But tomorrow brought something worse.
I opened my bedroom door in the morning, ready to make coffee, and froze.
There, at the front door, were my two suitcases—packed neatly, every zipper closed. Inside were my clothes, my shoes, even the framed picture of my husband.
Melissa was tidying the sofa pillows, avoiding my gaze. David stood behind her, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“What… what is this?” I asked, though my voice already knew the answer.
Melissa didn’t look at me. “It’s best if you leave, Bertha. This isn’t working.”
David glanced up for half a second, then quickly looked away. His silence was deafening.
I felt my heart shatter, but I refused to show it. Instead, I forced a small smile, picked up my purse, and said, “I understand.”
Then I called a taxi and left.
As the cab pulled away from their house, I pressed my forehead against the window. My son. My own flesh and blood. How quickly he had turned away.
