His words hurt because they were true.
I stepped between them and begged Ethan to wait while I spoke to his father. But Ethan had heard me make promises before. He knew I would plead, Richard would refuse, and eventually I would become silent again.
“There’s nothing left to discuss,” he said.
He went upstairs, changed his clothes, and returned with the duffel bag over his shoulder. When I reached for his sleeve, he pulled away.
The front door closed quietly behind him.
“Bring him back,” I demanded. “Where is he supposed to go?”
“He’ll figure it out,” Richard replied, pouring himself more coffee. “That’s the point.”
For the first week, I called Ethan every day. During the second week, I told myself he needed space, but I continued calling.
He never answered.
I left messages asking only whether he was safe and eating properly. I sent photographs of his old sketchbooks and recipes for his favorite meals. I texted him on holidays and his birthday.
Nothing came back.
Richard refused to let me mention Ethan at dinner.
“He’s our son,” I said one evening.
“He was our son when he lived under this roof.”
I swallowed every response that rose inside me, just as I had done throughout our marriage.
A year passed.
While Ethan remained missing from my life, Richard’s behavior became increasingly suspicious. There were more late work dinners, more hidden phone calls, and restaurant receipts from places he had never taken me. His phone was always turned face down.
Caroline noticed how exhausted and defeated I sounded.
“You need to understand your options,” she told me. “I know a divorce lawyer. You don’t have to do anything yet. Just speak to someone.”
I wrote the lawyer’s name on the back of a grocery list and hid it in a drawer.
Then, one rainy Thursday afternoon, someone knocked on my front door.
When I opened it, the life I had known ended.
Part 2: The Suitcase of Secrets
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