The call didn’t even ring once; it went straight to a cold, digital voicemail. My heart sank into my stomach as the realization hit—he had blocked me. I didn’t finish my shift; I grabbed my keys and sprinted to my car.
The drive home felt like a fever dream as I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. A tiny part of me hoped to see his Ford in the driveway, with him laughing about a cruel joke. But the driveway was empty, and the front door was wide open.
I stepped inside and gasped at the carnage in the living room. Drawers were pulled out, and half-packed boxes were scattered across the floor like a crime scene. “Mom!” I screamed, my voice cracking as I ran toward the stairs.
I found her upstairs, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. She was clutching a framed family photo, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. The house felt hollow, the air heavy with the scent of his cologne and sudden abandonment.
“He just started grabbing things,” she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper. She described him as a man possessed, throwing clothes and valuables into the truck. He wouldn’t look at her, only yelling that he was done and leaving them forever.
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