The walls were bare. The furniture was gone. Everything we’d built our house on had been taken away, and the rooms I’d memorized from photographs were now empty shells.
Then I heard crying upstairs.
I ran up the stairs as fast as I could, feeling a searing pain shoot through my prosthetic with every step.
The nursery door was open.
My mother was in the house, still in her coat, one baby clutched to her shoulder, the other in the crib. She looked up when I entered and burst into tears, her gaze sliding from my face to my leg.
“Arnie…”
“Mom? What happened? Where’s Mara?”
She looked away, repeating the same words.
“I’m so sorry, Arnie. Mara asked me to take the girls to church. She said she needed some time alone. But when I got back…”
I saw the note on the dresser.
One sentence made it all clear: “Mark told me about your leg. And that you were coming to surprise me today. I can’t do this, Arnold. I won’t waste my life with a broken man and changing diapers. Mark can give me more. Take care… Mara.”
I read it twice. Some things just don’t sink in the first time.
Mark hadn’t just told Mara, he’d given her a reason to leave. He was the only person I trusted enough to tell him the truth, and he’d chosen to reveal it so she could make a different decision.
I put the note down.
I picked up Katie, who was still crying, and sat on the floor with my back against the crib, holding her close. My mother placed Mia in my other arm without saying a word, and the four of us sat together in that little yellow room.
I didn’t resist. I let it wash over me all at once.
The sweaters were still under my arm. I placed them beside me. The white flowers were underneath, where I’d dropped them.
My mother placed her hand on mine and remained silent.
I don’t know how long we sat there.
