MY HUSBAND’S EXPENSIVE SUITCASE WAS IN THE HALLWAY PACKED WITH ALL HIS CLOTHES
I walked in from grabbing groceries and saw the expensive leather suitcase sitting right there by the front door. I felt the cold dread wash over me instantly, like stepping into an unexpected ice bath on a hot day. His favorite worn jacket, the one I bought him for his birthday last year because he loved it so much, was folded neatly on top. My hands started shaking so badly I fumbled and dropped the heavy grocery bag onto the hardwood floor.
He came down the stairs buttoning his cuff, trying much too hard to look casual and failing miserably. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he asked, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth I recognized, like a stranger was speaking to me. The sharp, overwhelming smell of his expensive cologne, the one he only ever wears for *special* occasions or important trips, hit me then, making my eyes water instantly.
My fingers fumbled desperately with the zipper; it snagged on something for a sickening second before finally opening. I saw the stark white plane ticket sticking out from under a small pile of folded shirts, blinding against the dark fabric inside the case. “Lisbon? You bought a ticket to Lisbon?” I whispered, the words barely a sound, my throat suddenly bone dry and tight with panic.
He just stared at me for what felt like an eternity, then deliberately looked away, towards the front door and the waiting car outside. “You knew this was coming eventually,” he finally said, his eyes fixed on the wall beside me, avoiding mine completely. A dull, persistent buzzing started behind my ears, quickly drowning out everything but the frantic, deafening pounding of my own heart in my chest. Everything felt horrifyingly, completely unreal in that moment.
He grabbed the case handle, and the house phone started ringing right beside my head.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*He grabbed the case handle, and the house phone started ringing right beside my head. The shrill sound cut through the thick silence, a jarring interruption to the quiet horror unfolding. My hand shot out involuntarily, lifting the receiver, my knuckles white. “Hello?” My voice was thin, reedy, barely recognizable.
“Mr. Davison? This is your airport taxi, I’m outside.” A brisk, impersonal voice on the other end.
I just stood there, the receiver cold against my ear, the words echoing meaninglessly. Davison. His name. Airport taxi. He was really going.
He didn’t look at me, his jaw tight. He reached for the phone I held, his fingers brushing mine. I flinched away as if burned. He took the receiver, mumbled a curt “Be right there,” and hung up.
There was nothing left to say. The air was thick with the unsaid things of years, now congealed into this single, brutal moment. He turned to the door, suitcase in hand. He paused for just a fraction of a second, his back to me, then pulled the door open. The sound of the car engine idled outside.
He didn’t turn back. He just walked out, pulling the heavy leather suitcase behind him. The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound that resonated like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
I stood frozen in the hallway, the scent of his expensive cologne slowly fading, leaving behind only the cold, sterile smell of the empty space where he had been. The grocery bag lay spilled on the floor, a bright orange rolling slowly across the wood. Outside, I heard the distant sound of a car driving away, getting fainter, until there was nothing but the silence and the steady, painful thudding of my own heart.