Part of me wanted to stay.
Part of me knew I should at least explain.
But another part, the trained, obedient, terrified employee part, told me maybe I could still fix it.
Maybe if I got there fast enough, maybe if the clients were delayed, maybe if the world wasn’t as cruel as it often turned out to be.
I left.
And by the time I reached the office, you already know what was waiting for me.
Not understanding.
Not even anger mixed with concern.
Just punishment.
At home that afternoon, after Emily told me I had done the right thing, I tried to settle down.
I failed.
I paced the kitchen.
I checked our savings account twice.
I stared out the window at nothing.
Then I made the dumb decision men sometimes make when pain feels too big and we don’t know where to put it.
I started drinking before noon.
