I was scrubbing the grease off the stovetop, just a casual, mindless Saturday chore to keep my hands busy. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Denise was sitting in the recliner with her feet propped up, reading a book, her belly making her look like she was hiding a beach ball under her sweater.

I felt like I was being a good husband. I was checking off the list.

“The meals are all labeled,” I said, pointing toward the freezer.

She didn’t look up from the page. “I heard you the first three times, Dennis.”

I just nodded, grabbed my keys, and walked to the truck. I had a 7-day charter out of Galveston waiting for me. The guys from the plant were already packed. I’d missed this trip twice for work, for family obligations, for nonsense that didn’t pay the mortgage. This time, I decided, was for me.

The induction was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I knew that. It was circled in red on the calendar hanging right over the phone.

I didn’t care. I told myself a man has to have a life outside of being a father. I told myself Denise had her mom and her sister. I told myself she was tough enough to handle a hospital trip without me hovering over her shoulder.

I’m typing this on a throwaway account because I can’t stand to look at my own face in the mirror today.

I guess I’m just trying to figure out why I did what I did, even though the answer is sitting right in front of me. I was selfish. That’s the clean version.

The drive down to the coast felt like a victory lap. I stopped for coffee at a place I like in Des Moines, checked my phone, and saw the date. Tuesday. I ignored the notification.

“You ready to pull in some redfish?” my buddy Earl asked when I pulled into the marina lot.

“I’m ready,” I said.

I spent seven days on the water. I caught a 40-pound redfish. I have the photo, me grinning like a fool, holding that fish up by the gills. I look at that photo and I don’t see the catch. I see the empty house I left behind.

I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I told myself I was giving her space, but really, I was just terrified that if I heard her voice, I’d have to admit I was the villain in our story.

When I pulled back into the driveway, it was late in the afternoon. The house looked dark. No lights on in the living room.

I walked inside with my duffel bag still heavy on my shoulder. The air hit me first. A thick, sour, metallic smell. Like something had died inside the walls.

I walked straight to the kitchen. The freezer door was propped open with a chair.