He used to walk through the back door exhausted from work and immediately pick Ben up.
Scoop.
Throw.
Shriek.
Every day.
Now that same man stood in front of me saying he wanted peace.
Before I could answer, Elliot appeared in the doorway.
Our oldest.
Sixteen.
Tall.
Quiet.
Far too observant for his own good.
“What’s going on?”
Daniel instantly changed expression.
The tired husband disappeared.
Dad appeared.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Elliot looked past him.
There was a suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.
Blue.
Packed.
Ready.
I hadn’t even noticed it.
“Are you leaving?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“Then why are you packed?”
Daniel walked into the hallway and picked up the suitcase.
“Elliot, later.”
“Are you leaving?”
Daniel didn’t answer.
Then Elliot said something that froze both of us.
“Is this about Aunt Claire?”
Daniel stopped moving.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t ask why Elliot would think such a thing.
He simply stood there.
I looked at my son.
“Why would you ask that?”
Elliot looked at the floor.
And that was when I realized I wasn’t the only person who had noticed something was wrong.
Daniel left anyway.
He walked out with the suitcase.
No goodbye to the younger boys.
No trip upstairs to Ben.
The front door slammed hard enough to shake the pictures on the wall.
And for one terrible second, I almost laughed.
Diapers.
Crying.
Bills.
Apparently those were now reasons to abandon a family.
I barely remember the next few hours.
I got Ben out of his crib.
Made boxed macaroni and cheese.
Answered questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Somewhere.”
“When is he coming home?”
I had nothing.
Then came bath time.
Seven boys.
Seven bedtime routines.
Seven goodnight kisses.
Seven versions of,
“I love you.”
One of the boys stopped me in the hallway.
“Mom, is Dad okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Nobody believed me.
After everyone was in bed, I called Claire.
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