Chapter 2 - The Luggage and the Uber
I walked up the carpeted stairs to our master bedroom without looking back.
Behind me, the dining room remained quiet, broken only by the faint clatter of Tyler's fork against his plate. They thought I was going upstairs to cry. They thought I was going to shut myself in the bathroom, compose myself, and come back down to apologize for making a scene at the dinner table.
Instead, I pulled my heavy black hard-shell suitcase out of the walk-in closet.
I laid it open on the king-sized bed—the bed I had purchased when we bought the house—and began packing. I didn't grab everything. I grabbed what mattered: my work laptop, my personal tax documents, my birth certificate, my passport, my comfortable sweaters, my toiletries, and the small black-and-white printout of my first ultrasound scan that had been tucked inside my journal.
Seven years of marriage, condensed into fifty pounds of fabric and paper.
As I zipped the suitcase shut, I stood in the middle of the quiet room and looked around. The framed wedding photo on the nightstand showed two people who looked impossibly young—a smiling version of me who believed that love meant endless compromise, and a smiling version of Thomas who hadn't yet realized how comfortable it was to let his wife bear the weight of his entire family.
I took the framed photo, turned it face-down on the wooden nightstand, and picked up my suitcase.
When I rolled the bag down the stairs, the sound of the wheels clicking against the hardwood steps echoed through the lower floor.
Brenda was still sitting at the dining table, picking at the remains of the garlic salmon. Tyler was sipping a glass of iced soda, scrolling on his phone. Evelyn had turned on the living room television, the low background noise of a evening game show filling the hall.
Thomas was sitting exactly where I had left him, staring at the blank screen of my phone.
Nobody stood up. Nobody put out a hand to stop me. They believed this was a dramatic bluff—a temporary retreat of a hysterical, pregnant woman who would return in forty-eight hours once her anger cooled.
As I reached the front door, Brenda turned in her chair, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
"Don't come crawling back when you realize how expensive rent is on your own," she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy.
I stopped with my hand on the cold brass doorknob. I turned my head and looked at her—really looked at her—taking in the expensive gold necklace I had bought her for her forty-fifth birthday and the designer bag slung over the back of her chair.
"The day will come," I said softly, my voice dead calm, "when you regret saying that."
I opened the door, stepped out into the chilly autumn air, and pulled my suitcase behind me.
My Uber was already waiting at the curb, its headlights cutting through the evening fog. The driver got out, popped the trunk, and loaded my bag without a word. I slid into the back seat, pulled my phone from my purse, and opened my text messages with Thomas.
I typed out a single sentence: Send the divorce papers to my office address. I'll raise the baby myself.
His reply arrived less than ten seconds later: Fine. Stop being theatrical. We'll talk when you calm down.
I stared at his text, feeling a strange, distant sensation where my heart used to break. I opened the keypad and typed one final message before blocking his number:
Tyler's $5,000 tuition invoice for Saint Jude’s Academy is due next Tuesday. I've paid it for seven years. My bank account won't be on this one.
I turned the phone facedown on the leather seat beside me.
Not even three minutes passed before the phone began to vibrate violently against the leather.
Thomas Calling.
I ignored it.
A second later, a text popped up from a short-code system before I could silence the notifications: What do you mean YOU paid it?
Then another: Emma, answer your phone right now.
Then another: You can't just stop paying his tuition without warning. He's an honor student! Answer me!
I swiped the notifications away, opened my settings, toggled Do Not Disturb on, and leaned my head back against the cold glass of the car window.
May you like
As the streetlights of our suburban neighborhood dissolved into the highway lanes leading toward the airport, I closed my eyes and rested my hand flat over my lower stomach.
"It's just you and me now," I whispered to the dark interior of the car. "And we are going to be just fine."
