I nod my head, barely able to get air in my lungs, let alone words out. She stares at me for a long moment before she nods and steps back.
"Now... I need you to go upstairs and pack your things," her voice is low and steady, completely even. Cold fear floods my entire body at her words. She checks her phone and taps on the screen a few times, sending a text. "Your parents will be here in a few minutes. They're coming over to bring back the boys, and you'll be staying with them."
I feel myself start shaking, the words distorted.
"Wendy—"
She glances back up, sliding her phone in her back pocket, and continues on like she doesn't hear me.
"I can't trust you to take care of the boys without help,"she says, her voice gradually gaining strength while I feel mine draining from my body. "You haven't been involved in a year. You don't know them—or their routines—anymore, and you're... you're essentially a stranger to them. They’re not comfortable around you."
"Wendy, no, ple—"
"You need to find a lawyer. You have thirty days to respond to my attorney. Read through everything and see if you agree. I think I was more than fair. All of our correspondence from this day forward that doesn't involve the boys will go through our lawyers. The clock still starts today, regardless of whether you respond. We have to be separated for twelve months before they grant the divorce."
"Wendy, wait—please—please—j-just list—"
"Did you even know I found a job?"
I blink, completely caught off guard by her abrupt question. Job? What job? "What?"
She huffs. "Of course you didn't. I've been working at Mabel's for the lastmonth."
"Mabel's?" I ask, my brain lagging with all of this new information. "Month? Wendy, why—"
"Because I can't rely on you anymore! I'm clearly such a burden that you need to work two jobs to support the kids and me," she says, sarcasm dripping from her tone.
"You're not a burden, you're mywife—the mother of my children!"
I make more than enough to support us at the garage, the jobs on the weekend were... because I needed the excuse to be out of the house.
"Still... I need to find my independence,” Wendy shrugs. “I need to make my own money. I need to pull my weight."
"Wendy, you never have to worry about money, you know I'll—"
"The judge will take a look at what you've been making and decide child and spousal support—"
Desperately, I reach for my wallet in my back pocket, onlyto remember that my wallet is not there; it's still on my desk, because I sprinted out of the office with just my keys, still in my overalls.
"Do you want money? I'll give you whatever you want—name it, baby—just please... don't... don't leave me, baby, please! Please!"
She looks at me like I've been speaking another language. I realize how irrational I’m acting right now, not making sense—it doesn't even make sense in my brain either.
I removed myself, but now that she's leaving, I don't want her to go. I guess I was just relying on the fact that my wife would always be there.
If I could support them, do what I know best, and make as much money for them as possible, it would supplement the things Icouldn'tgive.
But Wendy doesn't want my money—she wants me. And I denied her that.
I denied our boys that.
Now, she's done and I can't let her go.
"I didn't leave you, Atlas," Wendy says, her voice small and sad. "You left first. You checked out and let me pick up the mess."
Like I said, the truth fucking hurts.
Her words scald me, skin me alive, and I've never felt so helpless, even when I was watching her deliver our boys.
