She hesitated. “She checked out earlier this morning. She said you knew.”
“Knew what?” I held up the note. “Did she say anything else? Was she upset?”
The nurse frowned. “She seemed… calm. Just quiet. You didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
I left the hospital in a haze, holding my daughters close, the note crumpled in my hand.
Emily was gone.
My wife. My partner. The woman I thought I understood.
Gone without warning.
When I pulled into the driveway, my mother, Carol, stood on the porch, smiling, holding a casserole.
“Let me see my grandbabies!” she said excitedly.
I stepped back.
“Not yet.”
Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
I handed her the note.
“This is what’s wrong. What did you do to Emily?”
“Daniel, I don’t understand—she’s always been emotional. Maybe she—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I snapped. “You never liked her. You’ve always criticized her—”
“I was trying to help!” she cried.
I turned away.
I didn’t trust her anymore.
Whatever had happened between them had driven Emily away—and now I was left alone with two newborns and a thousand unanswered questions.
That night, after putting Lily and Grace to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table with the note and a glass of whiskey.
What did you do, Mom?