The house was dim, except for the light coming from our bedroom down the hall.
I walked toward it, every step feeling heavier than the last. The door was nearly closed. I pushed it open.
No one spoke.
I set the bakery box down, hearing my own voice say something sharp and strange, as if it belonged to someone else. Then I turned around and walked out.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I just left.
My hands shook as I got into the car. I drove without knowing where I was going, needing distance more than direction. My phone buzzed again and again, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
By the time I stopped, I was sitting in a parking lot, breathing hard and staring straight ahead, trying to understand how the life I trusted had broken open so suddenly.
This was only the beginning.
