Your phone was sitting there, your bed was untouched, and it was almost 6 a.m. So I checked the cameras.”
She crossed her arms, jaw clenched tight. Silence stretched.
I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and placed it on the table.
Three numbers: a parenting support center, a therapist, and legal aid. “You’ve got two options,” I said steadily. “One: you get help.
I’ll support you. But you need to step up as their mom. No more disappearing.
No more sleeping until noon.”
She didn’t move. “Or two: you leave. But this time, I call child services.
I tell them everything I know, and they decide what happens next.”
She laughed bitterly. “You think I care? Go ahead.”
I met her eyes.
She held my gaze for a long, tense moment before finally looking away. That night, she packed a duffel bag. Quiet.
No yelling. No slamming doors. Just the soft zip of her suitcase and the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.
She didn’t say goodbye. Not to me. Not to the kids.
She didn’t even take her phone. She simply walked out, leaving the front door half open behind her. Later, I tucked Mason into bed.
He looked at me with wide, uncertain eyes. “Is Mom coming back?” he asked. I sat beside him.
“I don’t know, buddy.”
He nodded, like he’d already suspected that answer, then turned toward the wall. Lila clutched her bunny tighter. “I like it better when you make pancakes,” she whispered.
She nodded and curled into my lap. That night, I stood in the doorway of their rooms longer than necessary, just watching them breathe.
I didn’t call child services. Jenny was right—I’m not like that. But I also refused to let those kids get hurt again.
I never expected this. I buried my wife. I built a quiet life after.Continue reading…
