The little note.
You don’t have to take care of everyone. Let me have a turn.
For some reason, those words suddenly embarrassed me.
I had been worried about a man who had apparently been planning to move his entire family across the country without telling me.
“How long has he known?”
Arnold didn’t answer.
“Arnold.”
He sighed.
“Months.”
My heart sank.
“How many?”
“About four.”
I stared at him.
Four months.
Four months of family dinners.
Four months of school meetings.
Four months of birthdays and grocery lists and bedtime conversations.
Four months of me asking Ben why he seemed distracted.
And every time, he’d said he was tired.
I swallowed.
“Where is his office?”
“Chelsea, maybe you should let him explain.”
“Where is he?”
Arnold finally pointed down the corridor.
I walked away.
I wasn’t running.
I wasn’t crying.
Not yet.
I simply walked.
Ben’s office door was partially open.
I pushed it wider.
And stopped.
His office was half empty.
Two bookshelves had been cleared.
Medical books were packed into cardboard boxes.
His desk drawers were open.
The framed photograph of me and Olive had been wrapped in newspaper.
The coffee mug Olive had painted for him when she was six was sitting inside a box.
