“Please get my bag.”
Daniel remained where he was.
Then he said:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“This.”
He gestured toward me.
“The secrets. The military nonsense. The pregnancy. Every conversation somehow revolves around what Rebecca needs.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
“Our daughter is coming.”
“And somehow even that has become another crisis I’m expected to solve.”
“You’re my husband.”
His expression hardened.
“That doesn’t mean I have to carry you forever.”
Something inside me went cold.
“Carry me?”
He walked toward the hall closet.
Then pulled out the hospital bag I had packed weeks earlier.
“Daniel.”
He opened the front door.
“What are you doing?”
He threw the bag onto the grass.
It landed beside the walkway.
My baby’s clothes spilled partially from the zipper.
I stared at them.
A tiny pink hat.
A white blanket.
