My Husband Left Me at 54

« You are tired. You’ve been tired for years. »

I wanted to scream that, of course, I was tired. I’d been carrying our whole life on my back while he scrolled through his phone. Instead, I just nodded once, like a woman accepting a delivery she hadn’t ordered.

« And what was I doing, Howard? »

Howard zipped the suitcase. The sound was small and final.

« I’ll come back for the rest, » he said.

« Okay. »

That was all I gave him. One word. He looked almost disappointed, as if he’d wanted a fight to make himself the victim.

The house got loud after he left. Not noisy loud, but the subtle kind made by every clock, pipe, and settling beam.

I moved through the house like a ghost, wore the same sweater for three days, and ate the occasional slice of dry toast standing over the sink because sitting at the table felt like pretending.

That was all I gave him.

I even stopped passing the hallway mirror, or any mirrors, and started taking the long way around through the laundry room instead, because I didn’t want proof that Howard might’ve been right.

Steve called on the fourth day.

« Mom, Dad told me. »

« I figured. »

« I don’t know what to say. »

« You don’t have to say anything, honey. »

My son was quiet for so long, I thought the line had dropped.

Then he asked, « Are you eating? »

« Yes, » I lied.

I even stopped passing the hallway mirror.

« Okay. Good. I love you, Mom. »