Middle of the Road

He put the car in park in the middle of the street, slammed the door, and walked away. My mother’s anger spilled like gasoline. My crying was the match. I don’t remember where he went. A lover’s house. The bar. Anywhere but us. I only remember the hollow in my chest— the sudden weight of knowing love is something that can leave in the middle of a sentence. Years later I found myself walking away from love with the same footsteps, practiced, heavy. Now I carry my daughter. She clings like gravity. Her weight presses into me, and I understand: I will not repeat him. I will not be the absence she remembers. He taught me without meaning to. I learned by watching his back disappear.