I sat there for a long time, holding the paper. I knew I should go out there and talk to him. I knew we had to figure out what to do about the baby, about the house, about the next twenty years.

But as I sat there, I realized I didn’t care about the baby. I didn’t care about the money. I only cared that for the last ten years, I had been sleeping next to a man who lived his real life in a different zip code.

I opened the drawer and pulled out my passport. I hadn’t looked at it since our trip to the coast in 1999. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew that I couldn’t wake up on another Tuesday and wonder where he was.

I went into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, drinking his coffee. He looked up at me, his eyes hopeful.

“I’m going to my sister’s place for a while,” I told him.

He didn’t ask me not to go. He just nodded, like he expected it.

“I’ll leave the house key on the counter,” I said.

I packed a small bag. I didn’t take much. Just my clothes and the small wooden box where I kept my mother’s jewelry. I walked out the front door and didn’t look back.

I knew he would take care of Odette. He would be a good father to that baby.

He would probably spend all his savings making sure they had a roof over their heads.

But I wasn’t going to be the one to watch him do it. I had spent enough of my life being the one who stood by while he kept his secrets.

I drove until I hit the state line. I stopped at a diner and ordered a slice of pie. The waitress asked me if I was traveling far. I told her I wasn’t sure.

I guess I’m still not sure. All I know is that for the first time in forty-two years, I don’t have to worry about what time it is on a Tuesday morning.