“We all agreed it made sense.”
“It did make sense. Then.”
His voice became more strained.
“Why are you talking like you’re leaving?”
I took a breath.
“Because I already did.”
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Then: “What?”
“I moved out Friday.”
“Moved where?”
“A temporary apartment.”
“You moved out while we were away?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, you can’t just—”
He stopped himself.
I waited.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“What did you take?”
“Things that belong to me.”
“What does that mean?”
“The blue sofa. My bedroom furniture. The sideboard. My dishes. Some other things.”
“The coffee maker?”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“It was mine.”
“You gave it to Rebecca.”
“I bought it for the household.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“No, Daniel. That sentence explains more than you realize.”
He exhaled.
“Can we talk when we get home?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come back to the house?”
“To talk. Yes.”
“To live.”
“I don’t know.”
That frightened him.
I could hear it.
And I understood why.
My leaving did not simply create an emotional problem.
It created practical ones.
Who would pick up Jack on Tuesdays?
