That night, after Emily went to bed, I told him I knew.
Apologies tumbled out: he was sorry; he loved me; it didn’t mean anything.
I handed him the duffel bag I’d already packed.
“You can explain it to your daughter tomorrow,” I said firmly. “But you won’t be staying here tonight.”
He left. I sat on the couch, not crying, just listening as the silence relearned my name.
A Daughter’s Understanding
The next morning, I sat Emily down. “We’re separating,” I said quietly.
She nodded, left the room, then came back and curled against me.
“I kind of knew,” she whispered. “The perfume. The weirdness.”
My heart cracked as she confessed her secret fear—that maybe his distance was her fault.
Her relief was silent, but I felt it in the way her shoulders softened against mine.
Building a New Life
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