The moment the hospital room door clicked shut, the knife slipped from my hand.
The blade caught my wrist on the way down, carving the ugly scar I still carried.
The buzz of my phone dragged me back from that distant memory.
It was a voice message from Ida. She sounded drunk.
"Roland, stop being mad at me. Give me another baby, okay?"
A baby?
My thumb found the scar on my wrist without thinking. I'd gone numb to the pain a long time ago.
But hearing her mention a child again sent a fresh wave of agony through my chest, wave after wave, until I felt like I was drowning.
It took a long time before I could steady myself. I lifted my hand and wiped away the last tear.
Then, silently, I blocked both Ida and Humphrey.
I dialed an overseas number.
"Dad. Three days from now. Meet me at the airport."
Over the next few days, Ida didn't come home.
I didn't ask her when she'd be back. I just started packing.
But seven years of marriage leaves marks that run deep. Almost everything I touched had her shadow on it.
The white scarf she'd given me on our first date.
I'd worn it for years and could never bring myself to throw it away, because she'd spent months knitting it by hand.