I begged him to explain why.
***
Marcus moved into a rental across town within the week, but he still came by for mail, and for the pieces of a life he was carefully unstitching. Every time he did, I’d ask him again.
In the driveway or on the phone.
“Please, Marcus. Just tell me what happened. Was it me? Was it something I did?”
“Let it go, Eleanor. We’ve drifted apart and are different.”
Always the same words. Almost rehearsed.
“Let it go, Eleanor.”
***
My estranged husband said the same thing to our daughter, Chloe, when she called him, sobbing so hard.
“Dad, that isn’t a reason! That’s a bumper sticker!”
He’d said it to my sister, Diane. To our neighbors. To the pastor. To anyone who asked.
And nobody believed him.
Neither did I.
“That’s a bumper sticker!”
I kept turning it over in my mind, searching for the missing piece.
