On the morning they gave me the ultimatum, I’d been awake since five. Noah was coughing, so I made soup, washed his bedding, and found his missing library book beneath the sofa.

Vanessa entered at eight in exercise clothes, holding the brochure. Daniel followed. They’d practiced the conversation beforehand.

When my son ordered me to leave, I didn’t cry — I’d already shed those tears in fragments over three years. At the dinner table. In the laundry room. Beside the printer.

Folding a child’s sweater after midnight. The grief had already collected its payment.

I packed two suitcases. Clothing. Thomas’s photograph. A folder holding our marriage certificate, old business documents, and the letters he’d written from work trips.

My sewing shears. A small wooden jewelry box with pieces from my mother and grandmother.