“I chose you.”
His jaw tensed.
Of course he had. The clothes. The message. This wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned.
“You were going to walk out,” I said slowly, “without even saying goodbye to the kids?”
“They’ll be fine. I’ll send money.”
My hand curled around the counter.
“Money,” I repeated. “Rose is going to ask where her pancakes are tomorrow. You think a direct deposit’s going to answer that?”
His jaw tensed.
He shook his head. “I’m not doing this.”
He turned, heading upstairs.
I followed.
Because there was no way I was letting him ghost a whole family from a hallway.
Our bedroom door was open. His suitcase was already halfway zipped, clothes folded too neatly for someone just deciding to leave.
“You were never going to tell me, were you?” I asked.
“I’m not doing this.”
“I was.”
“When? After the hotel? After the pictures were posted?”
He didn’t answer.
I stood in the doorway, shaking. “You could’ve just told me you were unhappy.”
“I am telling you,” he snapped. “I’m choosing my happiness.”
