That’s the order I remember it in.
Not because the coffee maker mattered most, but because when the world breaks apart, your mind clings to stupid details. The red indicator light on the empty counter. The damp ring where the machine had been. The smell of old coffee still in the filter basket she hadn’t bothered to throw away. Then the note. Then my daughter asking why Mommy’s closet doors were open.
I was standing in the kitchen in my socks, staring at a page torn from Caleb’s math notebook.
Jake, I can’t live like this anymore. I need more than overdue bills, patched shoes, and your promises that next month will be better. Don’t come looking for me. The kids are better off with stability, and you’ve never been able to give them that.
No apology.
No address.
No signature, like I might not recognize Amber’s handwriting after fourteen years of watching it fill grocery lists and birthday cards and bounced-check notices.
