“Get out,” he said quietly, his voice more painful than any shout.
“Please, Daniel,” I begged.
“Get out!” he shouted, his grief echoing through the room.
I spent the next week in a small motel near the hospital, receiving updates from Megan while Daniel refused to see me.
When Tyler was discharged, he insisted I stay with them in Chicago to help with Caleb, and Daniel was there as well, keeping his distance.
One night, I found him standing on the balcony, staring out at the city lights.
“I am leaving next week,” he said without turning around.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“I bought a cabin in Colorado years ago, thinking we might spend our retirement there together,” he replied calmly.
“Please take me with you, and we can try to fix this,” I said desperately.
He finally looked at me, and his eyes were empty.
“There is nothing left to fix,” he said quietly. “Everything we built was based on lies, and there is no foundation to rebuild from.”
“What about the love we shared?” I asked through tears.
“It was real,” he admitted softly. “But it belonged to people who did not truly exist.”
He left a few days later without saying goodbye, and I watched him walk away knowing he would never return.
Now I live alone in the house that once held our life together, and the silence feels heavier than ever before.
Tyler calls me regularly, and he still calls me Mom with the same warmth, but every time I ask about Daniel, the answer is always the same.
“He is doing fine,” Tyler says gently. “But he never asks about you.”
I sit in the quiet living room after those calls, listening to the ticking clock, understanding that this loneliness is not something that happened to me.
It is something I created.
