At 1:20 in the morning, I picked up my phone and called the one person I didn’t want to—but had to.
Michael answered, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Laura?”
It took me two seconds to speak, but once I did, there was no going back.
“Ethan hit me.”
There was a heavy silence.
Then his voice came back, steady, firm.
“I’m on my way.”
I didn’t sleep. By four in the morning, I was already cooking—chilaquiles, beans, eggs with sausage, coffee. I brought out the good plates, the ones I saved for holidays, and laid out the embroidered tablecloth I only used for special occasions.
It wasn’t a celebration.
It was a decision.
A little before six, Michael arrived. His hair was grayer, his coat dark, a folder tucked under his arm. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He looked at my face, at my hands, and understood everything.
“He’s upstairs?” he asked.
“Asleep.”
He glanced at the table.
“You only cook like this when something big is about to change.”
For the first time in a long time, I felt seen.
“It ends today,” I said.
He set the folder down.
“Then tell me—does he leave today?”
I closed my eyes. I saw Ethan as a little boy, scraped knees, bright smile. Then I saw him last night, hitting me and walking away like I didn’t matter.
