Chapter 5 - The Packing Bag
The zipper of Grant’s navy duffel bag made a harsh, metallic sound as it dragged around the curve of the canvas.
It was 5:45 PM. The late autumn sun was casting long, amber shadows across our bedroom floor. I stood near the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, watching him pull shirts out of the closet and toss them haphazardly into the bag.
“This is a mistake, Maya,” Grant muttered, not looking at me as he bundled up a stack of dress shirts. “Kicking me out isn't going to bring the savings account back. It’s just going to make things harder on the kids. What am I supposed to tell Hallie tomorrow morning when she asks where Dad is?”
“You can tell her the truth for once in your life,” I said flatly. “You can tell her that actions have consequences. Or I can tell her. Your choice.”
Grant stopped packing. He stood there with a pair of slacks in his hands, staring out the window toward the quiet suburban street outside. The streetlights were just beginning to flicker on, casting a pale, artificial glow across the pavement.
“I’m not staying at a motel,” he said quietly. “I’ll go crash at Darren’s guest house for a few days until things cool down.”
“Take as long as you need,” I replied. “Because until we talk to a financial advisor, and until you sign separation papers outlining how you plan to reimburse the money you stole from our children’s future, you are not stepping foot back into this house as my husband.”
He dropped the slacks into the bag, zipped it shut with a violent tug, and hauled it off the bed.
He walked past me in the doorway, pausing for a fraction of a second as if he expected me to soften, to reach out and tell him it was all a bad dream.
I didn't move an inch.
“Goodbye, Grant,” I said.
He walked down the stairs, the heavy thud of his boots echoing through the quiet house. A minute later, the front door opened, and the muffled roar of his SUV engine sputtered to life in the driveway.
I walked to the front window and watched his taillights disappear down the block.
Then I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for three hours.
I walked back down the hall to Hallie’s room. I knocked softly and pushed the door open. She was sitting at her small wooden desk, staring blankly at an open math workbook, her colored pencils scattered neatly around her notebook.
She looked up immediately as I walked in, her eyes wide and searching.
“Is Dad gone?” she asked.
I walked over, pulled up the small vanity chair beside her desk, and sat down, taking her small, cold hands in mine just like I had done in the kitchen earlier that afternoon.
“Yes, honey. Dad went to stay at a friend’s house for a few days.”
“Are you getting a divorce?”
The question came out so fast, so sharp and heavy, that it knocked the wind right out of my lungs. Ten years old. She shouldn't even know what that word meant in a personal context, let alone be asking it about her own parents on a Tuesday evening.
“I don’t know yet, Hallie,” I said honestly, refusing to lie to her anymore. “What I do know is that adults make mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes mean we need some space to figure things out. But I want you to hear me, and I want you to hear me clearly.”
I squeezed her hands gently.
“Nothing—absolutely nothing—is your fault. You did the right thing by telling me what happened today. Do you understand?”
A single tear spilled over her eyelashes, but this time, the terrified tension left her shoulders. She nodded slowly.
May you like
“Can we order pizza?” she whispered.
I let out a wet, genuine laugh, pulling her into a tight, fierce hug. “We can order the biggest pepperoni pizza in the city, Hallie. And we can eat it right on the living room floor while we watch whatever movie you want.”
