Page 2 of Letting Go

The cab drops me off around 3, right on our quiet suburban street just outside the city. The house his parents bought us as an anniversary present. As if a house would make up for their absentee parenting.

I spot Michael’s car in the driveway. Weird.

I walk in, expecting to hear the sound of him rummaging around in the kitchen. But it’s quiet. I don’t yell his name like I usually do. Something’s off.

I go upstairs to our bedroom, my heart doing this weird skipping thing in my chest. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s just sick. But this morning, he was in a rush to get to the office. In such a rush that he couldn’t even spare a few minutes to talk.

I throw open the door to our bedroom, and it’s empty. Empty. The bed’s unmade, like he just got up.

I stand there for a beat, waiting for him to pop out of nowhere. When he doesn’t, I finally call out. “Michael?”

No answer.

I pull my phone out and call him. “Hey, hon.” He answers after a few rings.

“Babe, where are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m in the office.” His voice is sharp.

I glance at the driveway. His car is still there. “I came home, and your car’s here. What’s going on?”

“Oh. It wouldn’t start, so I called a coworker to pick me up.” His words are quick, rushed. “Wait, what are you doing home? Everything okay?”

I sit on the edge of the bed, pressing my palm into the sheets like it’ll hold me steady. “It’s fine. I just... I’ll tell you when you get back, okay?”

“Okay. I’ve gotta go into a meeting. See you at home.”

“Yeah, see you.” But he’s already hung up.

Huh.

When did we stop saying I love you?

Probably around the time I started thinking every closed door was trouble.

Maybe this isn’t unemployment. Maybe it’s a reset. A chance to breathe, to fix something instead of bulldozing through it.

Yeah. Maybe this is what our marriage needed. A break from the pressure, the schedule, the fights over takeout and toothpaste caps. An opportunity to actually see each other again.

Right. Okay. That’s good. Optimism. Step one... what? Cook dinner? Buy flowers? Apologize for everything I haven’t said out loud?

God, where do you even start fixing a marriage?

I’m going to cook him his favourite meal.

That’s the plan. That’s the peace offering. The big restart button disguised as dinner.

I mean, last time I cooked anything that didn’t come from a frozen bag, we ended up ordering pizza and pretending garlic-scented smoke wasn’t still clinging to the curtains. For some reason, my food always has too much garlic or absolutely none. Same with spice. It’s either bland enough to feed a toddler or hot enough to count as chemical warfare.

But baking? Baking I can do. Measuring, exactness, control, it’s calming. Therapeutic, even. And maybe if my hands are busy, my brain will stop doing gymnastics over everything I left behind at work.

I head downstairs, determined, and walk into the kitchen like I’m about to film a redemption arc.

Only... it looks like no one’s touched the damn thing in days. Dishes still in the rack. Mail on the counter. Noteven a lingering smell of coffee or toast. It’s cold. Silent.

I start pulling open cabinets like I’m on Chopped and the clock’s running down, but there’s nothing. I mean nothing. No flour, no butter, not even a sad little egg. Fine. Grocery store it is.

At least it gets me out of the house.

---