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***
A week ago, I’d stepped into our bedroom and caught him packing.
« You’re really leaving me? » I’d said.
Thomas was also gone now.
« I can’t stay here, » he answered. « Every time I walk past that door, I feel like I’m being buried alive. »
« He was your son, Thomas. »
« That’s exactly why I can’t look at any of it. »
He zipped up his suitcase.
« So you’re walking away… from him. From me. Two weeks after we buried him. »
« I can’t stay here, »
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