At 2:07 in the morning, I reached across our bed and discovered my husband's side was cold.

The house in Lakewood smelled like old coffee and sour milk when Jake unlocked the front door on Monday morning.

He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He hadn't eaten. His body moved on sheer, toxic adrenaline and the crushing, suffocating weight of grief.

The front hallway was exactly as he had left it on Friday morning. The blinds were still pulled back where Maya had watched him leave. On the kitchen counter, the small puddle of spilled coffee had dried into a sticky, dark brown ring on the quartz.

And on the floor by the kitchen island, dried into the pale gray grout of the tile, was a faint, smear of clear fluid and two droplets of dried blood.

Jake dropped to his knees right there on the kitchen floor.

He pressed both hands against the tile, his forehead touching the cold ceramic right where his wife had fallen alone in the dark while he was drinking bourbon by a craps table in Nevada. He wept until his stomach heaved, until dry heaves racked his ribs, choking on his own breath in the empty house.

"What did I do?" he whispered into the empty floorboards. "What did I do?"

His phone buzzed on the counter.

It was a text from Tyler:

*Tyler: "Hey man, Brad is pissed about the 4Runner. You left his truck at the Denver airport? We had to take an Uber from Vegas to Salt Lake. That was uncalled for, bro. Parker says you need to apologize."*

Jake stared at the screen.

He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel resentment. He felt an overwhelming, profound disgust that he had ever shared air with these men. He tapped the group chat settings.

*Leave Group.*

*Block Brad.*

*Block Tyler.*

*Block Parker.*

He tossed the phone onto the island.

He stood up, his knees cracking, and walked slowly into the nursery.

The afternoon sun was pouring through the white linen curtains, illuminating the mountain mural he had spent forty hours painting on the main wall. The snow-capped peaks were jagged, sharp, painted with careful, loving strokes of gray, slate, and navy blue. In the corner sat the rocking chair with the whisper-quiet bearings.

Beside the crib, sitting on the small wooden side table, was a single legal document inside a yellow manila folder.

Jake approached it as if it were an unexploded landmine.

He opened the folder.

It was a temporary restraining and custody petition, drafted by Maya’s attorney at eight o'clock that morning. Attached to it was a letter written in Maya’s clean, precise handwriting.

*Jake,*

*Theo and I are being discharged tomorrow afternoon. We are going to my sister Clara’s house. You have forty-eight hours to pack your clothes, your gear, and your personal items and vacate this house.*

*If you are on the property when we return, the police will be called. If you attempt to contact me directly outside of our attorneys, I will file for an emergency protective order.*

*You wanted to know who you were before you became somebody’s father. You have the rest of your life to figure that out.*

*Do not contact me.*

*Maya.*

Jake read the letter once. Then twice. Then a third time until the ink seemed to burn through the paper.

He didn't call his mother. He didn't call an attorney. He walked into his office, pulled his large military duffel bags out of the closet, and began to pack.

He didn't take the furniture. He didn't take the television. He took his clothes, his work laptop, his boots, and his shaving kit.

Before he zipped the last bag, he walked back into the nursery.

He stood beside the empty crib. He reached out, his trembling fingers touching the smooth, white railing he had sanded by hand. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the small silver key to the front door of 1422 Elmwood Drive, and laid it gently in the center of the clean, empty mattress.

Beside the key, he placed the small stuffed fox.

"I’m sorry, Theo," Jake whispered to the empty room, his voice barely louder than the draft from the window. "I’m so sorry."