Tuesday night at almost 11 p.m. I was in pajamas, rubbing cocoa butter on my pregnant belly, when someone pounded on the door. It was my dad—pale, shaking, overnight bag in hand. He sat on the couch and said, “I’m leaving your mother. I can’t stay in that house anymore.” They’d been married 37 years. I was STUNNED. I pointed him to the guest room and said we’d talk in the morning. By morning, he was gone. Just a note on the counter: “Gone to the lake house. Don’t call.” His handwriting looked uncertain, as though he’d rushed to write the message. Something about it didn’t feel right, but I pushed the thought aside, telling myself he just needed space.
I called my mom and told her everything. She went silent, then shouted, “The lake house? We sold that a year ago!” Her shock matched the confusion growing inside me. Twenty minutes later, she picked me up, both of us trying to piece together what could possibly be going on. As we drove through quiet neighborhoods, she explained that lately my dad had seemed distracted but never hinted at wanting to leave. Her guess? The woman he’d been messaging, someone she believed was just an old friend reconnecting. The idea unsettled me, not because we were sure of anything, but because it introduced a possibility no one wanted to face. Still, we pressed on, driven by worry rather than suspicion.
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