Back at home, the silence was suffocating. I found myself in Noah’s room, staring at his bed. His favorite blanket was crumpled in the corner, and his toys were scattered like he had just been playing with them. Everything was still, too still, as if the house itself knew what had happened.
I sank to the floor, clutching his blanket to my chest. The pain was so deep, I could barely breathe. My heart felt like it had been ripped out and stomped on. “Why did you leave me?” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “Why did you have to go?”
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in my grief, when I heard the front door open. Damon was home. I wiped my face quickly, trying to pull myself together, but it didn’t matter. The ache in my chest was still there, gnawing at me.
He walked past Noah’s room without a glance, without a word. Just like that, like I didn’t exist. Like our son didn’t exist. The anger that had been simmering beneath my sadness bubbled up. He hadn’t been there when Noah and I needed him, and now he was acting like nothing had happened.