“I made your favorite dinner.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Is there someone else?”
His hands stopped for one second.
Then he zipped the suitcase.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“You spend too much time locked inside.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Locked inside.
As if I had chosen this.
As if I were ashamed for no reason.
As if the woman standing in front of him hadn’t received these scars saving his life.
He picked up the suitcase.
“Derek.”
He stopped.
“Do you still love me?”
He didn’t answer.
Then he walked out.
I stood there until the apartment door closed.
Two plates waited on the dining table.
Steam still rose from the potatoes.
I didn’t cry immediately.
I sat down.
I stared at his untouched chair.
Then I called my father.
