I had done this before with Maya and then with Ellie, so by now I knew the drill. Pads, chocolate, ibuprofen, something warm, something sweet, and an attitude like none of this was strange.
The cashier looked at the basket, then at me. “First time?” she asked.
“Third daughter,” I replied.
She held up a box of gummies. “These help with cramps. And maybe a heating pad?”
I added both without arguing.
By then I was used to the quiet ways strangers recognized my life.
Single father. Five kids. No wife in sight.
The math showed itself. But none of them knew the first real night, the one when Natalie said she would be gone 15 minutes and left me standing in the kitchen with a baby on my hip and four children asking when Mommy was coming back.
By then I was used to the quiet ways strangers recognized my life.
Ten years ago, Natalie walked out on a Wednesday afternoon.
She kissed the baby on the forehead, grabbed her purse, and said she was running to get milk. Rosie was six months old then. Maya was six. The others were spread between those ages, close enough together that our house always sounded like dropped toys and somebody yelling for help with a shoe.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then 30. Then an hour.
I called Natalie’s phone until the calls rolled into silence. Then I went to our room for my jacket. That was when I saw the closet. Empty enough to be honest. The good dresses gone. The suitcase gone. The drawer where she kept cash was clean.
It was planned.
She kissed the baby on the forehead, grabbed her purse, and said she was running to get milk.
