Not the soft, Sunday-morning kind either. The wrong kind. The kind that makes your stomach drop before your brain knows why.
Maisie was only three months old then. I was used to living in two-hour bursts—feeding, changing, rocking, dozing off sitting up. Silence did not exist in our house.
But that morning, it did.
I rolled over and saw an empty space where my wife should’ve been.No Erin. Just a dent in the pillow and a tangle of blanket.
“Must be with Maisie,” I muttered, dragging myself out of bed, feet flinching at the cold floor as I crossed the hall.
The nursery nightlight glowed soft yellow. I pushed the door open with my shoulder.
Maisie was sleeping, warm and perfect, cheeks flushed and mouth slack, her tiny fist wrapped around the sleeve of Erin’s gray hoodie. The one she’d worn nonstop through the pregnancy and long before that. I’d joked that if it ever disintegrated, she’d go into mourning.The drawstring was gone, one side of the hood frayed and empty. I noticed it, filed it away as one of those little things I’d fix later.
Maisie sighed and snuggled closer to the fabric.
I breathed out, too, a small, shaky exhale that was half relief, half confusion.By now, there should’ve been sounds—mug on counter, kettle whining, Erin humming under her breath as she wiped something that didn’t need wiping.
Nothing.Empty.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Her phone sat on the counter, still plugged in, green battery bar at 76%. Her keys were in the little bowl by the door. Her wedding ring glinted in the ceramic dish near the sink—the one she used when she washed dishes or kneaded dough.
Only this time, it hadn’t found its way back to her hand.My wife was gone.
The first week, I was all motion. I called every hospital within driving distance. I drove to her mother’s house twice even though their relationship had been strained for years. I left messages with friends from college, friends from work, anyone who might have heard something—anything.
I barely slept. I’d jolt awake at every sound, convinced it was the door, that she’d be there, barefoot and exhausted, saying, “It got too hard. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”p
