I had called that morning to tell Mom that I would stop by, but I hadn’t told her why.
She had had a terrible year.
Dad had died just a few weeks after Emma, Grace and Sophie were born.
I knew Mom was struggling.
I didn’t know he was going to leave.
***
I heard it before I got to the bedroom.
Not crying.
Damning.
Drawers whipping.
The zipper of a suitcase fighting for your life.
At the end of the hall, the three babies were screaming.
“Mom?”
She didn’t turn around.
He put pushed clothes in a suitcase.
“Mom… what are you doing?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Aaron.”
I laughed nervously.
“It’s okay. So don’t do whatever this is.”
He stopped packing enough to look at me.
His cheeks were dry, his look sharp as the flint.
That scared me more.
“I’ve spent my life raising a child.”
