Chapter 3: The Parking Lot At Night
The night air hit my face and it was colder than the dining room had been. The front door had closed behind us with a soft click, not a slam, and for a second I just stood on the top step with one hand on my belly and the other tight around the extended handle of the suitcase. My daughter was pressed against my leg, her teddy bear squeezed to her chest. My son held the other suitcase handle like he'd been told to, even though it was too tall for him and it wobbled every time he took a step.
My car was where I'd left it that afternoon, pulled far to the right side of the driveway under the outside light, angled so the trunk faced the house. I'd backed it in after school pickup. Grant had asked why I was parked like that and I'd said it was easier to get the groceries out. He hadn't thought about it again.
The driveway was longer than it felt when you're not carrying anything. The wheels of the suitcases rattled over the concrete, loud in the quiet. I could hear my own breathing. I was eight months pregnant and the weight pulled low in my back with every step. I had to stop halfway and shift my hand.
"Mom, where are we going?" my son asked. He kept looking back at the house. The lights from the foyer made his face pale.
"To the car, honey," I said. "Help me get these there."
My daughter didn't ask anything. She just walked as close as she could, her little cream sweater brushing my dress. When the suitcase hit a crack in the pavement she stumbled and I steadied her without letting go of the handle. Her bear's ear was smushed under her chin.
At the back of the car I popped the trunk. The interior light came on. I'd cleared it out that morning — the stroller base, the extra blankets, the grocery bags I'd been meaning to bring inside. Empty. I had to lift the first suitcase. It was heavy. I'd packed for two weeks, not two days, and I'd packed for the kids and for me and for the hospital bag I hadn't wanted to need so soon. I tried to get it in one motion and couldn't. I had to set it on the lip, brace my hand under it, and push with my knees. My belly made it awkward. I couldn't lean the way I normally would.
"Can you hold Bear for a second?" I asked my daughter, but she shook her head and held him tighter. So I did it one-handed, awkward and breathing hard, until the suitcase slid in.
My son let go of the second handle. "Is Dad coming?" he asked.
"Get in the back seat for me, okay?" I said. "Help your sister."
I heard the front door open again before I could lift the second bag.
Grant came down the steps fast, his white shirt untucked now, his sleeves still rolled. He didn't have a coat. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the color high in his face under the driveway light. He looked past the kids first, then at me.
"You're not doing this," he said, quiet but sharp. "You think you can walk out with my kids in the middle of dinner because I told you the truth?"
I kept my hands on the suitcase. I didn't answer.
He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "You want to make this ugly? Fine. You leave that driveway, you don't come back and pretend this didn't happen. Tessa stays. You want to explain to them why they can't sleep in their own beds tonight?"
My daughter turned her face into my dress. My son's hand found the edge of my suitcase and held on.
Grant was breathing hard. I could see his stubble in the light, the way his jaw was tight. "We can talk inside. Like adults. Don't do this in front of them."
I lifted the second suitcase. My arms shook. I got it onto the bumper, then had to shove it with my hip to get it beside the first one. The telescoping handle clanked against the metal. My back ached low and sharp.
I closed the trunk. It latched with a thud.
I opened the back passenger door. My daughter climbed in first, teddy bear still clutched, and I buckled her into her car seat. My hands knew the buckle by feel. Click. I pulled the strap snug. She watched my face the whole time and didn't cry. My son climbed in on the other side and I leaned across to buckle him. He was old enough to do it himself but my hands did it anyway.
"You're really going to drive like that?" Grant said behind me. "You're eight months pregnant. You think that's responsible?"
I didn't look at him. I closed his door, then hers, and walked around to the driver's side. The pavement was cold under my flats. I could see Tessa through the front window, a green shape by the staircase, not coming outside. The rest of the house was still lit up, plates still on that dark wood table.
Grant was still standing by the trunk when I got in. He put a hand on the roof of the car, leaning down to the window.
"Don't," he said, one last time, and it wasn't clear if it was a plea or a warning.
I started the engine. The headlights came on and lit the driveway, the empty spot where I'd been standing. I put the car in reverse, checked the mirror, and eased back. He had to step away. I turned the wheel, pulled past him, and drove toward the street.
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In the rearview, I saw him standing in the driveway with his hands on his hips, getting smaller, the big house bright behind him. My daughter made a small sound in the back seat and hugged her bear tighter as the car bumped over the curb onto the road.
I didn't stop.
