I followed him into the entryway
I followed him into the entryway, my hand gripping the wooden banister to keep my balance as my lower back flared with pain.
“Evan, talk to me,” I said, refusing to let my voice break. “We can sit down. We can look at the accounts tonight when the kids are asleep.”
“There is nothing to look at,” he said, his hand already on the brass doorknob.
He turned to look at me then, his eyes sweeping over my green maternity sweater and the round shape of my stomach with a cold, detached curiosity.
“I can not do this anymore,” he said.
The front door clicked open, and the damp air from the harbor rushed into the hallway, rustling the loose mail on the side table.
He stepped out onto the porch, his heavy boots making a dull, hollow sound on the wooden steps.
I did not follow him outside, standing instead by the small window next to the door.
His sports car was parked in the driveway, the engine turning over with a loud, aggressive purr that seemed to shake the porch railings.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
He did not look back at the house as he pulled out onto the road
He did not look back at the house as he pulled out onto the road, the tires crunching over the wet pine needles before disappearing around the corner.
The hallway felt cold, the draft from the open door still lingering in the corners of the ceiling.
Margot appeared at the top of the stairs, her fingers twisting the silver ring on her thumb so hard the skin around it was red.
“Is he leaving, Mom?” she asked.
I took a deep, slow breath, holding the air in my lungs until the panic in my chest subsided into a dull, manageable ache.
“Go check on George,” I said, keeping my voice soft and maternal. “He was trying to fix his blue jacket with the broken zipper earlier, and he might need some help.”
“Mom, I heard what he said,” she whispered, her eyes shining in the dim light of the hallway.
“We are going to be fine, Margot,” I said, walking to the foot of the stairs. “Please go help your brother.”
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
She stood there for a moment
She stood there for a moment, her shoulders tense, before she turned and walked back toward the bedrooms.
I went back up to the nursery, the unfinished pine pieces of the crib still scattered across the dusty floorboards.
I sat down on the floor next to the headboard, my legs folding stiffly beneath my weight.
In the corner of the room, on the small wooden desk, sat a white paper envelope containing thirty-two dollars in loose cash.
I pulled it toward me, counting the bills once, then twice, before tucking them back inside.
The old refrigerator downstairs began its loud, familiar hum again, the vibration traveling through the walls of the old house.
I placed my palm against my stomach, waiting in the quiet room until I felt the soft kick of the baby against my hand.
By six o’clock, the nursery floor was behind me, but the heavy ache in my lower back had settled in to stay.
I stood at the kitchen counter, slowly counting out eight blue plastic plates from the drying rack.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
Margot took the stack from my hands before I could
Margot took the stack from my hands before I could carry them over to the pine table.
She did not say a word, but her thumb went straight to the silver ring on her left hand, twisting it twice.
“We need to get the napkins, too,” she whispered.
I reached for the upper cupboard, but my left hand went to my lower back instead, rubbing the tight muscles beneath my faded blue maternity shirt.
“I have them,” Margot said, her quiet voice barely carrying over the steady, low hum of our old refrigerator.
She set the plates down one by one, careful to make sure each one lined up with the edge of the placemats.
“George wants to know if Dad is coming to his game on Saturday,” she said.
I kept my eyes on the bread basket, arranging the rolls so the golden crusts faced upward.
“We will have to see how your father’s schedule looks by then, sweetheart,” I said.
Margot stopped with a handful of forks, her knuckles turning white against the metal.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
”
I did not look up from the bread
“He took his dark blue suitcase, Mom.”
I did not look up from the bread.
“The zipper on that one was always sticking,” I said, keeping my voice patient and steady.
She placed the forks on the table with a sharp click that made me wince.
“The zipper worked just fine.”
I turned to the stove to check the beef stew, but the wooden spoon felt heavier than usual in my grip.
“Let us just get through dinner,” I said.
Margot stared at the salt shaker for three long seconds before she finally went to call her brothers and sisters.
The older boys came in first, their boots thudding against the linoleum, while the younger ones bickered over who got the blue chair.
I sat at the head of the table, smiling through the noise, though every shift of my weight sent a dull pinch through my hips.
“Pass the butter, Mary,” George said, reaching across his sister’s plate.
Mary, my twelve-year-old, ignored him and looked directly at the empty chair at the opposite end of the table.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
I swallowed a small bite of bread that felt dry in my throat
“Is Dad working late at the office again?” she asked.
I swallowed a small bite of bread that felt dry in my throat.
“He has a lot of errands to run in town this week,” I said.
Margot did not touch her stew, her eyes fixed on her silver ring as she spun it around and around.
“He does not usually run errands at dinner time,” she said.
The table went quiet for a moment, the only sound being the scrape of spoons against ceramic.
“Eat your carrots, George,” I said, steering the conversation back to the plate in front of him.
The boy grumbled but obeyed, and the dinner finished in a rush of clinking glass and requests for milk.
After the dishes were cleared, the house settled into the familiar, slow rhythm of homework and evening chores.
The younger children went upstairs to get ready for bed, their small footsteps echoing through the ceiling.
By nine, the kitchen was clean, save for the rhythmic slap of plastic bread bags near the pantry.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
Mary was standing at the counter with a loaf of
Mary was standing at the counter with a loaf of wheat bread and a plastic jar of peanut butter.
I watched her from the living room couch, my feet propped up on three mismatched throw pillows to ease the swelling in my ankles.
“You do not have to do the lunches tonight, Mary,” I called out.
She did not stop spreading the peanut butter, her small shoulders squared against the dark kitchen window.
“It saves time in the morning,” she said.
She neatly stacked four sandwich bags into a row on the counter, then reached for the red apples in the fruit bowl.
“Did Dad call you back yet?” she asked.
I adjusted the pillow under my knees, trying to find a position that did not pinch my lower back.
“He is very busy right now, honey.”
Mary dropped an apple into a brown paper bag, the sound heavy and hollow.
“He left his gold pocket watch on the dresser.”
My hand stopped mid-air.
“He always takes that watch,” I said.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
I stared at the dark hallway that led to our bedroom
“It is sitting right next to his hairbrush,” she said, her voice dropping a register.
I stared at the dark hallway that led to our bedroom, where the door remained half-shut.
“I will put it away in his drawer later,” I said.
Mary folded the top of the last lunch bag with a crisp crease, then wiped the counter with a damp sponge.
“He has a new folder in his desk, too.”
I pulled the knitted blanket up to my chin, though the room was not cold.
“What kind of folder, Mary?”
“The blue plastic kind with the sliding clip,” she said, before turning off the kitchen light.
I lay in the dark of the living room, listening to the house settle as the hours ticked past.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight before I could close my eyes.
A floorboard creaked near the stairs, and I saw Margot standing in the shadow of the archway, her hair loose over her shoulders.
“You should be asleep, Margot,” I whispered.
Author
Jordan M. Hayes
She walked over and sat on the very edge of the
She walked over and sat on the very edge of the wooden coffee table, her knees pressed tight together.
“I tried,” she said, her thumb twisting the silver ring again.
She looked down at her bare feet, then up at my swollen belly under the blanket.
“Is he coming back at all?”
The question hung in the dark room, cold and sharp.
“I think your father is confused right now, honey,” I said, keeping my tone as steady as a maternal heartbeat.
“He is forty-six, Mom,” she said. “People do not get that confused.”
“He has a lot of pressure on him with the new baby coming,” I said.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet whisper.
“He has been gone for ten hours and he has not even texted to ask if you are okay.”
I reached out and took her hand, squeezing her fingers to stop the twisting of her ring.
“We have survived busy seasons before, Margot.”
She looked at me, her eyes reflecting the faint green light from the microwave clock in the kitchen.
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Author
Jordan M. Hayes
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