I stood in the kitchen still wearing the black dress from our anniversary party, staring at the tiny blue dot settle near her house.
Then I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the closet.
I packed like a woman escaping a fire.
Passport. Birth certificate. Teaching credentials. Bank records. Laptop. Job contract. Three pairs of shoes. Work clothes. Two framed photos from my classroom. My grandmother’s bracelet.
Nothing Mason bought me.
Not the pearl earrings from our fifth anniversary. Not the winter coat he gave me after forgetting my birthday. Not the necklace he purchased only after I sent him the link.
I left my wedding ring inside its velvet box on the vanity.
Then I placed my house key beside it.
No note.
Notes invite arguments. Explanations invite negotiations. I was done negotiating for basic respect.
At five-thirty that evening, I called an Uber.
The driver loaded my suitcase into the trunk and asked if I was headed somewhere exciting.
I looked back at the house.
The porch light remained on. The curtains stayed closed. From outside, it looked like any normal home in a quiet Seattle neighborhood.
“No,” I said. “Somewhere free.”
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