Then I carried it into the living room.
I placed it directly at Grant’s feet.
He looked at the suitcase.
Then at me.
“Mara.”
“You wanted my son to leave.”
I pointed at it.
“Now it’s your turn.”
The color drained from his face.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“You threw away six years of my life.”
He stepped toward me.
“We can fix this.”
I backed away.
“No.”
“You owe me a chance.”
“I don’t owe you another minute.”
His voice softened.
“I love you.”
I looked straight into his eyes.
“If you loved me, you would never have made me believe my son stopped loving me.”
Grant reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
“Pack your things.”
“Mara.”
“Today.”
He looked around the room as though someone might rescue him.
Nobody moved.
Finally, he picked up the suitcase.
Then walked upstairs.
For the next twenty minutes, I heard drawers opening and closing.
