I took one last look at the framed photo of my husband on the nightstand.
“I’m heading out now, Warren,” I whispered in the dark. “It’s time.”
Right on the dot at 7:30 a.m., a small moving truck backed into the driveway.
Because Gavin and Sloan loved to sleep in and the upstairs was well insulated, they didn’t hear a thing.
The movers were absolute pros.
In under 40 minutes, my remaining furniture, my bed, my desk, and my favorite reading chair were loaded up.
I had prepped everything so there wouldn’t be a sound.
When the truck pulled away, I stood alone in my empty bedroom.
It looked so small and meaningless now.
I walked out to the foyer and left my house key on the console table.
Right next to it, I left a second envelope.
It contained the cancellation confirmations for the high-speed internet and the landline, both of which were in my name.
Sloan was always whining about the slow Wi-Fi that I paid for.
Now she could have the pleasure of setting up a new account herself, which, with the local cable company, usually took a good two weeks.
I pulled the front door shut behind me.
The click of the lock sounded like absolute freedom.
I got into my car and hit the road.
As soon as I merged onto the highway heading north, I felt years of heavy, suffocating weight lift right off my shoulders.
No more, “Elaine, do this.”
No more, “Elaine, pay for that.”
Around 10:00 a.m., I glanced at my phone sitting silently on the passenger seat.
The screen lit up.
Sloan.
I ignored it.
Then Gavin, over and over again.
They must have finally woken up and discovered the empty room.
Or maybe they tried to make themselves a cup of espresso and realized they didn’t have the Wi-Fi to Google why the machine was blinking an error code.
I kept driving, watching the gorgeous New England autumn roll by.
I hadn’t just moved out of a house.