For a moment, nothing. Then her voice—Belle: “Maybe then the house would finally stop smelling like dust and regret.”

The porch light flicked off. I stood there, the dark pressing against me like a verdict. No coat, no home, no son. I turned back to the car, drove in silence, parked outside the only motel in town still willing to accept cash. The girl at the front desk barely looked up, gave me a key without asking questions. I walked into the room, flipped the lock, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wall until my back stiffened from the stillness.

I did not cry. Not then. I did not scream. I simply whispered to no one, to nothing: “I see now. I see you both.” And in that quiet room, with my stomach stitched and my soul unraveling, I made a decision. I was going to change everything.

I do not remember the rain starting, only that it had already settled in by the time I turned onto my street. Not a dramatic downpour, just that slow, needling drizzle that slips into your collar and makes your bones feel borrowed—the kind of rain that whispers quietly but clearly, You are not wanted here.