"This is a little money your father and I saved over the years. You'll need it—the lawyers, the fees... Take it, and if things get tight, tell your parents."
Forcing a smile, she added, "Son, I should go home. Your father's waiting for me to cook."
She patted my hand and walked toward the door.
I followed her to the gate and watched the front door slam shut behind her, locking me inside. The bank card burned in my palm like a live coal, setting every nerve on edge.
I wanted a divorce.
But I couldn't say that aloud. I couldn't tell my parents that after all their years of sacrifice, in Abigail's eyes, their devotion was nothing and worthless.
And among the things she thought worthless, I was included.
That night Abigail didn't come home. I didn't sleep in the master bedroom either.
I curled up on my daughter’s small bed, holding her tightly in my arms, and lay awake through the long night.
At dawn, I got up to make breakfast. Abigail opened the door and scanned the room; when she didn't see the child, she sat down.
Tapping her fingers on the table, she said, "We need to talk."