He exhaled impatiently. “I just want peace for once.”
It wasn’t just that he was leaving—it was that he had already turned our life into something unbearable in his mind.
Margot appeared in the doorway, holding a basket of folded laundry.
“Mom?” she said, then looked at him. “Dad? Are you going somewhere?”
I answered before he could. “Go check if George washed his hands, honey.”
She hesitated.
“Margot.”
She swallowed. “Okay.”
Evan picked up his suitcase.
I didn’t shout. I stayed on the nursery floor, one hand resting on my belly, listening to him walk out of a room we had painted together just days earlier.
Continue on the next page:
