Instead, he walked out of the kitchen.
Two months later, he left us.
There was another woman. She was younger than my mother, and my father had been seeing her before he packed his belongings.
He told relatives that he had suffered enough, that our marriage had become too difficult, that he needed a fresh start.
When someone asked why he was leaving a wife who had survived such a terrible injury, he gave them the same answer.
“I just can’t look at her anymore.”
I was eleven years old when he carried his suitcases to the car.
I followed him to the front door.
“Are you coming back?”
He crouched in front of me and straightened the collar of my shirt.
“Of course I’ll still see you, sweetheart.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His smile disappeared for a second.
Then he kissed my forehead.
“Be good to your mother.”