Tuesday night at almost 11 p.m. I was in pajamas, rubbing cocoa butter on my pregnant belly, when someone pounded on the door. It was my dad—pale, shaking, overnight bag in hand. He sat on the couch and said, “I’m leaving your mother. I can’t stay in that house anymore.” They’d been married 37 years. I was STUNNED. I pointed him to the guest room and said we’d talk in the morning. By morning, he was gone. Just a note on the counter: “Gone to the lake house. Don’t call.” His handwriting looked uncertain, as though he’d rushed to write the message. Something about it didn’t feel right, but I pushed the thought aside, telling myself he just needed space. Continue reading…
