When Dad appeared on my doorstep at 11 p.m. with a packed bag, telling me he was divorcing my mom, I was more than just shocked. But as the night unfolded, I realized his strange behavior hinted at something far more disturbing than just marital problems.
Life had been pretty perfect lately.
At seven months pregnant with our first baby, I was glowing. At least that’s what Peter, my husband, kept telling me. Even with swollen ankles and bizarre food cravings, I felt blessed.
Peter and I had transformed the spare bedroom into a cozy nursery with soft yellow walls and a mobile of tiny stars that twinkled in the breeze. Every evening, he’d rub cocoa butter on my growing belly while we debated baby names.
“How about Emma for a girl?” Peter suggested one night, his warm hands making gentle circles on my stretched skin.
“Too common,” I replied. “What about Olivia?”
“Your cousin already used that,” he reminded me with a chuckle. “We’ll figure it out.”
My parents were equally excited about becoming grandparents. Mom had already knitted three baby blankets, and Dad kept sending links to educational toys that were “scientifically proven to boost infant brain development.”
They’d been married for 37 years. Sure, they bickered about dad’s snoring or mom’s obsession with rearranging furniture, but divorce? Unthinkable.
That’s why when the pounding started on our front door that Tuesday night, divorce was the last thing on my mind.
It was nearly 11 p.m.
I was already in my pajamas, smoothing cocoa butter over my belly while Peter brushed his teeth upstairs. The knocking was urgent, as if someone was in trouble.
I waddled to the door as quickly as my pregnant body allowed, heart racing. Through the peephole, I saw my father’s face, oddly shadowed in the porch light.
“Dad?” I swung the door open. “What are you doing here so late?”
He stepped past me without a word, clutching an overnight bag. His silver hair stuck up in odd places.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, following him into our living room. “Is Mom alright?
Dad sank onto our couch and stared at his hands. The silence stretched until I lowered myself carefully into the armchair across from him.
“I’m divorcing your mother,” he finally muttered. “I just… I can’t be in that house anymore.”
“Wait, what? You and Mom are getting divorced? After 37 years?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He rubbed his face, avoiding my eyes. “I just need some space. I’m going to the lake house tomorrow.”
“The lake house?” I repeated dumbly. The small cabin where we’d spent summers fishing and making s’mores. Where my parents celebrated their anniversaries every year.
“Dad, talk to me,” I pleaded. “What happened? Did you two have a fight?”
He shook his head. “It’s complicated, Hailey. More than you know.”
Peter appeared in the doorway, toothbrush still in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of my father.
“Richard? Everything okay?”