A missing shaving bag and the blame of the abandoned

I have been here before. You have been here before. It is a whisper as I rush up the stairway, trying to appear calm as if the world has not flipped. When I get to the top, my daughter is waiting. “Daddy packed a few things this morning,” the nine-year-old says. By the time I was her age, my father had left twice, and my mother was dead. I was well-versed in abandonment and loss.

“Packed a few things?” I ask. His gym bag is gone, the one we took on annual anniversary getaways or trips to visit my family. Most of them are dead now. Maybe he packed a change of clothes for work, I convince myself so I can convince them. This is fine. We are fine. He would never leave. I know this. A partnership of 20 years, even a broken one, isn’t one you leave on a Thursday night without a discussion.

I pull the vanity door open in the bathroom just off our bedroom, the one that belongs to both of us but that we refer to as his. Even the kids call it “Dad’s bathroom.” His shaving bag is missing.