After ending the call, I returned to the kitchen. Ethan showed me the bird he had drawn. I told him it was beautiful, and a small smile appeared on his face.
For one peaceful moment, the kitchen felt like it belonged to the two of us.
Then Richard came downstairs carrying a duffel bag I had never seen before.
He placed it beside Ethan’s chair.
“Our son needs to learn how to be a man,” Richard announced. “He has until noon to leave.”
My spoon fell into my coffee.
“Richard, no. He’s still our child.”
“He’s eighteen,” Richard replied. “Adults don’t hide behind their mothers.”
Ethan stared at the bag. His face was pale, but he slowly stood.
“I’ll never forgive either of you,” he said.
Then he looked at me.
“And you, Mom—you let him do this.”
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.
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