Six weeks before our daughter was due, my husband packed two suitcases, transferred nearly all the money from our shared savings account, and left our apartment as calmly as if he were running an ordinary errand.
There was no shouting. No dramatic goodbye. No slammed door.
Eric zipped his coat, checked his phone, picked up his keys, and barely looked at me while I stood in the kitchen with one hand beneath my stomach.
“You really took the savings?” I asked.
“I put most of it in there,” he replied. “You still have your salary.”
“My maternity leave starts for $ soon.”
He shrugged.
“Then you’ll work something out. You’re the one who wanted this baby so badly.”
He walked out before dinner.
The next several weeks no longer felt like a normal sequence of days. I remember them in pieces: plastic chairs in the obstetrician’s waiting room, overdue notices on the counter, nights when I watched the clock change from two to three to four while sleep refused to come.
