The hex wrench slipped from my wet palm and gouged a deep white scrape into the unfinished pine of the crib. My thumb was too swollen to grip the metal properly, and the wood glue was already setting in the wrong groove of the headboard.
Outside the nursery window, the wind from Oak Harbor carried the heavy scent of dried pine needles and damp soil. The house was quiet for once, but it was the heavy, waiting kind of quiet that usually meant someone was about to cry.
Margot stood in the doorway with a wicker basket
Margot stood in the doorway with a wicker basket of folded laundry balanced on her hip. She was fifteen, but she watched me with the steady, unblinking eyes of someone twice her age as she twisted the silver ring on her left thumb.
“You should sit down, Mom,” she said, her voice dropping into that quiet whisper she used when the younger kids were finally asleep. “Your back has been bothering you all morning.”
I reached behind myself, my left hand finding the dull ache in my lower spine and rubbing the tight muscle. The baby was due on November twelfth, exactly six weeks away, and every day felt like a mountain I had to climb with fifty pounds of wet sand strapped to my front.
“I just want to get this frame together before your father gets home,” I said, squinting at the photocopied instruction sheet. “He said he would help with the heavy bolts, but his meeting in Seattle ran late.”
Margot did not move from the doorway, her knuckles turning white against the plastic of the wicker basket. “He was not at a meeting.”
I paused, the small metal bolt still cold against my fingertips. “What do you mean?”
“I saw him in the grocery store parking lot at noon,” she said, looking down at the child’s blue jacket with the broken zipper resting on top of the laundry pile. “He was sitting in his car, just staring at his phone.”
I forced a small
I forced a small, patient smile and turned back to the pine crib. “He probably just needed a quiet minute, Margot. With seven of you in the house, quiet is hard to come by.”
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
My fingers went still against the unfinished wood
“He had the car packed, Mom,” she said.
My fingers went still against the unfinished wood. “Packed with what?”
“The grey leather bag from the closet,” she whispered.
She did not wait for me to answer, turning instead toward the linen closet down the hall with her basket.
The silence that followed was loud, broken only by the steady, rhythmic hum of our old refrigerator downstairs. I stayed on my knees for another minute, my hand pressing against the floorboards to support my weight as I tried to pull myself up.
A car door closed in the driveway, the sound muffled by the thick autumn air outside.
I walked out of the yellow nursery and made my way down the stairs, each step sending a sharp pinch through my pelvic bone.
Evan was standing in the center of the living room when I reached the bottom. He had set a grey leather suitcase on the patterned rug, and his hands were tucked deep into his pockets.
He did not look at me when I entered, his gaze fixed on the framed family portrait hanging above the mantelpiece.
“Where are the kids?” he asked, his voice coming out in a short, clipped tone that felt entirely wrong for our living room.
“They are at the park with Mary,” I said, staying near the edge of the rug. “Why do you have your suitcase out, Evan?”
He checked his gold watch
He checked his gold watch, the one his father had given him when he passed his licensing exam, turning his wrist twice to catch the light. “I need some space.”
“Space for what?” I asked, my voice remaining steady, though my fingers began to dig into the fabric of my sweater.
“I cannot do this,” he said, looking at the wall behind my shoulder instead of my face. “The noise. The bills. It is too much.”
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
“We spent sixty-eight dollars on groceries for the whole week, Evan,” I said, keeping my tone patient. “We are making it work.”
He let out a short, dry laugh that did not sound like him at all. “That is your calculation, Savannah. Not mine.”
“We have a baby coming in six weeks,” I said, my hand instinctively resting on my stomach. “We have seven children who need to eat.”
“I am suffocating here,” he said, his defensive sentence cutting through the room like a cold draft.
He checked his gold watch again, his fingers twitching against the metal band.
“You have a family, Evan,” I said. “We built this together.”
“I did not sign up for this level of chaos,” he said, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. “I have made other arrangements.”
“What arrangements?” I asked, but he was already picking up the grey suitcase by the leather handle.
He did not answer me, walking past me toward the front door with a quick, determined stride.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
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