Then, earlier this year, everything changed.
Dad fell ill—rapidly, unexpectedly. His strong, commanding voice grew hoarse. His energy vanished. He became irritable, snapping at the smallest things. And to my surprise, most of that anger was directed at Linda.
He scolded her for trivial things—how she folded his sweaters, how she seasoned the soup, how she opened the window “too wide.” At first, I thought it was the medication or the frustration of being ill. But it escalated.
Then, one weekend when my brothers visited with their families, it happened.
We were all sitting in the living room. The kids were playing, my brothers chatting. Linda brought in a tray of tea and cookies. That’s when Dad looked at her with eyes colder than I’d ever seen and said sharply:
“Linda, pack your things and get out.”
The room fell silent.
“What?” I asked, stunned.
He didn’t repeat it. He just stared at her.
Linda looked like someone had slapped her. But she didn’t argue. She set the tray down, went upstairs, and packed a small suitcase. I followed her, panicked, whispering, “What’s going on?” But she just smiled gently and said, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just… let it be.”
She left that day. Quietly. My heart ached watching her go.
