I picked up my phone. I pulled up his contact.
Then I locked the screen.
I got up, took my suitcase, and walked down the driveway.
No one stopped me.
At the corner, I called a cab.
The driver asked, “Where to?”
I said, “Anywhere cheap.”
He took me to a motel 10 minutes away.
I sat there in my blue dress with the gift bag on the chair and felt more tired than I had in years.
I didn’t turn my phone on that night.
Not when I washed my face.
Not when I lay down without changing.
Not when I woke up at three in the morning with my heart pounding.
I turned it on the next morning.
Twenty-seven missed calls.
A pile of texts.
Mom where are you?
Please answer.
Mom please.
Then one came through that made my chest tighten.
Mom, please answer. It was for you.
I stared at that for a long time.
Then another.
Linda was hanging the banner.
The kids were hiding in the den. Emma saw you leave from the window and now she won’t stop crying. Please, Mom.
Please come back.
My throat closed.
I read the texts again.
I wasn’t sending you away. I just wanted everything ready. I wanted it to be perfect.
Perfect.
Then the phone rang.
Nick.
I almost let it ring out.
Almost.
But hope is stubborn, even when it should know better.
I answered and said nothing.
“Mom?”
His voice sounded smaller than I remembered.
I still said nothing.
He let out a shaky breath.
“I messed up.”
I looked at the stained curtain and waited.
“I thought 15 minutes wouldn’t matter,” he said. “I thought you’d wait. I didn’t think…”
He stopped.
