I know what you want to tell me this afternoon. I’m making this easier for all of us.
I understand that being a father has to come first. I understand that Leo needs stability and your complete attention. I understand that the life we were building together isn’t possible anymore.
I’ll be gone for a few days. Please be moved out by the time I get back. I’ll call when I’m ready to talk about logistics - our joint bank account, bills, etc.
Take care of yourself. Take care of Leo.
Chloe
I read it twice, then a third time, each reading worse than the last, the sick certainty growing that everything I’d planned was gone. She knew about Leo - I knew that - but she thought – what?
I understand that being a father has to come first.
The life we were building together isn’t possible anymore.
She thought I was choosing Leo over her. She thought I wanted to end our relationship because I had a son.
My fingers went numb, that tingling sensation spreading up my arms. The kitchen tilted, and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself, but my legs felt like they were made of water.
I couldn’t breathe.
No, that wasn’t right – I was breathing too much, gasping in air that didn’t seem to reach my lungs. Hyperventilating.
I slid down to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, and tried to remember how to make my lungs work properly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The paper bag technique. Something. Anything.
But all I could think about was Chloe. The physical absence of her was so overwhelming that it felt like a wound. Like someone had reached into my chest and removed something vital, and now I was just bleeding out on the kitchen floor.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone when I finally picked it up. My heart was doing something painful in my chest. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
This was what a broken heart felt like in actual physical terms. Not a metaphor, not a poetic description.
Because losing Chloe was physical trauma. She’d become part of my daily existence – her morning kiss, her hand in mine, her voice calling my name – and now those pieces were missing, and my body was going into shock.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. Forced myself to stand up, even though my legs were still shaking. Forced myself to function despite my body screaming that something essential had been torn away.
“No,” I said aloud to the empty kitchen. “No, no, no.”
I had to find her. Had to fix this.
I called Chloe’s number, pacing the length of our kitchen while it rang. Straight to voicemail. “Chloe, it’s me. I just found your note, and you’ve got this all wrong. I’m not trying to end our relationship. I love you. I need you. Call me back. Please.”
I hung up and immediately called again. Voicemail again.
“Chloe, please pick up. Whatever you think this means, you’re wrong. Leo doesn’t change how I feel about you. Call me back.”
Third call, same result.
I didn’t leave a message on the fourth try as I finally realized she’d turned off her phone. Chloe, who was always available for emergencies, who answered her phone in the middle of dinner if the clinic needed her, had turned off her phone.
I sank into one of our kitchen chairs – her chair, actually, the one that faced the window where she liked to watch the birds at the feeder while drinking her morning coffee. The seat still held the scent of her perfume, that subtle floral scent she wore that I’d come to associate with home.
The note sat on the table in front of me, Chloe’s handwriting blurring as I stared at it.
Please be moved out by the time I get back.
I felt something crack in my chest. How many mornings had I watched her wrap her hands around her coffee mug, eyes stillsleepy, smile soft and meant just for me? How many times had she kissed me goodbye at this table, telling me about her day ahead? How many dinners had we shared right here, talking about everything and nothing, building the kind of intimacy that made a house feel like home?
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through our text messages, torturing myself with the evidence of what I’d lost. A photo she’d sent two weeks ago of a kitten that had come in for its first check-up – “Illegally smol, must arrest immediately” – with about fifteen heart-eye emojis. A message from last month: “Running late, emergency, Deb’s lab found her chocolate stash and ATE IT ALL. Save me some dinner?” My response: “Always. I’ll keep it warm. Love you.”
