“When?”
“Now.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You already packed?”
His jaw tightened.
Of course he had.
The clothes. The message. None of this was impulsive. Every bit of it had been arranged beforehand.
“You were planning to leave,” I said slowly, “without even saying goodbye to the kids?”
“They’ll be fine. I’ll send money.”
My hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
“Money,” I echoed. “Rose is going to ask where her pancakes are tomorrow morning. You think a bank transfer answers that?”
He shook his head. “I’m not doing this.”
Then he turned and went upstairs.
I followed.
Because there was no way I was letting him vanish from our family like a ghost slipping down the hallway.
The door to our bedroom stood open. His suitcase rested on the bed, already half-zipped, clothes folded far too carefully for someone who had just decided to walk out.
“You were never going to tell me, were you?” I asked.
“I was.”
“When? After the hotel? After the pictures showed up online?”
He didn’t reply.
I stood in the doorway, shaking. “You could have told me you were unhappy.”
“I am telling you,” he snapped. “I’m choosing my happiness.”
“And what about ours?”
His back remained turned, shoulders rigid.
“I can’t do this with you, Paige,” he said. “You make everything messy.”
Something inside me finally snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight.
“No, you made it messy the moment you started seeing someone else.”
He said nothing. He pulled the suitcase past me and walked out.
I didn’t run after him.
Instead, I stood at the window and watched his taillights fade down the street without slowing once.
Then I went downstairs, locked the door, and let the weight of everything he hadn’t said crash over me.
“Okay,” I murmured into my clenched hand. “Okay. Just breathe.”
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