I shook my head.
“You had one.”
He frowned.
“You just refused to accept it.”
The room fell silent again.
Then I walked to the hallway closet.
Marcus looked confused.
“What are you doing?”
I opened the closet and pulled out the large suitcase we’d used for vacations years ago.
Without a word, I carried it into the living room and set it at Marcus’s feet.
He looked from the suitcase to me.
“Liza.”
“You wanted my son to leave.”
I pointed at the suitcase.
“Now it’s your turn.”
His face drained of color.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“You threw away six years of my life.”
He took a step toward me.
“We can fix this.”
I backed away.
“No.”
“You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you another minute.”
His voice softened.
“I love you.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
“If you loved me, you would never have made me believe my son stopped loving me.”
He reached for my hand.
I pulled it away.
“Pack your things.”
“Liza.”
“Today.”
He looked around the room as though expecting someone to rescue him.
Nobody moved.
After a long moment, he picked up the suitcase, and without another word, he walked upstairs. The sound of drawers opening and closing echoed through the house.
About 20 minutes later, Marcus came downstairs with the suitcase full. He stopped near the front door.
“I’m sorry.”
It was the first apology he’d offered.
It was also six years too late.
I opened the door.
He looked at me one last time.
“I never thought he’d come back.”
“I did,” I said. “I just wish I hadn’t had to wait this long.”
Marcus lowered his head and walked out.
I closed the door behind him. Only then did I notice the bread rolls still scattered across the floor.
Neither of us had remembered to pick them up.
For the first time in years, it felt peaceful.
