“Divorce.”
Claire did not move.
For one suspended second, the refrigerator hummed, the baby breathed against her neck, and the kitchen light buzzed above them. Ryan stood in the doorway like a man waiting for a performance — tears, begging, panic, something he could later use as proof.
So she gave him nothing.
She shifted her baby higher on her shoulder, turned off the burner, set down the spoon, and walked past him down the hallway.
That was the first moment Ryan looked unsure.
In the bedroom, Claire pulled out an old suitcase and packed with steady hands.
Diapers. Formula. Baby clothes. A clean blouse. Flat shoes. The hospital blanket. Her passport. Their son’s birth certificate. Cash.
Ryan appeared at the door.
“Where are you going?”
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