A locked room.

A hidden key.

A woman visiting only when I was gone.

A child instructed to keep quiet.

A husband who would not answer his phone.

I lowered myself onto the top step.

Leo sat beside me and rested his warm head against my arm.

“Are you mad, Mommy?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you mad at Daddy?”

I did not respond.

Downstairs, I sat on the bottom step and silently rehearsed sentences I had never imagined saying.

I want a separation.

I think you should stay somewhere else tonight.

Please do not lie to me. Not today. Not this week.

Ten years.

Our anniversary was Saturday.

I had bought him a watch and had his name engraved on the back.

Leo wandered in carrying his stuffed rabbit and climbed into my lap without saying anything.

That was what finally broke me.

More than the locked room.