He stared at me.
“You’d choose the house over me?”
“No,” I said. “I am choosing myself before there is nothing left of me to love you with.”
He wiped his face.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“You’re cruel.”
“No,” I said. “I’m late.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up his bag and walked away.
That night, after Rachel left, after the locksmith finished, after Samuel promised to call in the morning, I sat alone at the dining room table.
The house felt enormous.
For four years, I had mistaken noise for company.
The television blaring from Brian’s room. Melissa laughing on the phone. Doors slamming. Delivery drivers ringing the bell. People I never invited eating food I paid for.
I thought the noise meant I was not lonely.
But loneliness had been sitting beside me the whole time, quietly watching my son teach me to accept less and less.
