The day she left, I told her I had to go into the office.
She was standing in the hallway with Grace on her shoulder, bouncing gently.
“On a Saturday?” she asked.
“Quarterly reports,” I said.
Grace fussed. Hannah adjusted the burp cloth.
Her eyes were red, but her voice was calm. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“Of course.”
She nodded.
I kissed her forehead. Her skin was warm. She smelled like baby soap and tiredness.
When I pulled away, she looked at me with an expression I did not understand then.
It was not suspicion.
It was goodbye.
“Drive safe,” she said.
I drove to pick up Vanessa.
All day, while I held another woman’s hand, Hannah dismantled our home.
All day, while Vanessa tried on bracelets, Hannah packed Grace’s blankets.
All day, while I paid for perfume, Hannah carried boxes out of the house with the help of people who loved her enough to arrive when called.
And all day, my first daughter’s affidavit waited in an envelope on the kitchen counter.
That was the part I could not understand.
