I’m Abigail, 36. Most people called me Abbie, except my mother, who liked “Abigail” when she wanted control.
My ex-husband is Joseph, 38.
My mother is Stella, 59.
He didn’t laugh back.
Joseph didn’t leave with therapy and “we need to talk.” He did it on a random Tuesday.
I came home from work, tossed my keys in the bowl, kicked my heels off.
There was a suitcase by the door.
I laughed.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
He didn’t laugh back.
“Is there someone else?”
“I’m done, Abby,” he said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Just like that. Eleven years, reduced to one sentence.
“You’re… what?” I asked.
He wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I need something else. I can’t breathe here.”
“Is there someone else?” I asked.
For two weeks, I made excuses for him in my own head.
He flinched but said nothing.
Then he picked up the suitcase and walked out.
No explanation. No apology. Just the door closing.
For two weeks, I made excuses for him in my own head.
Midlife crisis. Depression. Burnout.
Anything but what I already knew.
I had to sit down.
Then my cousin Lauren sent me a photo.
No text. Just the image.
They were at a wine bar. Stella in red, laughing. Joseph beside her, his hand on her knee. Her hand on his arm. Their bodies close in a way that wasn’t new.
My ears rang. I had to sit down because I thought I’d black out.
I encouraged it.
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