“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.
