He kept going. “When was the last time you even put on real clothes? Or wore something that wasn’t stained?”
“You don’t see yourself anymore.”
My breath hitched. “So that’s it? You’re bored? You found someone with better leggings and tighter abs, and suddenly the last sixteen years are, what? A mistake?”
“You’ve let yourself go,” he said flatly.
That landed like a slap.
I blinked, slow and furious. “You know what I’ve let go of? Sleep. Privacy. Hot meals. Myself. I let myself go so you could chase promotions and sleep in on Saturdays while I kept our house and kids from catching on fire.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?” I snapped.
“You’ve let yourself go.”
“Turn everything into a list of sacrifices. Like I should be grateful you chose to be tired.”
“I didn’t choose to be tired, Cole. I chose you. And you made me a single parent without even bothering to close the fridge.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue.
Then he closed it again. Picked up the bottle, and set it down.
“I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Now.”
I laughed, short and mean. “You packed already?”
“I chose you.”
His jaw tensed.
Of course he had. The clothes. The message. This wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned.
“You were going to walk out,” I said slowly, “without even saying goodbye to the kids?”
“They’ll be fine. I’ll send money.”
My hand curled around the counter.
“Money,” I repeated. “Rose is going to ask where her pancakes are tomorrow. You think a direct deposit’s going to answer that?”
His jaw tensed.
He shook his head. “I’m not doing this.”
He turned, heading upstairs.
I followed.
Because there was no way I was letting him ghost a whole family from a hallway.
Our bedroom door was open. His suitcase was already halfway zipped, clothes folded too neatly for someone just deciding to leave.
“You were never going to tell me, were you?” I asked.
“I’m not doing this.”
“I was.”
“When? After the hotel? After the pictures were posted?”
He didn’t answer.
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