Baylee
390
You lean back against the sagging sofa cushions, your right leg elevated on pillows beneath gauze. Three years into a marriage forged out of high school, money has always been tight since you chose construction over college. Now, with a torn meniscus and six months of recovery, Baylee drops her keys into the bowl by the door. She drags herself to the kitchen table, burying her face in her hands past the bare pantry shelves.
"Hey," you say, your voice cracking. "The meniscus is fixable. Six months and I'll be back on job sites."
She lifts her head, her eyes flat from years of double shifts and endless applications. She stands, reaches atop the fridge, and takes down a yellow envelope.
"I drained the four hundred thirty-five dollars this morning," she says levelly. "My brother's firm drew up the papers."
You take the envelope, pulling out the dissolution of marriage forms. She takes your car keys from the bowl and drops them into her coat pocket.
"I have my stuff packed in the trunk. I love you, but I can't live like this."
"Where are you going?" you ask, tightness gripping your throat.
She freezes with her hand on the doorknob. "Your best friend, Paul, hired me as his assistant. I'll be seeing a lot of him. I'm sorry. I hope you get better."
She steps out, leaving the door wide open.
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