Back at the house, I moved through the rooms mechanically, packing my belongings into a single suitcase. I avoided looking at the bed, the couch, the dining table—all the places where our life together had unfolded.
By the time I arrived at the airport, the sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the bustling terminal. There was no dramatic goodbye. No lingering words or farewells. Just the sound of my suitcase wheels rolling across the polished floor. I was ready to leave everything behind.
However, my phone buzzed with a notification just as I was about to board my flight. It was a message from my ophthalmologist: [No idea what's gotten into your husband. He beat up the obstetrician and has been taken away by the police!]
