Every fever.
Every bottle.
Every first step.
Every time one of my daughters reached for me because I was the person who had stayed.
“There was nothing here for me three years ago,” I said. “There’s nothing here for me now.”
I turned and walked toward my truck.
“Wait!” Rachel called. “You can’t do this! This is our home!”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“No. It was your house.”
I climbed into the truck and called the lead mover.
“I need the keys by five.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hung