She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask if I was sure. She just listened, her hands folded, face going paler and paler.
When I finished, she sat very still for a moment.
Then she stood up.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?” I repeated.
“We’re going to pack his things,” she said. “I’m not sleeping next to him ever again.”
We went to their bedroom. She pulled some empty boxes from the closet. We started folding his clothes.
Shirts. Pants. Socks. His stupid golf polos.
She moved like she was on autopilot. At one point, she paused, holding one of his sweaters to her chest, then put it in the box without a word.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
“No,” she said. “But I will be.”
By a little after nine, most of his stuff was stacked neatly by the front door.
Headlights swept across the living room.
My mom straightened. “That’ll be him.”
She opened the door before he could put his key in.
He stopped short when he saw the boxes.
“Diane,” he said. “What is this?”
“I know,” she said simply.
“We’ve been married for 20 years. You’re going to throw it all away over one mistake?”
His eyes flicked to me over her shoulder. “She told you?”
“Yes,” she said. “She did.”
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