The note was brief. An apology. A goodbye. A promise that she could not stay anymore. And a single line that made my stomach turn, telling me to speak with my mother for answers.
Earlier that morning, the house had been full of sound and movement. My wife stood at the counter, hair pinned up, a smudge of frosting on her cheek as she decorated the cake. It was uneven and imperfect, exactly the way Evie wanted it. Our daughter sat at the table coloring, humming along happily.
“Do not forget,” my wife called to me, smiling as she worked. “She wants the doll with the sparkly wings.”
I promised her I would find it. I kissed them both and walked out the door, thinking I was stepping away from something solid and safe.
The trip to the store felt longer than usual. The crowds were loud and impatient. I moved carefully, easing my weight as I walked, aware of the dull ache that followed me on days when I pushed myself too hard. Standing in line with the brightly colored toy tucked under my arm, my thoughts drifted back to years I rarely revisited.
There had been a time when my body felt unfamiliar to me, when I had to relearn balance and patience. Recovery had tested every part of me, not just physically but emotionally. Some days were harder than others. Some days I questioned whether I would ever feel whole again.
My wife had been there through all of it. She had held my hand when frustration took over. She had promised, again and again, that we would figure things out together. And for a long time, we did.
By the time I drove home, the sun was already starting to dip behind the trees. Our neighbor mentioned seeing my wife leave earlier, saying she had asked her to keep an ear out for Evie. She said it all so casually that it took me a moment to understand what she was implying.
The silence inside the house confirmed what my heart already suspected.
After reading the note, I strapped my still-sleepy daughter into her car seat and drove to my mother’s house. She opened the door before I knocked, her face pale, as if she had been expecting me.
The conversation that followed was one I never imagined having. Pieces of the past came together in ways that felt both shocking and painfully clear. My mother explained that my wife had been carrying a burden of uncertainty and fear for years. Choices made during a lonely chapter of our lives had grown into secrets that weighed heavily on her.
She believed she was protecting me. She believed silence was safer than honesty.
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