket beside the couch with medication, water, phone chargers and snacks.
Every evening Adrian called from somewhere beautiful.
A ship deck.
A restaurant.
A port.
He always sounded distracted.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Babies okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Hey, I need to go. We’re heading to dinner.”
We.
I noticed the word.
