He wore a white long-sleeve shirt, gray dress pants, freshly polished black shoes. His worn brown faux-leather briefcase sat by the door—the same one he’d carried for years.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked as she poured him more coffee.
Michael looked up and gave her that smile that always made her feel safe.
“Yeah, babe. Just tired. Nothing a good coffee can’t fix.”
He kissed her forehead—an everyday gesture she’d received a thousand times… a gesture that would later feel like a knife.
He went upstairs, woke the boys, helped them get dressed, packed their school lunches.
Ethan had a math test and was nervous. Michael sat with him for a few minutes, calmly reviewing fraction problems with the patient steadiness that defined him as a dad.
At 7:30 a.m., Michael grabbed his briefcase, said goodbye to the boys finishing their cereal, and walked out.
Rachel watched him head toward the main avenue where he’d catch the bus to the Metro. The sky threatened rain.
That was the last image she ever had of him: his back slightly hunched under the weight of the briefcase, blending into the river of workers moving through a city that never sleeps.
Michael never arrived at work that day.