He didn’t sound ashamed. That was what stunned me most. He sounded relieved, like someone who had escaped a burden.
The kids were in the living room. The older ones were arguing about a video game. Our youngest lay on the floor coloring, her feet kicking behind her.
Daniel walked past all of them, opened the front door, and left.
He didn’t say goodbye to a single one.
The days afterward blurred together.
Eight children don’t pause their lives just because yours has collapsed. Lunches still needed to be packed. Homework still had to be checked.
Our youngest climbed into my bed every night asking the same question: “Where’s Dad?”
In the evenings, the younger kids rotated through the same question: “When’s Dad coming home?”
I never had a real answer. I repeated variations of “I’m not sure, buddy,” and “Let me think about it and we’ll talk,” hoping to buy another day.
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